My Heavenly Visions

 Virus

Part 7 of 30

I do a lot of meditation. And I’ve had vivid images of heavenly glory, most of them involving gigantic tables of great food, spread out as far as the eye can see: big roasts, salads with lettuce that doesn't wilt, and of course spaghetti, the most delicious cheap thing you can make. Mostly I see things from when I was a kid, when I was learning about life: Wars, plagues, cleaning fish, Grandpa clearing his throat, Grandma talking flea market dealers down on canes, and of course vivid dreams of Heaven.

The last one, I’d love to have dreams like that now that I’m old, but it just never happens. One of the reasons, probably, and I’ve mentioned it before, is that like Jimi Hendrix I might have a vision and slip into the alpha jerk state and slip into the hole and die before my time. Although, whereas he no doubt had future classic albums that were never made, what have I got? Nothing, just this blog, which, while it’s extremely influential on all seven continents, I'm “just not fed” by the constant acclaim. My time is near.

Still, if I could recapture the glory of my youth, these dreams of Heaven, I think I’d appreciate them now even more. Back then, they were so vivid -- I saw the whole judgment! -- I’d wake up with cold sweats and my mom thought I was peeing the bed. I told her no, I wasn’t, and tried to blame the sweats on God, but, you know moms, the supernatural always escapes them.

The graphic today portrays something of Heaven without quite showing it in its fullest accurate detail. I do concur with the graphic on one point -- and this is a major truth -- there are no broom closets in Heaven. You don't see a single one. So nowhere to hide. The rest, except for nonessential details is basically true. And who’s this I see? Pa! The old man, his cancer a thing of the past, with even his bald head covered with the light brown hair. That’s so good to know, illustrating what is clearly portrayed, Justice, sweet Justice, among the other golden trappings of the grand hallways.

It’s a great vision to have in these days of the virus. That filthy thing, that devilish virus, seen under the microscope in its full hideousness, a lot of jagged edges and tiny little infecting handles, has no place in this grand vision. The fear that people have -- including me, naturally, in my weaker moments, almost 24/7 -- will not be sustained in that vision's fulfillment. The way it brings people low and just outright kills them around the world cannot stand in the grand vision. I see the numbers. And more importantly I can picture in my mind the terror -- again, 24/7 -- and know that it’s no good. Like the cancer that took down Dad. And whatever it was that took down Grandma and Grandpa, heart troubles and miscellaneous, respectively, these filthy devils shall not stand.

Please be encouraged, the comfort and best wishes are real. But if reincarnation turns out to be the afterlife, buckle down next time and set a few goals for the next go-around. Buy paper towels early, toilet paper, cheese, whatever.

Skeletons, Torment In Heaven

 

Paranoia

Part 10 of 30

It’s always -- every stinking day -- with the death paranoia! I truly think my mind senses it could be any minute now. But it can’t be now because I’m doing this now. And I don’t just want to drop dead minutes from now, having my neck snapped as in a lynching. That’s an interesting thing, though, the way they dangle the bad news in front of you: “I sentence you to death by hanging from the neck until you are dead,” something like that. You’re like, Thank you for clarifying that, the exact sentence, the technique, and the result...

It would be worse, but certainly just as authoritative, if hideous skeletons who’ve “been there, done that,” came back with their bones and a tormented grin -- insistent as only an enlivened skeleton can be -- cackling the same words and taking glee in your torment. From their point of view, the more the merrier. “As you are morose, so I have been. And as you have been gleeful and morbid at the passing of others, so we shall be for unending centuries to come!”

Half the fun for them is getting there. Not just putting you in your place but keeping you on full display with the most morbid context they can muster: “What you’ve done was terrible, and the penalty will match your deeds, tormenting your mind every moment between now and then. What you have done is so heinous you will never lose the freshness of your punishment!”

Heh, this kind of reminds me of my dreams as a kid, but back then it was more of a heavenly situation I beheld. The great throne-room and a hallway like in The Wizard of Oz, and the bitter realization that there could be no escape. Heaven is known for many things, but one thing it’s known for above all things, and according to every source, if you look hard enough and are diligent in your interpretation: There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, no broom closet in heaven for a sanctuary. Meaning, whoever the heavenly janitors are, they don’t keep their equipment and rags in a typical broom closet. They’re either in the open in the hallway or they're materialized as necessary when a blot on Heaven’s purity demands cleansing.

Look at our hero. There’s two things hovering. A bare light bulb, known of course for the torment it causes when swinging to and fro and stirring up eerie shadows. A skeleton gets its bony fingers close enough, and the thing’s swinging, downright terrifying. And there’s a horn or megaphone, a primitive speaker, perhaps, announcing the verdict, the disappointment, and finally the sentence of your hanging. O! I hope that doesn't loom out there for me! But if it does, my last act in this mortal existence will be peeing my pants and leaving the mess for others.

King Paranoia In Heaven

Paranoia

Part 7 of 30

Here’s a truth you should know, definitely worth the price of admission, zero. It’s biggest value is there’s nothing in it that anyone should dispute. But I fear some of you will and so go on your merry way to a well-deserved destruction. Got your attention? The truth is, It’s not love that makes the world go ‘round, it’s paranoia. Which you come to love, since however things are is what we should love. If we don’t love reality -- as bleak and hopeless as it appears -- we’ve lost the way.

I’ve been seriously pondering -- occasionally splashing my drink from nervousness -- whether to unleash the hounds of this knowledge. Because the whole truth is usually kept from us, mercifully, mostly for our own good, and in large part because it’s frowned upon to watch helpless morons colliding into each other, messing up their hopes and existence and reaping folly. Is it the great tragedy that we think of when that happens? Probably at some level, yes, but the basic gist of it is, it doesn't matter; existence always resets and is back on track with us or without us.

Sometimes I walk through the cemetery up the hill and wonder about the lives at my feet. Were they really anything at all, like this guy over here -- sentimental picture of him encased on the stone? I'd guess like all of us. Paranoid cogs in the machine. Then there’s the others, the vast majority, where vandals have smashed their pictures to smithereens, a terrible thing to see. Or is it? Maybe in the vast hereafter, once they've received their wings they've flitted to their eternal reward and it doesn't matter. Or, it could be, they’re saying, “I totally missed the truth, went in for counseling for paranoia when I should’ve seen it as my inspiration. I became a boring simpleton when I could've gone hog-wild and at least had a story to tell.” So they make the sign of the cross from their perch in heaven, a blessing upon anyone who would so graciously -- but without apparent wisdom -- destroy their picture.

All right, paranoia makes the world go ‘round, we all agree. But who’s in charge of seeing to it that it gets done? That’s one of my biggest complaints about co-workers and slipshod supervision; let’s cut the crap and get things done! In these matters, it’s King Paranoia, and whomever the queen for the day is, because King Paranoia totally suspects her of cheating with other anthropomorphic concepts.

