Tag: Afterlife

The life saving sanctum of remembrance

I’ll say this in one long sentence and then I’ll shut the hell up and have a brandy and go to bed.

My wife had a big heart and for thirty-four years I was inside it and when her heart stopped beating I was suddenly and shockingly cast into a void, where I suspect she is now, in an oblivion and not, as her Catholic faith led her to believe, in an afterlife of continuing energy and awareness in some divine sphere or dimension — and my only corporeal salvation, for what it’s worth, is that the void in which I now survive is surrounded by the warmth and the strength, the spirit and the ethereal companionship of her memory, and it is that in which I now wrap myself as protection from the fear of loneliness and the suicidal yearning to be with her, knowing as my intelligence perceives, notwithstanding the well-meaning help and advice of the church and its dedicated believers, the stark reality of death.

Poēmia Bohemia

WHITHER MY WILLOW

I sleep past noon, head deep in the pillow

Rain on the roof and the wind does billow;

No will to rise since the death of Willow.

For more than thirty years we shared a bed,

Then from out of hell a stroke struck her dead.

Life ever since has been unliving dread,

Devoid of will I am locked in the past

Remembering the years that passed so fast

Me the vagabond and Willow steadfast

Always there for me at journeys end

My wife, my soulmate and best friend.

Now in death, did she ascend or descend

Rise to the sky or stay down in the earth

Is it oblivion as before birth

Or in realms unknown spiritual rebirth?

Knowing her eternal destination

Might bring about merciful cessation

To my own life sentence of damnation.

I do not expect an answer real soon

I do not expect the gods to commune

Thus I stay in bed till way past noon.


Reality check

 

I want my soulmate back

But she’s not coming back

This I’ve been told on high authority

A view not shared by the majority

That when you are dead you are dead

Finis caput that’s all he said

Which I understand I do understand

But vis-à-vis the so-called Promised Land

It has also come to my attention

(Another argument for dissension)

Not only is she not coming back

And this to me is the real drawback

There will be no reunion

No spiritual communion

In a mythical heaven

Or a sanctum sanctorum.

Get it through your head

My source firmly said

Your “soulmate” is dead and gone

Get over it and move on

Live out your life as fate designed

Yo dude you won’t be far behind.


Of cats and the dead

I don’t get out much anymore. I stay inside with the cat. I myself am turning into a cat. I eat like the cat — cold salmon on a small plate; I sleep like the cat — frequently, and in various chairs. There is one major difference between us — she can’t type, therefore wastes no time at it.

The cat looks out the Miami Beach window at the blinding white sky. Pelicans fly in formation — nature’s own squadron, one bird taking the lead, ten others fanned out behind him. Here’s another difference between the cat and I — I know that far-away objects are bigger than they appear; the cat thinks the pelicans are about the size of budgerigars.

I’m running out of time if I intend to write my magnum opus, that one book that will justify my lousy life. The age-old question is: Where to begin? Don’t give me that “at the beginning” routine. I hate stories that start: My earliest memory is when I was four, standing on the running board of my father’s old Ford, blah blah blah.

One should start at the end, if one only knew the end. Well, the end is death, of course, but we need to know the circumstances, the morbid details, the cause, the how and the why and the where — and most chillingly, the when.

If we all knew when, we’d live our lives a lot differently. Either that or we’d blow our brains out now and be done with it. A lot of people hate waiting. They’re impatient. And they especially hate waiting for a corned beef on rye with too much pain on it; or waiting for a lousy bowl of oblivion. The hell with it.

I know a lot of dead people. I don’t call them anymore. I used to dial A for Afterlife. Never an answer. Talking into a dead phone. I dialed O for Oblivion. Busy signal. Lines all tied up.

I shared this fact with the cat. She listened intently but I knew she wasn’t interested. She was thinking of a crunchy pelican the size of a budgerigar.