The psychologist Carl Jung used to say: “Life is a lingering sickness cured only by death.” Or as Neil Young put it: “Rust never sleeps.” Or in other words: Eventually we all wear down and turn into manure. Thats about the only thing we know for sure in this damn life.
One of my favorite lines is from George Carlin: “If God’s so great then how come everything He makes dies?”
I recently came up with a great title for another book that I’ll probably never write (thats probably a sure-fire sign of artistic burn-out when you keep coming up with great titles for books you never write): “GOD LOVES YOU AND YOU’RE GOING TO HEAVEN: And Other Crap” by Ace Backwords. More heart-felt spiritual wisdom and sardonic bullshit from good ole Ace (is it any wonder no publisher in the world would touch me with a 10-foot pole?).
But thats my basic hunch, anyways, on what happens to us when we die. The God who created us eventually takes us back to His heavenly bosom. Whether we go there immediately after we die, or whether we have to take the scenic route and work our way through countless further lifetimes of mortal bullshit before we get the big pay-off, of that I’m not sure. But I strongly suspect there’s a Happy Ending awaiting for all of us eventually.
The problem is: In the meantime, this life often strikes me as a form of pennance. A weird realm of purgatory filled with endless horrors and tragedies and pain and suffering that comes flying at you from every direction and every angle. A great Hindu master once said: “This world is the realm of unsatisfied cravings and desires.” Its like a maddening form of cock-tease. We rarely get ourselves all the way off. And rarely for very long.
In the meantime, I’m busy working on my next, probably-never-to-be-published book. Its about my homeless life living with my feral cats in the Berkeley hills. As usual I’ve got a good title: “KITTIES IN THE MIST: My Life Living Amongst a Tribe of Feral Cats.” And I’ve even got a good first sentence: “December 12, 2007: After several months of living quietly amongst the tribe of feral cats they have gradually come to accept me as one of their own and have even been making inscrutible ‘meow’ like sounds that I’ve yet to be able to translate into the English language . . .”
So now I’ve just got to write the damn book. Which’ll be hell to write, I’m sure (“Genius is such pain!”). But then, like I said, we probably don’t reap the heavenly stuff until the next life.