King Paranoia sees those with the promise to fill the many important sectors of existence. And before you know it, you -- all us lowly peons -- are in a slot of society: farming, manufacturing, science, holding down the fort, screwing up, and the list goes on. Maybe you’re a list-maker, no one could be more paranoid, being a completist, but always a hopeless failure. I'm giving it my all and usually see when paranoia is about to trap me into spending the whole day on something. The best weapon against paranoia, then, are ellipses, you’re just saying … “Let someone else do the grunt work. There’s a whole sector out there for me to worry and fret over.” King Paranoia sees our good deeds and says, “At last, someone I can use!”

The Ascension of Okibbeha

Part 6 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

My problem with The Ascension of the Great Okkibeha, and any such incident, is always suspicion that it's some kind of ruse. Because, let’s face it, the magic’s gone from everything. The spiritual realms these days aren’t held in high esteem, not credible to our modern way of thinking; it's nearly always a fast-talking guy in a traveling carnival with a blue curtain and puff of smoke. It's true, every one of life's "miracles" -- from childbirth to four leaf clovers -- somehow involves that guy.

And anything that depends on faith is out. The knowledge we have today allows us only to believe mundane happenings, such as that horrible roar outside is a car without a muffler, not a farting unicorn. There actually is such a car in my neighborhood, and if my claim sounds the least bit untruthful I could personally launch a satellite into space and take a picture of it for you. So that’s one form of knowledge, easy to believe given enough satellites and cameras, but there are stranger things. As in the case of Okkibeha, because I’m saying she did ascend into some kind of spiritual realm. And that’s not just my claim, since I didn’t personally make it up, but the claim of ancient Egyptian priests who just happened to materialize before she departed...

Born Cindy Lou M——- to a farm couple in Iowa, family memories say she manifested an incredible interest in ancient Egypt as well as detailed knowledge. Most of us — myself included, usually smart enough to rattle off all kinds of trivia — couldn’t recite five minutes of Egyptian lore. I know there were lots of pharaohs and Egyptian citizens in the land of Egypt way back when. But telling one from another, get outta here! Similarly, I’m not that great with flowers, but I've seen people pick them and pin them to dresses.

Well, everything seemed to be coming to a head for Cindy, or the Great Okibbeha. She kissed her mother and father goodbye and called down an ancient staff of attendants from the sky, and ascended a makeshift throne. This was all in a barn, about the time The Psycho Squad got involved, having been notified. We took the call and buzzed out there, sirens full-blast. As we came over the hill, we saw what looked like a palace lighting the horizon. Which was the family barn. The light rose higher and higher, then when it reached a tremulous peak, a breaking point, all was suddenly black except for a much narrower beam of light piercing the clouds. As it turned out, Cindy/Okibbeha had said bye bye to this level of existence and taken off, robe, throne, and pretty backdrop all.

Did I believe this story? Not entirely, at first. We called out to her: “This is no joke, Cindy, come out! Olly olly oxen free! Yo, Cindy, Cindy Lou! Where'd you hide the barn? Don't be afraid, we’re with the Psycho Squad, an emergency help squad that helps those who need it, usually the wacky. We only want to make things better for you!" I sent Benny over to some smoldering bales of hay to jab his pitchfork a little deeper. "Cindy, your Mom says you’re behind on homework. Come out, we will stabilize you and find a tutor to boost your home ec scores. Making a pan of biscuits isn't that hard.” But none of it did any good. "Obstinate little bitch," I muttered.

I asked for her parents’ phones. The photos indeed showed various strangely-costumed men posing as Egyptian priests, but the place where Cindy had allegedly sat was nothing but a ball of light. So I didn’t know what to do. The Squad was there, so we gave the parents a few downers and shipped a couple of traumatized cows to the vet, and that was it.

Her mother then told us of the mysterious prophecy, that Okibbeha had been manifested again in the earth, born of a virgin, and is prophesied to return in 10,000 years, by which time most of us will be passed on. I don’t always believe such things. But the pitchforks didn’t hit anything and the heavenly beam of light, a million watts without electricity, had to mean something. It meant this much at least: I’m risking the Psycho Squad's credibility by believing it. Gotta put it outta my mind. And Cindy's gorgeous mother a virgin? That'd be the biggest miracle of all, hubba hubba!

Great Caesar's Ghost

PROLOGUE: Lend me your eyes. Look at that picture, man. Isn't that a thing of beauty? I'll say it is, since I worked on it and am in some degree responsible for it. (I didn't make the original, of course, since I can't draw flies.) Looks like Julius Caesar, too, doesn't it? In a chariot being pulled by a couple brute animals, bred back then for that purpose. I really like the trees, how they stand out, evocative of entire trees but only a few random limbs or trunks.

NON-PROLOGUE: I'm making my way through The Adventures of Superman TV show again. And as I already well know from childhood, Daily Planet editor Perry White's go-to expression of outburst -- astonishment or disbelief -- is "Great Caesar's Ghost!" At some point in the first 8 or 10 episodes, he says it a time or two. It stands out more for me now as an old man than it did years ago when I was a kid. Because people just don't say things like that anymore. No more than we'd say a similar phrase that old people (on TV anyway) used to use, "Land of Goshen!" Now they just say "What the hell" or worse.

Later in the series there's even an episode in which some guys gaslight Perry White, with one guy dressing as Caesar and showing up at Perry's home, etc. He's got the weird helmet they used in Roman times, a kind of mini-skirt of mail, the strap-em laces and boots, legs a'showin', the whole bit. Perry is of course taken in and doesn't know what to think, how to overcome the nauseating effects of the whole scheme. Superman flies in and tidies it up, sending the faux Caesar down the Appian Way to the closest clink.

Perry White and the '50s aren't so terribly far away. Kind of a while back. I was born then -- how about that? -- so even though I'm getting older all the time, I'm not exactly ancient history. Yet when's the last time you heard someone use the expression "Great Caesar's Ghost"? It has to have been a while. Anything else sounds better. What the hell? What the fuck? What in Sam Hell? Goddammit to a Christless Hell is one I use from time to time, which is very interesting, isn't it? I am very invested in the Lord, let me put it that way ... He's building for me a cabin in the corner of Gloryland, and some glad morning I'll wake up there, arrange my things, take a shower, and go out to see what it's all about. Now, if there were a Hell in the traditional sense of the word, isn't it damned awful that it would somehow be entirely apart from Christ, Logos, and even an ounce of good or light? I shudder... I used to dream of it as a kid, brought up in the church when Hell was the main attraction week after week.

But no one in the show ever offers up (in my memory) surprise at "Great Caesar's Ghost!" Not Jimmy, Lois, Clark, or even Superman. They put up with Perry's brusqueness and just chalk up the expression to "Everyone's gotta say something, we guess." It's a personality device, his catchphrase, and that's all there is to it. It makes me wonder when they were doing the writing that someone actually pitched the "Great Caesar's Ghost" episode, since it assumes a guy who says a phrase would be especially susceptible to it being literally true. I don't see that. We're usually able to separate blank expressions from daily reality very easily.

