and the holy ghost – black grape – fix formatting for music streaming
Absurd. In my definition is a creative act that is meant to call attention to the silliness of the human condition. Think Monte Python, perhaps the best absurdists of our modern world. There were earlier pioneers. Oscar Wilde. Lenny Bruce. Kurt Vonnegut, the grand master of the absurd as literature. Who comes to your mind?
Absurd is very different than ironic or sarcastic. It’s the celebration of something being off. Different. Absurd, as Dali would show us, is a secret key to all kinds of hallucinogenic worlds stored within our minds. There’s more to the world than what you see or know. There’s more to the universe than all the human scientists combined can’t come close to illuminating. It’s actually not possible for the human, in human form, to break through the viewport of their own living lives. BUT, and this is the big one, they (we) can access others’ infinite lives. Acutely after they have passed on.
This is the spirit world that we humans simply don’t have the mental capacity, imagination, or, frankly, the intelligence to piece together the better map of space and time.** I’ll give Albert credit. He did the lion’s share of the work and nearly nearly nearly got there. He died with half of the understanding of the first level of the spiritual realm, where time and space dissolve. The problem is, your individual human memory dissolves as well. You can feel and explore with your spiritual guides (not your family members, but angels assigned to your case) without hurry or worry.
This is not heaven. But it’s as close as your human mind can comprehend of time and space. We’re not ready to discuss the loop of time, one time, or why we’re here with you on Earth, and why now. This is coming, but first, we’ve got to catch you up on a lot of more recent understandings of the nature of time, the big bang, and the nature of the end of time. A surprise is in order, I promise that. But I’m going to hold off for a bit. Until we’re in better alignment. At this point, I don’t quite trust you to tell you the truth, and you don’t know me at all. We’ve got some roads to journey before we’re on the same team.
Suffice it to know, I am on your side. My name is Michael. I am an actual arc-angel, and I’ve been assigned to handle your complaint. Welcome to the end or beginning of time, depending on the life event that brought you here.
OH, YOU HAVE DIED.
I probably should’ve led with that. I’m forgetful. A good angel is supposed to be more buttoned up than I am. But I’m 100% good. I can swear to that. Oh, last bit for this, I know this is a lot for you. Just know, there are angels who will try and persuade you to leave my side and follow them. That will be your choice.
Know that the darkest angel would like to see you join his team. I am neutral. I do not pick sides. I will, however, intervene in the future events if I see a. you in mortal danger, or b. you about to make a life-changing mistake. It’s for your own good. That’s sort of my only job, while we sort your case out.
Now, I see here, you didn’t realize you were dead. Let’s start with that. Do you have any questions for me? And the only thing I can’t answer is how it happened. Sorry.
This book is actually about the mind. Your mind. Not mine. I’ll try and explain as we go along. We are in this journey together, here on the page. If we connect, it could be a lifetime bond. If we do not, it is no problem. We will both go on with our human lives. What happens under the consciousness radar, below what most people are paying attention to, something amazing happens. Pattern recognition. I can see the different artists inside the Midjourney thinking and responses. I’ll show you that too, in a minute.
Think of it this way: I am typing this on January 11, 2026, in the Austin, Texas, suburb of Oak Hill, or the “Y” as we often call it. I have landed fortunately, in a safe neighborhood, on a cul-de-sac, with a funny and interesting name. Mescalero Cove. The Mescaleros were Apaches who got into agave and learned to cook up mescal. I can’t stand the stuff. But that’s the street, just so you can understand the cosmic setting.
The communications come in waves. Mostly in the late evening. Mostly with the optimization of my mental capacity with nature’s gift of some sort. That is true tonight as well. The link tonight feels like a direct hookup to my prefrontal cortex. This is all I can think of doing right now. Pun intended. Write now, for those in the back.
Anyway, as I said earlier (Sorry, I seem to be losing track of my work here, tonight), you died. If you are able to read this, it means you must be in some sort of purgatory, a holding cell for human souls on the way up and out or down and out. I’m hopeful you haven’t done anything unforgivable, besides trying to conjure the devil from the bubble bath when you were seven and your dad was being scary. It was in those moments, I began to doubt my Southern Presbyterian faith and my confirmation letter, which sits in the old, wealthy neighborhood of Tarrytown, in central Austin.
That’s where John Sr., my tennis buddy, lives. Tarrytown.
We had some lovely banter today. He invited me to watch some pro football in his living room and shoot the shit. I had a Topo Chico, and we watched a delightful game.
Here you go, I’ll tell you all I know about your death. I’ve written two obituaries for my family members in the last five years. I’m not looking to write any more. Sorry about you, but here’s what I’ve pieced together from the other angels.
You died straining on the toilet.
Again, you don’t have to tell anyone, I certainly won’t. I mean the angels understand. Older human bodies, they start to give out. Yours was just about done. The constipation just accelerated your demise.
Your wife and kids will be fine. I have invited them to come live in my villa on the calm side of Lake Cuomo. I’m sorry you can’t *be* with us, but I will pass along messages of your undying love and affection when you ask. Two, kids, right? Oh, three. I forgot about the brother from another father. Didn’t he change his name recently to Cloud? That’s a funny one. Lends itself to so many pet names. Storm Cloud. Rain Cloud. Storm says he’s your brother. He’s willing to take a DNA test, but neither of you know what that is. So, anyway, he’s the reason you’re dead, actually.
