Friday's Journal Entries

Here is a list of invented journal entries for the native person dubbed "Friday" by the protagonist in the story "Robinson Crusoe." I found it a particularly difficult mindset to get into, because we get such a slanted, one-dimensional, and inauthentic perspective of the character in the story.

Day when the Golden Planet is equidistant from the seventh sister of the Pilaedes and the yellow star Formalhaut-
I have given much thought to the theology that Robin's son has espoused to me. I find it much easier to take to than the theology thus far presented by other cross-bearing bearded sunburnt men, vis, that we must either accept Jesus Christ, the lord of mercy and justice as our savor, because otherwise his holy servants shall roast us until an enemy might stick an eating utensil in us to see that we are done, and then said servants might allow us to die some times afterwards.

Day upon which the horned Moon crosses paths with the tip of Yog Sothoth's tentacle (that group of stars which it pleases Robin's son to call the Big Dipper)-
I have humored Robin's son in tth interest of keeping peace between us, but why must he cover every bite of food with a same-sized measure of salt? He is not content as long as he can still taste some hint of the natural flavors. He salts even salts turtle meat! I pointed out to him how needless this was, becuase the turtle had lived all its life in salt water, drank of salt water, and had much caked and drying sea salt upon its body, but still he poured salt on it, insisting that "the salt is good, it is very very good." Does he not know how much the eating of salt weakens the heart and dehydrates the body?

Day upon which the star Aldebaran is formost in the horizon, though the great city Carcosa and Lake Hali remain thankfully distant-
I must be sure to spread the Christian theology amongst my neighbors, as it should make a most welcome addition to our spiritual traditions and mesh intriguingly with the existing popular faiths. It seems strange to think that in Robin Son's smog-choked steel dystopia men are captured and war over differences within a single theology. How can aspects of the same faith lead to such strife, when my dear father himself is a buddist zoriastrian shintoist in his secular life, and also a member of the growing triad cult, devoted to Yog-sothoth of repeated infinities, Shub Nigguroth, the black goat of the forest with a thousand young, aspect of all teeming wriggling crawling life, and Azathoth, the blind idiot god that bubbles and blasphemes at the heart of nuclear chaos? This is all with the taken for granted worship of the mountain god you provides us with cultural unity and a shared heritage.
I do worry about my father, with no news as to how the tide of battle over leadership of our proud nation has gone. May the kami of blue trees and our household preserve him, Shub Nigguroth keep him strong, Azathoth ignore him, and the great God of the christians shield him from harm while his soul yet stays in this lifetime.

Day upon which the ribbon of darkness weaves its way from mocking Polaris to Canis, and the blackness in the sky is a window into the lightless parts of another universe (or, as Robin's son insists on calling it, Tuesday)-
I am adjusting to my new clothes. They have almost stopped bringing out rashes, and most of the fleas upon them are sick or dying. I do not begrudge the discomfort, for the tribal honor of Robin's son insists that those who live around him must wear it, and indeed he seemed much unsettled by the natural appearance of other men. Forbidding the appearance of flesh seems a curious taboo, but no doubt some of my norms and traditions seem incomprehensible to him.
They keep the peace between us, as satisfies the life-debt charge which he chooses to interpret as a natural gratitude. I also must say they make me feel safer in a way that is hard to articulate. He commented much on the strength of my arms and the well-developed characteristic of my body, and sometimes he stares at me for what seems like hours, saying nothing. I must make allowances, for he has been utterly alone for the span of a short lifetime, and it must take some adjusting to recover the manners and decorum needed to intercourse with other thinking creatures. I still do not like the way he stares at me much though.