Immortality or Something Like It

The concept of Eternal life (aside from the usual religious variety, and that of the usual vampire tale) is one fraught with profound implications. In the novel, Steel Beach, by one of my favorite authors, John Varley, these implications are explored in a unique way. After an Earth invasion, and the escape of survivors to the Moon, humankind again thrives, though they are now living on Luna, and their environment is provided inside high tech bubbles that maintain breathable air, and when they venture to the surface outside, they have to wear special space suits.

What if modern technology could provide us with instant medical cures and corporeal repairs? What if people could live 200 or 300 years, and almost everything could be fixed? What if you could have your gender changed as easily as you can go get a spa treatment? In Steel Beach, this gender switching, elongated lifespan, an Artificial Intelligence of a "Central Computer" that monitors everything and takes care of it, even on an individual basis, along with a government that provides for the needs of all its citizens, has resulted in a wave of depression and suicidal tendencies. These people find that there is no challenge, no sense of life as something tenuous and precious. The least creative of the bunch seem to suffer most, because they run out of things to be interested in, saddled with such a long lifespan.

Still, were those glitches somehow removed, i can say i would love the idea of living, without the aging process, a life of hundreds of years. I've always felt there is never enough time to do and be and investigate all that life is. I can always find something to be interested in and am sometimes depressed by the idea that i won't have enough time in one life to explore it all. It sort of pisses me off.

In the real world I live in, people who are okay with their lives, at peace with these things that don't exist for them except in some future incarnation, also seem to be those who have vivid memories of childhood. It's as if they are more aware of all the years they've lived. But since i can recall only scant snapshots of my younger years, I wonder if there's some correlation between those who can remember their current past and those who can't. Those folks can really feel their accomplishments in a visceral way--watching children grow, seeing the results of their parenting, getting the gold watch, seeing their stocks pay off, getting a raise, having the house, the new car, the financial security, the deepening partnership with a mate...my only sense of accomplishment seems to rely on the next book I have in print, the song i write and record, the next picture i paint, sculpture i create...and without those trappings of "success" to go along with them, it's an exceedingly personal accomplishment, without a great deal of validation given by others--it would take major validation like having a mainstream publisher and contract, or having my art placed in a gallery (I've only done that once), or someone famous recording one of my songs, since i am not chasing that musical fame train anymore. Why is validation important? I suspect it is because it helps engender a sense of PURPOSE.

Common among the usual variety of people in Varley's future world, is the statement: "I can't wait for a day when i can have a vacation, sleep in, stay up late, watch movies, socialize, rest, do what i want." That's MY LIFE EVERYDAY. So i am missing that purpose they get in day to day activities... they are missing that free time to do what they want, but i am missing the purpose. The grass is always greener syndrome. Why can't just doing it for the sake of it be enough for me right now? Is it because life is so limited? Is it because i can't remember a lot of it? Or because I feel I've lost those years and will never have them back, because my body will change, and i will get older and feel the effects of aging, and not enjoy things as i used to? (I'm actually in better shape physically than i have been in the past). Where does this mortality fear come from? Why is it so hard for me to be peaceful in about the limited time I'm given?

In one of the original Twilight Zone stories, "Time Enough At Last" the author (who is, incidentally one of my relatives) writes about how the world as it was known, has pretty much ended, and there's one man left on Earth, with nothing to do but read. Finally, he can just camp out at the huge libraries and read all those books he would have never had time to read before....

Then his glasses get broken.

He can barely see without them.

So, our bodies betray us, and the Universe or God often seems to betray us, when all we want is to do what brings us joy; to just wallow in the Pursuit of Happiness. Is that too much to ask? Why do we have to trade something we don't want to trade to have it?

Immortality or Something Like It

Clara the Couch Christian

(I dreamed this, and so made it a story...so it's fiction, but i didn't make it up...well, my subconscious made it up...is that me, then? who knows.)

