What’s the deal with Heaven?


One can assume that dead souls have no corporeal form. No body, no flesh and blood, no physical parts, no carnality. No carnal desires. No appetite, no interest in sex or alcohol or cocktail hour or any other pleasures.

Many imagine the dead to be spirits inhabiting a heavenly realm. To others, they are conjectured to be some sort of electrical energy, unknown phenomena of electromagnetic waves emitting signals or light or heat or something that is currently unimaginable.

That concept of heaven would be no fun at all. The living who expect to be reunited with their dead loved ones would be disillusioned and disappointed to find that their flesh and blood companions had been transmogrified into a metaphysical, intangible presence.

The Sunday School/Born Again Christian/Devout Catholic concept of dead human beings miraculously transformed into heavenly bodies in recognizable form, capable of being hugged and kissed and sharing lives again in a glorious eternity, is, on the face it, a tad crazy.


But, harking back to the ever-so slightly less crazy concept of electromagnetic wave phantasmagoria, who wants to be reunited with a dead companion if the former flesh and blood loved one is a disembodied pulse or signal or sensation in a supernatural state of metaphysics?

One argument is that when you yourself are dead, you would also be a wave or a pulse, an indestructible atom, etcetera, and you and your companion would get along swimmingly, pulsing and waving throughout the cosmos for ever and ever.

Still, no fun. Certainly, one can confidently say it would be the end of conversation and camaraderie and cocktail hour as we know it.

In conclusion, if you want to be with the spirit of your loved one, then perhaps the best course of action is to not be dead, to stay alive and be at one with the memory of your lost soulmate — memory and spirit becoming one, a communion, a peace of mind amid grief.

That may be the best deal we’re going to get in this basic, godless, down and dirty life.


Communicating with the dead

You could sit inside a church and become imbued amidst the spiritual surroundings and religious symbolism.

You could visit the graveyard where your loved one is buried or whose ashes are contained in an urn therein or thereby.

You could go to a special place you both shared, in a park or on a beach, a piece of hallowed ground where you could remember and commune.

Or you could simply stay home and talk to those you have lost. You could talk about your day, you could ask question that you forgot to ask when they were alive. You could chatter away all day long.

But you will never get a reply.

As you never will in the church or the cemetery or that special place.

There is one place, however, where communication — not just communion — is possible.

The subconscious strata of dreams teems with the dead. They actually have shape and form and do in fact talk. Not in the usual audible sense. Their words are not heard beyond your subconscious. It is like watching a movie on television with the sound turned off and the captions on. The words are there, if not spoken out loud, clearly understandable.

You are, within the muted surreal reality of your dream, having a conversation with your lost loved one.

You are walking along a street in New York City with your son and you hear yourself say to him, “When was the last time you saw her?” And you hear him say to you, “I think she’s dead.”

The dream ends abruptly and you wake up with a start, but you remember walking with him on that New York street and having that conversation.

You are looking for your wife in a Miami highrise, an apartment building or a hospital, it doesn’t matter, all you know is you have to find her, but you’ve forgotten what floor she’s on. You get in the elevator and press a floor, any floor, and when you get out on that floor you walk along the corridor calling out her name and then you see her in bed in the corridor and you say to her, “Thank God I found you. I forgot what floor you were on.” And you hear her say to you, “Everything will be all right now.”

The dream fades away, but when you wake up you remember seeing her in that bed and you remember what you said to her and what she said to you and it was an actual conversation and you were together, and this, by God, is communicating with the dead.

I’ll refrain from quoting Shakespeare, but the question then becomes, when you die, do the dreams die or do they move to a different level of subconsciousness, an other- or ultra-consciousness? A state of mind or soul that exists on a supernatural wave length not currently known to man?

That is to say, the dreams we experience as earthly beings are but a primitive foreshadowing of what’s to come.

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What’s important

The meaning of life came to me in a slow moment of panic. I finally figured out what’s important. The only thing that really matters.

You need someone to care about. And who cares about you. You need someone to worry about, and who worries about you. You need someone to look after when they get sick, as they would look after you when you get sick. You need someone to share your life with. Just having yourself is not enough.

The people you used to care about, worry about, share your life with are gone now. They come to you in dreams, and in that surreal other world you have your life back, only to wake up in the same void of reality. It becomes hard then to get up and face the day without them, without any of them, not one.

There are bloggers out there who despise me for my pitiful — and to them, pitiable — posts about loss and loneliness. One posted a nasty poem about me “bemoaning my fate… boo hoo…” She erased it right after but not before I had read it.

She writes constantly and voluminously about her love for God, and I think what really set her off was when I lamented the continuing absence and silence of God in answer or non-answer to my prayerful entreaties for help. It’s funny how some of the nastiest comments I get are from so-called Christians, who tell me in most unchristian terms what they think of me. She pitied me in my “godless universe” and told me to drown my “sorrow in another glass of wine.”

First of all, let me set the record straight: I do not drink wine — I drink gin and rum and bourbon, so please, madam, do not add insult to injury.

Secondly, take your self-righteous sanctity and shove it.

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