I should read up on Julius Caesar a little more. Maybe I'd dream of him. Maybe I will now, having written this. "You summoned me, here I am! None of those other people can see me, only you." Etcetera, etc., and so forth... I know I'll be terrified -- maybe that's true. It could be one of my patron saints, George Reeves, will swoop in and save me. Let's hope, shall we? that George Reeves, whatever happened to him long ago, also has a corner in Gloryland. And that he and I get to be fast friends. My so-called friends from long ago used to (not often) taunt me that Superman killed himself, etc.

That's it! I get to Heaven, I immediately find George Reeves. Then we get together with the whole Superman gang, and go find John Hamilton (Perry White), and Julius Caesar -- say he somehow makes it -- and we have a damned ball? How about that?! I'll take that over a Christless Hell any day of the week.

My Dogs In Heaven

 

Every once in a while I like to publicly profess my love for dogs. You know how it goes, nothing softens your image and puts you in the good graces of others than your love for dogs and showing a soft spot for their cute antics.

Which I don't say cynically; it's just a side benefit deriving from My True Feelings about those great, human-like (without all the bad parts) creatures. Do I love every dog there is? I haven't met every dog and I know there are some that aren't great. There used to be a dog in my neighborhood named Sarge. He was so mean they sent him to Vietnam. He was tough to like, one of the reasons he went to war.

OK, as old as I'm getting, nearly 65(!), of course I'm thinking more and more about my future. Which is relatively limited in this life. I could do a whole thing just on that subject. I'm forever figuring up what percentage is left based on ideal factors. 100 is reasonable, but not likely. Some of my male forebears didn't do so well. Anyway, today I want to write about dogs AND the afterlife. In Heaven.

I enter the Glorious Gates, and my dogs from the years come walking in a group toward me, greeting me. I won't mention each one. Just one representative from my childhood and one from adulthood. From childhood is my first dog, Eggard. And from adulthood is Fritz. Eggard I had probably under three years, and Fritz died a week after I got him.

Here they come! Eggard I can barely remember what he looked like. His mom was a Collie and his dad was something else. Fritz had generally a German Shepherd look without being precisely a G.S. So here they come! Welcoming me to my heavenly home, eternal life. They're joyous as they watch the look of amazement on my face at all the beauty in that great place. I haven't seen anything this impressive since the home shows of the '60s, when they showed us the All Electric Homes of the Future!

I can barely take in the glory. I've been overwhelmed before, but this is the entire panoply of wonders. If you can picture the amazement and activity of the State Fair but it's made of glass and diamonds, you'll have a good idea of the beauty. But the true glory is to bend down and become reacquainted with Eggard. Eggard! What a great name for a great dog! "You were so little when Poohie had you! And look at you now!" Even though my memories are limited, they come flooding back in my mind's expansion.

Eggard knows it's me, even though of course I've grown. Was I too rough with him in life? I don't think so. I surely was gentle. I was very proud of his name, Eggard. My brother and I used to laugh. His dog's name was a plain old name, Rats. But mine had an elegant name, Eggard! What a pair of brothers we were. Then Rats ran away. And Eggard at some point died and I personally buried him by the fence. I can't drive by that old house without thinking of his grave somewhere down there.

Here comes another dog in glory, the already-mentioned Fritz. They say there's no tears in heaven, but I'm crying when I see Fritz. I was crying when we parted. I had gotten Fritz at a pound, a rescue place where they had unwanted dogs. And it turned out his health was bad. I had Fritz only a week, when he crawled under the back stairs and died. I brought him out and carried him across my arms to a grave, like a hero in an opera. I was crying like a baby.

In the years since Fritz, I've used his story lots of times to express my own philosophy that death ought to be like that. When you sense it's time for your death -- and with humans it'd mean you know in your core that this is it, say you had late stage cancer -- you simply crawl under something and die. It's admirable. Whether I could actually do it, that is the question.

Fritz jumps up on me (back in Heaven here), as if to say he also remembers that day. How do dogs say goodbye? With Fritz, it was like in the song, "I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date. No time to say hello, goodbye! I'm late." Such an admirable act at the end -- instinct is beautiful -- to crawl under the stairs and simply die! I've never gotten over the act of that. It impressed me beyond anything any other dog's ever done.

So we have a nice reunion in Glory. His worms are all gone, his heart is good, he's shaken off the dirt of the grave, he's radiant. And he was an unwanted dog at the time, too!

OK, beyond that, the other dogs showed up, though I won't mention each by name. Eggard said, "I was his first." My current dog said, "I was his last." Which got old, since they were repeating it over and over. I finally get fed up with it and say, "There's room and time for all at my glorious table!"

"Gather with me, my fantastic dogs, and let us sup!" So there we are, like in the Last Supper, me in the middle, surrounded by dogs. As all this is going on, my great relatives (humans) start filing in. They welcome me, and I'm friendly, but I have to ask them to come back later. "As you can see, my dear family, I'm still dealing with my dogs."

Time to Face Your November

I love visions, usually. You're sitting there in meditation and maybe you fall asleep, I really don't know. I only know it all seems so real. There's planets and stars in strange formations passing overhead. You see wild symbolic figures, circles and triangles and various objects brightly colored in continual morphing. And the great figures of spiritual history, Moses, Buddha, and my Mom. I'm like, "You bastards get out of the way, that's my Mom!"

Today was one of those days. I felt like I was completely awake, because, look above, I have a pretty good picture of it. The revelations -- alas, mostly criticism -- are also clear in my mind. A kind gentlemen, very inscrutable, appeared in my room and told me to follow him. A yellow door suddenly appeared. I looked, there was nothing on it, no "For Madmen Only" sign, so I went.

Damn, if this wasn't a judgment seat type of thing going on! Just what I need, right? You think you're doing OK, things are going along good. But even then, and maybe especially then, everything is karma. Which I tend to forget till it's too late. Remember, I had the great idea to post something on my stinking blog everyday in November. So I did, posting-posting-posting, then I get up on November 30, today, and they come along to tell me ... all I did was make myself more karma. In terms of spiritual truth, you see, every goal like this is actually an insidious thing -- really bad for sensitive types -- where you realize in a flash the things you do are mere maya, delusion.

I've been through this crap before. There's not much you can do about it. Take your medicine and try better next time. But this time I decided to advocate for myself, stand up for myself. The highest part of myself, however, split off from myself, and stood across from me, closer to the judgment seat. According to it, it tried to warn me -- quote a million times unquote. "Did it try to warn you a million times? Yes or no." I stammered, "Well, yes, probably, I don't know if it was literally a million times..." "Silence! Whippersnapper..."

The problem was, according to the highest powers, for the most part I wasted my essence, which, damn, how do you argue with that? It's really true. "But!" I interrupted, trying to save a tiny bit of face, "Didn't I do a good job?" They averred, that, yes, occasionally I did all right, but sometimes it was a terrible bomb.

