Thursday, October 07, 2004


It's Still Dark in Heaven

It's still dark in heaven. I sit here on the chaise lounge with my laptop on my thighs, my fingers hovering over the keyboard in the home position. I know it's the home position because I can slide my left pinky over one to the Caps Lock key, and my right pinky over two to Enter.

Even dead, I am nothing if not a blogger.

I don't know how long I've been sitting here like this. There is no time in heaven. I don't know how long it's been since I last ate. There is neither hunger nor satiety in heaven.

Noises come from the house. I hear Mary in there crying, sometimes yelling at Yahweh, but I can't make out the words. Yahweh's voice is a low rumble, like distant thunder.

Ann Coulter and Grisha Perelman are still in the boat, I think. Judging from the rocking noises, they may still having sex--though their voices are silent. No cries, moans, or whispers. I picture it as the temporal equivalent of me sitting here with my fingers in the home position. Not exactly marking time; marking darkness.

Then the Mullah Billdoug's voice comes to me from inside my head.


I sit up, drop my feet to the ground, set the laptop between my knees.

Mullah Billdoug?

Where are you?

Heaven, of course, I sigh. Where am I going to go?

I don't need you there any more, he says. There's more pressing business. Get down here right away.

Get DOWN there? I say. What, resurrection? Are you going to raise me from the dead?

Stop fucking around, he says. Just get down here.


Recite the light poem, he says testily, as if everyone knew this. Stand up, hold your arms out, and spin around. While you're spinning, recite the light poem.

What light poem? I say. I feel like such an idiot, not knowing this stuff.

Mullah Jalal's poem, he says. Stand up. Start whirling.


Stand up. Dance.

I stand up, move away from the chaise, start spinning around.

Now chant, he says. Say the words with me.

I drink the wine, the soul's its bottle.
First none'll come and then a lot'll.

That's not wine, I think. That's catsup.

Sing, don't think! Mullah Billdoug shouts.


I'm so damn drunk I can barely waddle.
Whoa! There's the light! I'd better not dawdle.

I repeat after Mullah Billdoug, but nothing happens. I'm not surprised, dumb rhymes like that.

I'm not surprised either, the Mullah breaks in, if you're still thinking about how dumb the rhymes are! Don't think, you dumb-ass English professor: SING!

So I sing it again, and keep spinning. I get dizzier and dizzier, but keep spinning. Finally, on the fifth or sixth time, something starts to happen. A sun dawns behind my eyeballs. It's so bright I want to cover my eyes. And it keeps getting brighter. And then I'm falling ...

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