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It is I, Jonathon ben Macabi. Death destroyed my body, but could not touch me. I speak to you from the Realm of Spirits. I could identify it as The World To Come, or Paradise, or Heaven, or The Bardo. The place has many names. But I chose the most neutral to include you all.
Know that death is not eternal and I will be back. How that will transpire I cannot say. Not because I'm a secret keeper, but because I don't know. We are each domiciled according to our needs in this place. Young mothers become child guardians standing night watch over orphans. Fallen soldiers stand by surviving brethren. Artists of all types inspire the living.
I am an ecclesiastic by nature. Would that I could have served among the Holy Orders of Levites at The First or Second Temple. I am not that particular. A medieval academy of Godly scholars, or perhaps a snug, little country wooden synagogue painted with birds and flowers. Such wondrous sanctuaries they were. Most of the surviving ones were burned seventy years ago.
And my labors?... I talk to clergy. I whisper in their ears. Denominations mean little to me. Wait til you pass over. You'll see. Rabbis and imams and nuns, oh my. Other teams too. I talk about 'we are one, because God is one.' I do this mostly while they're sleeping, or drinking coffee, or watching Andy Griffith reruns. I'm told he's even big in The Emirates.
But listen to me making much of 'no denominations' and all that, while I pine for the faith of my childhood. And not 'here.' I could have it here, with hummus to die for (well, you know what I mean) and cantorials worthy of Andrew Lloyd Weber, or the guys who wrote Les Miserables . Death does nothing to improve memory. I try to recall interesting little places I'd pass on our midnight rambles (with Sarah, I mean), yet I can't... not always.
It's funny. When we lose ourselves... our mortal selves, I mean, discrete, episodic memories mean little. It's all a multi-dimensional matrix...all things... all places... all everything... And I do (what would the word be?) abandon myself to that every once in a while. But I still miss my trim, little leather bootlins and the black jeans and how I'd make these little sparks shoot up from my heels when I scrapped them on the sidewalks just so. No vampire magic that trick. Just metal taps. An old fashioned shoemaker on Ranstead Street did it. Hey, 'shoemaker on Ranstead street,'.... I remembered.
I want to come back. I miss the townhouse and Edith and Baylah. I miss long, cool, subterranean sponge baths with Sylvia and Aura (daughters of the mole people king). you remember them. And I miss Sarah. Some opt for reincarnation. But I don't want to wait that long... Well, since most of the people I miss are vampires or witches I could. You know, the supernatural life span and all that.....
Oh, I don't know. Death can be so confusing. I mean I'm absolutely awed by the radiance of angels. I could stare for hours. Some of them don't like that. Makes 'em nervous. Start sucking their teeth and making like all of a sudden they gotta go do something for God... Yeah, right. Like He doesn't have other angels. Bastards.
I'm gonna go to the seventeenth century, Earth, London section of Heaven and play my guitar.
Bet Doctor Franklin could do something. He did it for Grigori Usipov. I know. I remember.... Look, am I 'bad' for feeling this way?
I don't want to talk any more. I'm gonna go help change diapers on newly dead old folks... Takes 'em a while to realize they can give up all that piss and bowel movement crap.... Humble myself and make amends. Then I'll go play my guitar.
Hasta la proxima, mis amigos viviendos.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
click TELL ALL YOUR FRIENDS to browse all 1,500 episodes.
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thank you. please comment. look, I was gonna channel Opal and her little zombie pals, but Tomas said I owed him, considering his story started the blog, so I let him commandeer the 'air waves' for tonight. I think he wants to make it a regular thing.
Know that death is not eternal and I will be back. How that will transpire I cannot say. Not because I'm a secret keeper, but because I don't know. We are each domiciled according to our needs in this place. Young mothers become child guardians standing night watch over orphans. Fallen soldiers stand by surviving brethren. Artists of all types inspire the living.
I am an ecclesiastic by nature. Would that I could have served among the Holy Orders of Levites at The First or Second Temple. I am not that particular. A medieval academy of Godly scholars, or perhaps a snug, little country wooden synagogue painted with birds and flowers. Such wondrous sanctuaries they were. Most of the surviving ones were burned seventy years ago.
And my labors?... I talk to clergy. I whisper in their ears. Denominations mean little to me. Wait til you pass over. You'll see. Rabbis and imams and nuns, oh my. Other teams too. I talk about 'we are one, because God is one.' I do this mostly while they're sleeping, or drinking coffee, or watching Andy Griffith reruns. I'm told he's even big in The Emirates.
But listen to me making much of 'no denominations' and all that, while I pine for the faith of my childhood. And not 'here.' I could have it here, with hummus to die for (well, you know what I mean) and cantorials worthy of Andrew Lloyd Weber, or the guys who wrote Les Miserables . Death does nothing to improve memory. I try to recall interesting little places I'd pass on our midnight rambles (with Sarah, I mean), yet I can't... not always.
It's funny. When we lose ourselves... our mortal selves, I mean, discrete, episodic memories mean little. It's all a multi-dimensional matrix...all things... all places... all everything... And I do (what would the word be?) abandon myself to that every once in a while. But I still miss my trim, little leather bootlins and the black jeans and how I'd make these little sparks shoot up from my heels when I scrapped them on the sidewalks just so. No vampire magic that trick. Just metal taps. An old fashioned shoemaker on Ranstead Street did it. Hey, 'shoemaker on Ranstead street,'.... I remembered.
I want to come back. I miss the townhouse and Edith and Baylah. I miss long, cool, subterranean sponge baths with Sylvia and Aura (daughters of the mole people king). you remember them. And I miss Sarah. Some opt for reincarnation. But I don't want to wait that long... Well, since most of the people I miss are vampires or witches I could. You know, the supernatural life span and all that.....
Oh, I don't know. Death can be so confusing. I mean I'm absolutely awed by the radiance of angels. I could stare for hours. Some of them don't like that. Makes 'em nervous. Start sucking their teeth and making like all of a sudden they gotta go do something for God... Yeah, right. Like He doesn't have other angels. Bastards.
I'm gonna go to the seventeenth century, Earth, London section of Heaven and play my guitar.
Bet Doctor Franklin could do something. He did it for Grigori Usipov. I know. I remember.... Look, am I 'bad' for feeling this way?
I don't want to talk any more. I'm gonna go help change diapers on newly dead old folks... Takes 'em a while to realize they can give up all that piss and bowel movement crap.... Humble myself and make amends. Then I'll go play my guitar.
Hasta la proxima, mis amigos viviendos.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
click TELL ALL YOUR FRIENDS to browse all 1,500 episodes.
click TELL ALL YOUR OTHER FRIENDS to join me on Twitter.
thank you. please comment. look, I was gonna channel Opal and her little zombie pals, but Tomas said I owed him, considering his story started the blog, so I let him commandeer the 'air waves' for tonight. I think he wants to make it a regular thing.