I asked which posts they thought were completely "suckalicious," meaning bad. They listed off, Chasing the Thrill Divine; The League of Women Non-Voters; Little Old Fantastic Me Strikes Again; and gave a few black marks for My Better Angels, which toyed with the idea of getting rid of my better angels and seeing how well I could "do it myself." I thought back and remembered those relatively horrible posts. The Thrill Divine was an idea that never blossomed, Non-Voters was inconsistent and false, and I don't even remember Fantastic Me. The beings at the judgment seat led me into an antechamber with nothing but a hickory tree in the middle. They cut off a strong switch and beat me till I almost passed out.

Back out, they told me their favorite posts. Including, Sloshing Tankards of Grog, Phones Ruint; Get Your T-Day Turkey by Drone; A Willing Man for Dillingham; That's Sexy...We're Not Moving; and, of course, Cosmos: Elvis Presley. (They love Elvis there!) I tried to make a case for my Mental Parasitism series (7 parts!), but this was judged technically adequate but overall a waste of time. Too much Institute politics, not enough actual mental parasite activity!

For the good posts I was led back into the antechamber, and this time there were pleasurable things, which were so personal I feel I should forbear describing them, except to say it was like a dozen honeymoons in Sweden, if you catch my meaning. I almost turned it down, because it's all I can do to even attempt a kiss on the first date. The thought of going all the way, and so many times, was like way too much!

They told me, then, that had they started first with the good, I would've been spared the whipping. "So why didn't you start first with the good?" ... "Didn't think of it till it was too late. Bruno started whipping you and he hates being interrupted."

Chasing the Thrill Divine

"This is that once in a lifetime,
this is the thrill divine."

"Again" by Lionel Newman and Dorcas Cochran

The great song, "Again," tells in lovely lyrics that the thrill divine is a once in a lifetime experience. At first look, we might say once in a lifetime isn't very many. But upon reflection, we can say, at least we had that one chance!

Assuming you realize the thrill when it's there. Presumably you would, since it is "the thrill divine." What kind of divine thrill would it be if you totally missed it? Although it's easy to imagine cases in which the person, be he drunk or something, might miss it. If it's indeed "once in a lifetime," you should've been ready...

On the other hand, the song doesn't say everyone's entitled to the "once in a lifetime" experience. It strikes me, rather, as a serendipitous thing, like the coming together of two lovers who suddenly experience the thrill divine. No fumbling with straps, no bushwhackers, just greatness and intensity they'll treasure forever.

I don't hold to the notion that it has to be only once in a lifetime. I think the thrill divine can happen often, and in experiences broader than love and sex. I'm saying your life can become completely immersed, drenched, enfolded, and wrapped in the thrill divine.

Yogis, gurus, holy men of old, and even today -- a man I know locally, Pastor Wadd -- have been touched by the thrill divine. My guess is this, that they're actually all over town, the countryside, and around the world. But probably not all of them want to be known.

I can see myself very secretive of the thrill divine. I wouldn't want anyone to dissect me and look for things wrong with me to explain it, blood vessel strictures, high sodium, low sodium, or brain tumors. As long as it's truly the thrill divine, I don't care what causes it.

I can envision a time -- maybe closer than you think -- when the thrill divine springs up everywhere. Little children with more visions than usual, old men dreaming dreams, etc., the thrill divine constantly hitting us. It might even be on the news! "Ten more great outbreaks of the thrill divine in the metro, details at 6." Then you catch a glimpse of the anchor as they're going to commercial. His eyes roll back in his head, the thrill divine hits, and when they come back he's gone.

Say, though, the thrill divine is happening all over the countryside, like tornadoes. We have tornado chasers, bringing us videos of tornadoes. They're just chasing wind, twirling, swirling wind, which we've seen a million times.

But if we had the thrill divine chasers, we could see euphoria on earth. So many people knowing the thrill divine -- and in the strangest ways -- others would want it too. You see this guy's cabin, and he's at the window, a big beatific look on his face, eyes rolled back, hair in an aura of non-consuming fire, etc., and people are amazed. How did that happen? It was the thrill divine!

Let's picture me as a thrill divine chaser. I'm like the storm chasers, with all the usual excitement. The thrill divine's at the Jenkins' place! His chimney's glowing, supernal photons are streaming out, old man Jenkins himself is on top of the barn, one with the clouds. Someone get over there! Assure him it's the thrill divine, and he'll have it on the ground too.

I have to tell someone! "Friends," I'm talking on a special radio broadcast, "We've had 44 known thrills divine just today in the central region. The key thing is no one's being left out. It's spread over the entire spectrum of traditions, and even those with none. If you're listening to this broadcast and the thrill divine hits you, do not be overly concerned. Enjoy it."

REDRUM, He Wrote

The paper had an interesting story today -- and photo -- of a guy charged with murder. That's everyday stuff, of course, but what made this interesting was the tattoo on his neck. Looking at him straight on, he had REDRUM tattooed, reversed to see it better in a mirror. And it was huge, estimating it to be a 1000 pt outline font. Counsel has moved to allow him to cover it or have it removed, lest the jury find him YTLIUG and he's YAWA TUP.

Whatever happens to that guy, I'm sure you'll join me in wishing for him a completely fair trial, with the prosecution prevailing only if they prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. The fact that he has REDRUM on his neck, in my opinion, doesn't say anything incriminating necessarily.

There could be lots of reasons -- from an artistic bent to sheer antisocial cussedness -- for his tattoo. I know a lady with a pretty flower on the back of her leg, and that doesn't mean she's good at gardening. In fact, she lacks a green thumb.

I've always been that way about fair trials. As an average citizen, I read the paper and form opinions. But these accounts are always lacking some of, usually most of the evidence. In a different case, this other guy charged with murder, who is allegedly a hothead, went with some folks on a pleasant outing in the country. Apparently something turned sour, as everyone but him was brutally murdered, including a toddler whose body was found in a creek. Of course my first thought is Bigfoot. Then I start considering this guy. But if I'm on the jury, or I'm the judge, I go for the reasonable doubt conclusion.

I think I would've made a great judge. We've got a pesky defender or prosecutor, moving for a bathroom break. I go, "I'm the judge, I'll say when we have a bathroom break ... bathroom break! 10 minute recess. Be back in 9. If you take 11, you'll spend the rest of the trial in stocks. And anytime I see a juror even start to nod, it'll be one lash of the cat 'o nine tails for you. OK, sorry, I went long, be back in 8."

Other than messing with them like that, I'd be impartial and good. Soaking it in, proud when the bailiff calls out, "All rise! The honorable Tobias G. Slump presiding!" I look out, nod, have everyone be seated, wink at the cute bailiff, which whom I've just been in quarters, and admire the defendant's interesting tattoo, a guy sneaking a canoe out of Walmart, coincidentally the same crime he's charged with. The final verdict: Innocent! (I believe the defense, that the canoe was put in his truck by person or persons unknown, invisible to video surveillance.)

It's my prayer -- which I expect to be answered -- that someday soon we shall get past all this. For you see, I fervently believe in the perfectibility of man. Call it the new heaven and new earth, call it the Millennium, or just call it the pink-starred la la land I'm favored to live in. But I see a day when there's no REDRUM, drug-dealing, bank robberies (even by bankers), or the stealing of canoes.