While you were straining on the toilet, Storm fired an elephant rifle from the back shed. The bullet passed through the plate glass window facing the back yard, it didn’t seem to make enough sound. I don’t think Storm has qualified for the sliencer class, but I’m not familiar with this particular weapon. Cloud accidentally shot you.
There will be little or no investigation. You are not in trouble in any way, or at risk. There will be an investigation into the shooting. You don’t have to worry about that for you, obviously. We think Cloud will be fine. Maybe fewer than five in prison. Thank god we are in New Mexico. The prisons here are pretty chill. If you get the right judge. That’s all ahead of us, for Cloud, not you.
There is a little housekeeping business we need to discuss before we go much further. There are a few rules here in the midway. (We don’t really call it Purgatory anymore.) You cannot try to force the living to acknowledge or respond to your communications. You can, however, attempt to communicate with the living. Duh. I can see by your expression that you did not think ghosts were real. Boy, are you about ready to have an eye-opening orientation slide strip. We use slide strips here. We’re low tech. Did you know Satan still runs his lists on paper? There’s an Excel backup on some hard drive within the security cloud, but no one knows how to retrieve it. We merely trust that the backups are being completed. I guess you’re going to want to see your death. That will probably take about a month to pull back from the archives. They are stored on Trafamador. We are in league with the Talfamadorians.* I think I might have mentioned that.
*the first indication that this is more of a tribute novel, written to impress the dead Kurt Vonnegut. He has not see this manuscript yet. Nor even this chapter, so feel fortunate. You are being given some VIP access to tempt you to make the right decision.
“Decision?”
I always forget to cover this, as I said, I’m new. Wings up for primero uno about 20 minutes before you arrived. No prepping or classes. So, we’re going to learn about this process together. You’re my first.
You look frightened. Is it the death or the anxiety? Oh, anger. I get that a lot. I’m not that good with anger. So, please be kind. And ask yourself, is what I’m about to say kind, truthful, and most importantly, necessary? That’s our motto, from old Occum. The razor guy. The simplest path probably leads you to the right answer. Nature likes easy.
Any questions so far? Are you okay? Don’t worry, you can’t die here. It does look like you’re having a panic attack. I’m not trained in that. Just a second.
{end of line.michael spirit exits chat}
“WELL FUCK ME IF IT’S NOT MCELHENNEY. What the fuck man, how did you end up down here… Oh shit, Micheal, I couldn’t see you through the fiery chimeras floating around your head. McElhenney here is an old friend.”
I had no idea who this rude and loud angel was. He did not give his name. He poofed out of existence the same way he came in. Gone. No idea.
A more soothing music comes over my mind radio. I seem to be getting very sleepy. It’s a lullaby about carrots and rabbits. I can’t recall the lyrics. Wait, there weren’t lyrics. A deep voice sounds like it’s coming from the center of my skull. “How are you doing there? Your heartbeat, not that it matters, but your ghost heartbeat is all racy. I’m here to talk you down a few notches. So, what’s your name? My name is Kitty.
Don’t laugh. It’s a hard name for a seraphim. I’m not an angel yet. I wanted to change it from Kitty to Karen, and I was trying to trade in my car for a white Chrysler Le Baron. The one with the Corinthian leather seats. This particular model actually speaks to you. “A door is ajar” and all that shit. Very modern.**
What’s got you scared right now? (looks at a clipboard in his hand, he’s magically transformed his image to a variation on the cruise director from The Love Boat, an old TV show, before your time. I can’t remember the character’s name. He wasn’t the boss or the little guy. A supporting character. His look was fake, swirly, a hologram. Now, I could see it.
“Can you just appear to me as a normal, whatever you are? Seraphim.”
“Sorry, only full angels can show their true form. I don’t have the training. You’d burst into flames in less than one second. Painless at the moment. The rebooting dead human process is quite painful, I hear, I’ve never seen it happen. As I think I mentioned, this is my first hour on the job.”
“Fine, can you take another shape, please?”
Kitten appears as my favorite sister as a teenager.
“NO! Fuck. Please!”
Sidney vanishes. All the light in the world goes dark too. I am in total blackness and silence. I can hear the roaring in my ears from the rush of blood. I think I’m getting dizzy, like I’m going to pass out. I don’t, so that’s good. “Hello?” I whisper into the painful blackness of the void. “Is this the void I’ve heard about?”
“You are a clever dead human, I’ll give you that. Kudos to you. Funny. Obviously handsome. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“With the girl. The mom of the boy. The hippie.”
“Yeah.”
“So! Where were we? Checking the list. Okay, I think that’s all I have for now. Please get comfortable on the bench, time for the filmstrip.
He never appeared to me again. The filmstrip was old, poorly produced, and didn’t give me any substantial information. Filmstrips were great in elementary school. When you saw the cart being rolled into your zone (I was in an open-plan experimental elementary school, so we were all in one huge room), you knew it was going to be a goof-off and pass nasty notes class. And it usually was.
This was after my breakout role as the Burgermeister in 5th grade. It was, however, the same cute girls who seemed both interested and afraid at the same time. I’ve got to back up here. Fill in some gaps of the story…
[stage direction: That’s when Lou Reed walked in and says, “Hey.”]
#curtain
return to index | this is a chapter of a novel** in progress:
*short skirt long jacket – cake lyric steal
**need to put this in the proper formatting, lazy tonight