In my new world, every person is so content in their being and Ultimate Being, in fact we're One! Each of us will follow -- by a redeemed nature and social setting -- the Golden Rule. Or, to refine that statement, our will won't will evil, our wont won't be toward evil. All mankind will possess their own person in peace, dwelling peaceably under the communal fruit tree, nothing really their own except maybe a nice shirt, a pair of pants, suspenders, and shoes that shall never wear out.

Body Parts From Heaven -- What Are You Missing?

Every reader of this blog knows that I am equipped with an enormous well-functioning brain. It's one of the things I'm proudest of, my ability to put my forefinger to my head, make a few clicking noises, and come out with the answer to any problem. My brain's usually a blessing, but sometimes a curse, like if people want problems solved but don't realize I have to live too and therefore don't come across with payment in addition to their expressed appreciation.

Not to belabor the point -- it's hard to be humble -- but God! Am I smart! Sometimes I wish I weren't so smart, because the ignorance I see around me is staggering. It might be that the only redemption for me is to stagger and fall on my head and hurt my brain. Then even though I'd probably still be twice as smart as everyone else, at least we'd be that much closer.

Now, getting to my point, my brain isn't really all my doing. I chose it in Heaven, you know, right before I was conceived. Because that's the way it works. We choose what we're going to take with us in that time. And there's a lot of laziness in Heaven, since there's very few challenges to keep us sharp. So future kids are putting it off, getting prepared, and they show up incomplete.

In Heaven they're saying, "Hurry up, get your body parts: Arms, legs, brains, hearts, kidneys, stomachs, etc., and all the various valves that go the parts, etc.," but these idiots answer back, "Yeah, yeah, get off my ass! I'll do it when I'm good and ready!" Then they doze off, many, unfortunately, just as their parents are finishing up, and the thing is done. And it's too late.

Me, on the other hand, I was ready weeks in advance. In fact, I can remember sitting on a lawn chair outside a storage unit with a gun on my heavenly lap, holding off looters. Being, however, smart enough not to let on the wonderful assembly of parts I had inside. A brain to beat the band, and all the rest. As soon as my parents were in the grips of passion -- I was timing it, having watched all the training movies -- I opened the unit and everything came into me, all in miniature form of course, and I was off.

Then later, a lot later, I'm in school. And there's kids missing an arm, missing a leg, having diabetes, having various heart valves, stints, or they're virtually brain dead. And all I could do was shake my head and wonder what happened. (You temporarily lose memory of what came before.)

I knew this one guy. True story. The guy was nothing but a misshapen head with a spinal column, that's it, and a covering of skin. No heart, no liver, no kidneys, etc. A head and tiny brain, the size of a pea, the spinal column, and a covering of skin. They said the only reason he was alive was sheer cussedness.

And here's the other part of the story, how I knew him so well. Because my growing brain was giving me headaches in my sophomore year, and because this guy was so extremely deformed, he and I were the only boys in the whole class to be excused from an otherwise-mandatory semester of wrestling. We simply sat there in the guidance counselor's office, me thinking vast thoughts and him with his cussedness.

Meeting Bigwigs in Heaven

A big anniversary, forgotten! I suddenly remembered the other day that it was 40 years ago that I worked for a big appliance factory. Meaning, actually, that it's been 40 years since I quit, since I was there a while before that. That's huge. Time has passed!

I have lots of memories of factory life. That's the only factory I ever worked at, so anytime I think of factories, of course that's what I picture. But probably in 40 years it's changed a lot. I'll just assume it has, because I won't be back.

One of the huge memories I have of the place is the periodic visits to the plant by various bigwigs. The bigwigs, I guess, were mostly guys from corporate, although I'm sure there were politicians mixed in, other industrialists, and stockholders. They definitely came around a lot, getting tours and wined and dined.

When the bigwigs came, it was always the same a couple days before. We, the loyal peons of the place, had extra cleanup duties, making the place spic and span for them. This included all the obvious things, like sweeping and mopping, straightening out things, making sure everything was in its place, etc. Maybe the most unusual thing that I always associate with it is the painting of lines. The factory had big aisles for workers to walk in and for forklifts. I drove one of those forklifts you stand on, moving supplies around.

These aisles were all demarcated from the rest of the floor by bright painted lines down the side. And guess what? The floor wasn't good enough for the bigwigs until the lines were painted fresh ... every time! Kind of a nasty job. You're down there doing it. No fun. I used to think something like this, "Don't they think the bigwigs know we did all this stuff before they got here? They surely don't think the place looks like this all the time."

But what a compliment, huh? You get fresh lines, fresh floors, straight stacks, the works!

OK, here's our thought for the day. I was a kid of 19 and 20 when at the factory. The bigwigs were mostly in their 40s, 50s, and 60s. And there was a bunch of them. That means that for any who are still alive, they're now in their 80s, 90s, and 100s! Really aged bigwigs, in most cases. That also means, statistically speaking, that a bunch of the bigwigs have now passed on, and are a'moldering in their graves.

These bigwigs have now gone to the great factory in the sky, where the angels no doubt painted fresh lines, straightened out stacks of heavenly things, and mopped the streets of gold. But since they've been there a while, they've seen what real life is, grubby paint, things tipped over, and gold dust.

Now, since spiritually speaking we all know, "The last shall be first," since I was a peon when they knew me and they were the bigwigs, when I get to Heaven, I'm going to be the bigwig and they're going to be the peons. They had their painted lines here on earth, now it's my time, baby! I've seen stacks of crap falling everywhere all my life. Now it's my time to see things neatly arranged! And I've tripped over dirt and had dirty feet from the moment I stepped out of my crib. Now it's my time to see things spic and span!

Right now I'm feeling very well. I'm not sick. The doctor gave me a clean bill of health. I'm likely to live another 5 to 25 years. It could happen. But when my time comes -- and listen up, please -- I want all the bigwigs in Heaven to get ready for me. Because I'm the biggest thing to happen, when the time comes! You're going to know I'm on my way. I'm going to be shouting, "Put those peons to work, Lord! I'm on my way!"

Paradise Restored -- The Monk and The Nun

In my opinion, this has to be the happiest story ever. If you're ever down and blue and want a happy story to cheer you up, anytime, anywhere, please bookmark this page, then you can return to it time after time. I know I'm going to, because, frankly, there are those times when even I, an ordinarily cheerful person, need a lift. Here you get that lift! This is a story of "Paradise Restored."

We're all familiar with "Paradise Lost." Not only was it a great poetic work by John Milton, beyond him it is a concept, from Milton's point of view biblical, but really a common story in humanity's experience. Even if it's something as minor as a child's disappointment over a toy. But we're not all familiar with "Paradise Restored," which also was one of Milton's works, but not nearly as good. I for one haven't bookmarked it.

OK ... on with the feelgood experience of a lifetime ...

This is the story of two young lovers, probably a lot like Romeo and Juliet, head over heels in love. As is typical with two hot hormonally-driven kids. You probably remember the feeling. Nature is calling, and, by God, if your soul mate isn't standing right in front of you! Two legs, nice smile, and all the rest. You fall immediately into one another's arms, and pretty soon it's all over ... all but the intense guilt. "I'll never do that again ... Nor shall I!" But how's it going to go three days from now?

Well, in this case, of A and B -- him and her, respectively -- they saw the vanity of it all, the flesh, and immediately withdrew after that one time. They were true to their word: "I'll never do that again ... Nor shall I!" A immediately joined a monastery, B a convent. (These institutions were some religion other than Catholic, since neither A nor B were Catholic.)

The Father Superior and the Mother Superior, both, were skeptical. They weren't sure of their vows. So to test them, they sent them to a place for that purpose. Two towers across from one another with a direct line of sight between them. The stairways down were clear, the doors unlocked. All they had to do was motion, one the other, and they would be joined again somewhere in the middle.

But they were among the lucky -- I should say, the disciplined, those true to their vow -- that they were able to withstand the temptation. Not that temptation was that great. They had made vows and they stuck to them, incorporating the essence of the vow into their thinking, into their very marrow. If you read about the three gunas in the Bhagavad Gita, they lived the good one all the way. They weren't concerned about the fruits of their actions. And they were way beyond dark inertia.

Both windows remained open, the line of sight ever clear. They could look across whenever they chose to. But for the most part they were studying their devotionals and finding ready connections between the enduring truths of life and their own thoughts and essence. They had some little duties for the monastery and convent, like calligraphy and making repairs to cassocks. These duties they tended faithfully.

When it came to lust one for the other, they simply didn't have it. It didn't enter their minds even once. They transmuted all those drives and it became an honorable energy within them that strengthened them more and more in their devotion. What is earthly in most of us, and even devilish, was for them a perfect heavenly stream of light and power. They never -- A and B -- regretted their decision even for a moment and never doubted that their calling from above was real and blessed.

Naturally, then, when it came time for their prayers -- and this was almost constant, not as a task but as a way of life, as immediate and normal as breathing -- there was never a "Forgive me, for I have sinned." It is truly no exaggeration to say they simply experienced bliss upon bliss and grace for grace. Paradise indeed was restored for A & B! May it ever be the same for each one of us ... for you today!

Commentary on the picture -- The dog and fox represent the daily passions of life, which stood at a distance ever calling for attention, but were unheeded. The lobster represents the deeper drives from below, the chthonic impulses, which was never able even to get out of the water. It simply sat there and flexed its claws in vain, wondering why no one cared about it anymore.

The Damnation Of Sam Hell

"Go to Hell!" he cried, in a fit of pique, an expression of hostility and ire, when confronted by a friend when he was caught doing something wrong and upbraided. Some people are like that; they could just say sorry -- after all, they're the one in the wrong. Maybe it's pride -- it probably is -- or maybe it has something to do with being surprised, then embarrassed -- it probably does.

Sometimes we think Hell is mythic. Mythic in the sense of something that isn't literally true. But when it comes to Hell, can there be any doubt it's real? I tell myself, We have black holes the size (diameter) of the earth's orbit around the sun, oceans 5,000 miles deep on Uranus, planets that are solid diamond through and through, what's so tough about carving out a little niche for Hell?

Well, Samael Heck, said it, "Go to Hell, and then ... guess what? ... He woke up one night; it seemed like a nightmare but it wasn't, there he was, dangling on a ladder, halfway between Heaven and Hell -- true story. It appears he had died. And he saw the souls of the other dead either going up or being dragged down by demonic creatures. It was one or the other. There was no exception. Until, who knows how it happened, somehow Samael swung back up to the ladder. And he must have been hidden from view by the others on top of the ladder, as he managed to shimmy back down, flip over the top of the ladder, and run. He escaped back to the world, and reentered his body.

So much for the 12th century, for that's when all this stuff happened. A long time ago. Leaving us to contemplate something equally fantastic, that this guy has since lived all these centuries. The whole list would include the 13th, 14th, 15th, 16th, 17th, 18th, 19th (in which he briefly knew John Wilkes Booth), 20th, and now the 21st centuries. Meaning, unless he hurries up and dies, he's going to surpass Methuselah! Another guy who must have flipped the ladder.

Anyway, maybe it was back when he knew Booth, he toughened up his name to Sam Hell, becoming proverbial, like Waldo and Carmen Santiago, with his question being, "What in the Sam Hell?!" My grandpa used to say that all the time, openly, although perhaps ignorantly, invoking someone who was at least familiar with a presidential assassin, not to mention being a rare escapee from the fiery judgment. But what did Grandpa know, and when did he know it? Probably not much, with the date indeterminable.

Because this is going too long, I'm just going to list some facts about Sam Hell, without ordering them or fleshing out any meaning or significance:

• Sam Hell's thoughts are tortured during the day ... and the night is worse.
• He has olfactory, auditory, gustatory, visual, and tactile hallucinations. It's all he can do to keep himself grounded in reality, whatever that may be.
• He's doomed to rail against his own fate in this world. But one thing he hates above all are the ghost shows on TV. Because your body and messing around is a portal to bring these now-terrible spirits back into the world... bumming everyone out. They missed the ladder, let 'em fry.
• Of course, like all things of this nature, the holy and secular, the sacred and profane, he soon became a byword for hillbillies and old men in coffee shops. (See Grandpa above). They'd be chewing the end of your average weed, invoking him in astonishment every time a cow died.
• To combat the old men would be hopeless. But he could open the minds of those yet too young to be old, children. Which opened up a perennial career as a speaker at elementary assemblies, having to soften his stage name to Sam Hill.
• Have you ever met the real Sam Hell, in his essence? Of course you haven't, very few have. Only advanced spirits. I count myself among that number. I met Sam Hell a few years ago. We enjoyed a time of spiritual reverie, then he was gone. At least from sight... How else I know him, my lips are sealed.

The Bottled City Of Heaven

I don't know the whole story of the bottled city of Kandor, from Superman comics. The last time I remember reading about it was in the '60s, so I guess I forgot this panel about Brainiac having shrunk it to microscopic size. Of course, if your city is suddenly microscopic, it had to get that way somehow.

But I do remember Superman having custody of Kandor. Presumably he drops in an occasional gram of food, like we used to feed Sea Monkeys, and everyone there lives happily ever after. If you need someone to look after you, Superman would be a good guy to do it. Superman as I remember him, that is. Now that he's renouncing his American citizenship after all these years, it sounds like he's changed.

Maybe Superman's no longer an American for some greater good. I hate to question his motives when I have no idea what they are. It's not like I'm a Republican or something.

The only thing I know about Superman anymore is what I read in the papers. Just going by some of the pictures they show of him from the comics, he looks a lot tougher and grittier than he used to be. It probably has to do with a more jaded society, where we (not me) like more ambiguity than good versus evil in our super heroes. If I had my way, I would've shrunk him and kept him in my own miniature Kandor, still in his '60s incarnation. But two things would kill Superman, kryptonite, and not being allowed to change with the times.

That's enough about Superman.

I've been thinking about spiritual matters lately, and a couple weeks ago I was thinking, What if Heaven's like the bottled city of Kandor somewhere? Let's say the souls of everyone are microscopic or not even material, just very subtle, indiscernibly small to even the most powerful electron microscope. You could have billions of them in a square inch. Like billions of bacteria under your fingernail. And so, with a regular bottle, about the size of Kandor in relation to Superman, you'd have quite an expansive place for us to romp, roam, and explore. You would travel a million years just to reach the side of the bottle.

Or the bottle could be about the size around of a sequoia tree. That'd give a microscopic soul virtually endless room for venturing into vast uncharted territory. Every time a piece of Sea Monkey food fell in, which is very small stuff, it'd be like the size of the moon crashing around us. Each little quadrant would be provided for like that, plus some other goodies, like a granule of sugar (to us the size of Mt. Everest) every few days, scratch that, every couple thousand years.

I'd be happy in there. Look at it this way, it'd be like what we have now. We're more or less restricted to the ground and don't have infinite room to roam. If there were a big bottle enclosing us, that'd be reality, we wouldn't have known anything different, and we'd be happy. Conserving the environment would be keeping our bottle clean. If Heaven's just a big bottle, and let's say we still have our 'trashing the environment' ways, God could just use a transporter to move us to a new bottle. If God had a big roomful of spare bottles, we could easily live there forever. A bottle, Sea Monkey food, and sugar, I'm happy.

The fact is, God could be microscopic, and big things just one of God's jokes. That'd be relatively funny.

Tiptoe Through The Hiatus

Shhh, be very very quiet. We're treading lightly today, soft shoeing it, tiptoeing, maintaining a new level of stillness throughout the house.

I'm typing this very slowly, so old what's his face will sleep on. And as he sleeps, the big hope is that he will continue to shrink. No wakesy, no need for attention. No attention, being ignored, he'll shrink to nothing and go away.

Just saying it like that, though, is a mistake on my part -- but what's said is said. I'll state the quandary in general terms: Any attention, just giving attention to [a problem, let's say], creates a vibe that has a ripple effect. It's tough too to mitigate the effect by speaking of opposites, since reality knows the intimate connections between opposites and their principals. And you ultimately can't fool Mother Reality.

On the other hand it's important for my own understanding and peace of mind -- as well as my desire to communicate these key issues to a broader readership, if for no other reason than to satisfy their morbid curiosity -- that some description be made of the actual circumstances of my situation. So there's a delicate balance, a gentle dance underway.

This tiptoeing is part of the dance. Because tiptoeing around itself calls attention to the circumstances of why you're tiptoeing. You might think there's no winning, but that's where you'd be wrong. Because [an unnamed party] is also under the thumb of Mother Reality; [unnamed party] doesn't get a free pass either.

So the sleeping, the extreme lethargy I'm noting on the part of [the unnamed party] is likely a payback for his inflationary moves as of late. It seems that not even [the unnamed party] can hold full sway. And with me actively, if not mentally, ignoring him, it's piling on. I'm expecting the weapons eventually to appear. Then I will be able to hack to death [an unnamed party].

I tiptoed around the house, squeezing by-- through some wider areas, suddenly passable. I was unable to discern any other being in this house awake except myself. Grandma sleeps on. I wonder what she dreams about. Maybe heaven. She always used to clip out the "Family Circus" cartoons, which would portray heaven. Heaven to Bil Keane was a place on the clouds where the grandfather and everyone else were transparent, black and white outlines of their former selves. Someday Grandma will be up there -- I'm sure she pictures it that way -- with Grandpa. He's up there, transparent, maybe with one of his signature flannel shirts and a couple of wings jutting out his back. Flitting hither, thither, and yon. Fishing up there maybe if they have fish. Fish who were killed on earth went to heaven and are caught all over again. But what happens to a fish that's killed in heaven? I could guess it goes to the second heaven, then the third, as many as they are. Then eventually it retires.

Anyway, I went all through the house, and I noticed some widening of the rooms, more room than I've seen for some time. But I want to keep quiet, keep to myself, sit here in my room and just act like nothing's going on. Then, let's say eventually the weapons do appear, I can go on a bloody rampage and literally hack and hew [this unnamed party] to a terrible death. Then [an unnamed party] can go to heaven as well. [An unnamed party] won't know what happened. [An unnamed party] will be sitting transparent on a cloud scratching its ectoplasm, or whatever you call that sticky, jelly, blob hide it has.

That'll teach [an unnamed party] not to mess with me.

Within the Walls of Heaven

Grandma Slump loves Heaven. As I've said, she's often there, then occasionally back here on Earth. Whether in the body or out of the body, I can't say -- God knows. The fact is sometimes I see her, sometimes I don't. She may be a phantom, a spirit, or just a slumping old lady carting around a lot of ambiguity as to her exact status in terms of cosmic things and our day-to-day practical reality.

The more I say about her, of course the more room there is for contradiction. And the more contradictory comments I make the less Grandma Slump's existence can be thought of as something of fact. This is a concern that keeps me up nights, and in the other moments I am able to sleep, the time is far from restful, usually involving tormented dreams, and, it is reported, scenes of terrible twitching and babbling. I know the other day I woke up with a very wet pillow, so...

As I was saying, Grandma Slump loves Heaven. And she's loved it ever since she was a little girl in Sunday School, and even more when she got a book at Christmas in 1914 from her Aunt Emma. The book was Intra Muros ("Within The Walls," sometimes called "My Dream of Heaven"), by Rebecca Ruter Springer. In this book the author describes scenes in Heaven, some of the sights and sounds, and something of the life -- social and spiritual -- in that realm beyond. Springer writes that she has never claimed "this strange experience" is either a revelation or an inspiration, but was something that came to her during "a period of great physical suffering and prostration, and I have always considered it as sent in compensation for that suffering." (p. 79.) On the same page, she says at the time of her experiences "the marvelous things...seemed indeed to me to be a most wonderful revelation."

The book focuses on the coming to terms with Heaven for the recently deceased, their homes, their renewal, their relations with the Lord Jesus and with one another, and watching for those still to come. It has some great scenes, including bathing at the lake, in which one is filled "to overflowing with a draught from the Celestial Life itself." (p. 33.) The lake is "as smooth as glass, but flooded with a golden glory caught from the heavens, that made it like a sea of molten gold." (p. 31.) People are in the lake, floating, swimming, and a band of singing cherubs floats high overhead, drifting, with their baby voices giving notes of joyful praise. (p. 31.)

In the lake, the narrator is amazed by perfect prismatic rays around her, then being within the water "as upon the softest couch." (p. 32.) Earlier in a river, she also had an interesting experience, plunging into its bright water. To her surprise she could breathe, laugh, talk, see and hear under the water. "I sat down in the midst of the many-colored pebbles, and filled my hand with them, as a child would have done." There was something of a cleansing going on. (p. 7). The river "takes away the last of the earth-life, and prepares us for the life upon which we enter." (p. 33).

And of course, Jesus is there! In Heaven. He comes by the house, and is very tender. She whispers in an excited way, "My Savior -- and my King!" Jesus acknowledges this but is modest, "Yes, and Elder Brother and Friend," putting them on a more even plane. Jesus says, "Ah, now you begin to meet the conditions of the new life! Like many another, the changing of faith to sight with you has engendered a little shrinking, a little fear. That is all wrong. Have you forgotten the promise, 'I go to prepare a place for you; that where I am, there ye may be also'? If you loved me when you could not see me except by faith, love me more now when we have really become 'co-heirs of the Father.' Come to me with all that perplexes or gladdens; come to the Elder Brother always waiting to receive you with joy." (p. 38.) I love that.

Of course she, the narrator, is thrilled, drinking in the tones of Jesus' voice, watching eagerly his face, "exalted, uplifted, upborne, beyond the power of words to express." Then, with a divine smile, he arises, and assures her, "We will often meet," and passes noiselessly and swiftly from the home. (p. 38.)

The choirs of angels, the waters of life, the oneness of sharing in the divine experience, the reunion with passed on relatives and friends...it's quite a presentation. One slightly, ummm, irritating tendency of the author is to leave the indescribable or the very sublime undescribed. Example: "I would I might record in detail the precious words of wisdom that fell from his lips; I would that I might recount minutely the events of that wonderful life as it was unfolded to me day by day; but I can only say, 'I may not.' When I undertook to make a record of that never-to-be-forgotten time, I did not realize how many serious difficulties I would have to encounter; how often I would have to pause and consider if I might really reveal this truth or paint that scene as it appeared to me. The very heart has often been left out of some wonderful scene I was attempting to describe, cause I found I dared not reveal its sacred secret." And blah blah blah, tell it in the sequel, honey!

I'm that way in describing things too, the aspects of Grandma Slump's life that may end up overly-contradictory. For example, if I say her given name was "Margaret Hill" and that Aunt Emma gave her this book at Christmas in 1914, that limits me in what else I might say someday. It's like being in a court of law; you don't want to say too much but you want to tell the truth. But what if the truth is that there is an element of fantasy and concocting in your story all along? Then you're either dependent on a very accurate memory, a set of biographical 3" x 5" cards, or just acknowledging up front the possible contradictions. I have chosen the latter course.

As to this book, it's been a few years since I read it, and I had to pick my way through today to get the quotes I have. I definitely remember the water scenes, although I thought they were a little more like where the participant was really encompassed and really, really renewed. Maybe I'm just not seeing the scene I thought I remembered. And Jesus is definitely a great presence in the book, but he comes and goes quickly and there's really not much that goes in-depth in any of those experiences. There's a good celestial city scene in the book somewhere.

But, as I said, the author's reticence to say too much is irritating. In a supplementary chapter, she acknowledges, "There are some seeming inconsistencies in the book of which I myself am aware." (p. 84). And since her readers were seeking practical information and not just a story -- comparative distances in Heaven, and the like -- it would probably be a lot easier to just pull a curtain, a veil, over things that would be tough to describe. To which I say, Try harder next time, Springer!

After all that, you can see why this has always been one of Grandma Slump's favorite books. To her it is more or less an accurate account. As one who spends a lot of time in Heaven, as she does, she ought to know!

P.S. I've looked this book up on the internet, and it appears the current editions have an additional chapter. I don't know what that's all about, or whether it would really add anything meaningful beyond what the earlier editions had. My copy – I guess I have two – but the one I quote from above was Copyright 1898 by David C. Cook Publishing Company, and in truth was a gift to a "Margaret Hill from Aunt Emma, Christmas 1914."

Funeral Songs

Speaking of Heaven, as I was last night, they send you there with songs at your funeral.

I had a friend who died. And one of the songs at his funeral was "Heaven," by Los Lonely Boys. OK, that ruined that song.

I was at a store a couple days ago and it was playing on the radio. So my mind has to go right back to my friend's funeral! Ack!

People need to stick to the normal, old-time funeral songs, "Beyond the Sunset," whatever the others are. Or pick really really obscure songs, like indie groups or local artists from other towns, or songs that we wouldn't miss if they were suddenly gone, like "My Band" by D12 or "Laffy Taffy" by D4L. (Hmm, both my examples, without premeditation, come from groups with a D and a numeral). OK, pick any song for your funeral that was recorded by a group that starts off with a single D followed by a number. Like on a jukebox, D-12, except Olivia Newton John says, "Please, mister, please, don't play B-17."

Actually, I wouldn't miss that song. Really, though, can you imagine "Girl, shake your laffy taffy" at a funeral?

Heaven

I used to be a pretty big fan of All My Children. Since I was just writing about Grandma Slump probably being in Heaven, it made me think of Heaven on All My Children.

I've actually quit watching it, except because it's on at lunch time, and someone else is watching it, I usually catch the first five to 15 minutes. Currently, Dixie is back, not alive this time, as she died in the poisoned pancake episode some months ago in that who thing with the crazed whoever, I'm pretty sure it was from Zach's deranged father, Alexander Cambius, Sr. But Dixie is back in spirit. Adam Chandler was the first to see her, because she's haunting him, trying to get him to tell Tad about his missing daughter Kate, of whose whereabouts Adam knows. (She's right in Pine Valley, since it's a very small world.)

So here is Dixie, haunting Adam. And your first thought is that he's got mental problems, which is what everyone is assuming. But Dixie is popping up at places unrelated to Adam, such as at Jake's bedside in the hospital. And other places, I don't know. She is dead. Yet she has come from the afterlife, presumably Heaven, to help out with the information about Kate. (Why she doesn't simply appear to Tad and tell him herself, that I don't know either.)

And every Christmas, there is an old priest, Father Clarence, who also apparently comes from Heaven, because he only shows up at Christmas (although there was an exception to that a couple months ago) and he always has a miracle or two for some character(s) needing one. The folks of Heaven have access to the real life setting of Pine Valley, which of course is fictional.

Speaking of people coming from Heaven, a number of years ago, Jesse, who in the story was dead for the last twenty years, appeared from Heaven as an angelic figure, to help out in some situation. He was portrayed as really being there and really being Jesse. But now, with the passing of time, and in need of a storyline, Jesse is back as a living, breathing character. The story now is that he stayed away twenty years because he was under threat of death, and his family as well. But he came back, and as far as I know there was no mention or explanation of his being a Heavenly Being at some point in the last 10 years.

The other Heavenly appearance I can recall was when Jenny was seen in Heaven, the dead daughter of Opal. So in this world we're talking about, folks are in Heaven (1) and on Earth (2). Just like Grandma Slump is purported to be able to do.

But was there anyone from Hell? Yes, Ray Gardner, Tad's father was portrayed as having come from somewhere not exactly Heavenly. But that may have been a mental thing on Tad's part and not meant as a reality in the context of the show.

Grandma Slump lives! And breathes! Or maybe not!