Clara the Couch Christian

New to the neighborhood, I had been invited to a cookout. The ebb and flow of social bodies left me sitting in my host's living room on the sofa, with another woman at the other end. She was crocheting.

It had begun to rain earlier, but now it was coming down pretty hard and my attention was drawn to the front window where I could see the wind whipping things around on the front deck. That's when I noticed the dog. He jumped up in a plastic chair on the porch and sat there shivering, pummeled by rain and wind.

There were some small dogs in the house already, so I went to open the door and smooch him in. Another dog crowded in behind him, and then there was another dog and another and another--seven in all--stepping over the threshold, sliding, flinging water off their coats, nails clicking on the hardwood floor. A child greeted one in the hallway and they began to play, while one large Labrador paused at the front door to pee in a potted plant. I felt a little guilty, but I still thought they shouldn't be out in the thunderstorm.

I returned to the sofa, and the woman glanced over at me periodically, as she continued looping yarn. A little dog came over and jumped in my lap. I played with him and pet him and he was so happy, he curled onto my lap, rolled over onto his back and insisted I rub his tummy. I obliged. The knitting woman at the other end of the sofa told me that he was a mean dog and he didn't let anyone touch him. She seemed amazed. I just smiled and continued to rub his tummy.

"What church do you go to?"

That one question is always enough to inspire dread and irritation in me. It happens so frequently these days, I wonder if it's printed on my forehead in some invisible ink only Soul Snatchers can see. That's what I call them. Soul Snatchers. They're everywhere. I am merely quarry for their game bag. The one they are filling up to gain passage through the pearly gates. "I don't go to church."

"Why not?"

"Organized religion is not for me."

She rested her knitting needles in her lap to focus on her newest conquest. "Have you accepted Jesus as your personal savior?"


"As a matter of fact, yes, I did that a long time ago--"

"Good--" She began knitting again.

"But I changed my mind later." Why do I do this?

She stopped knitting again. "What?"

"After I studied under a bible scholar and lived the Christian life for about ten years, I decided that I didn't believe Jesus was my savior. I believed he was a great teacher, but that I couldn't trust much of what was being taught to me. The more I studied, the more lies and inconsistencies I found. It didn't ring true."

Somewhat fearfully, she said, "If you don't accept Jesus, you won't go to heaven--"

"I don't believe in heaven."

"--you might go to hell..."

"I don't believe in hell, either."

Gathering all her Christian wherewithal, she said, "Just because you don't believe in them, doesn't mean they aren't real."

"Just because you DO believe in them, doesn't mean they ARE."

A beat later, she roused her habitual mantra. "The Bible says--"

"The Bible is a book of myth and parable and fiction with a few truths thrown in for good measure. It is not a book to be relied upon, taken literally or worshiped."

"You have no faith--"

"I have faith aplenty. Just no BLIND faith." She made some flustered noise, and I asked her name.

"Clara--"

Clara the Crocheting Couch Christian. "Clara, do you believe that God created you?"

"Of course."

"Well then, why would God create you with the ability to think and reason and question and learn and evolve, if he intended you only to sit in a pew and be told what to believe?"

"You are--I am--" she stuttered.

"That's right. You are. I am. Embrace yourself first, and then you will know God."

Finally, she blurted, "How can you deny Jesus is the savior?!"

"Because there is no savior. Really. You are your own savior. Jesus was a teacher. An evolved being. A human, just like you. The Savior is inside you. And so is the Devil."

Her mouth was hanging open when the host of the gathering came into the living room, hauling dogs by their collars, their nails sliding across the wood floor. "Who let the dogs in?"

I thought of that popular tune of almost the same name and had to force myself not to break into song.

"Who let the damn dogs in!?" he screeched.

Clara the Crocheting Couch Christian pointed at me. "She did."

I turned to her. "Judas."

Clara the Couch Christian

Fat Crowds (poem)

Fat Crowds


I sit at the bar, cigarette in hand,
And worlds beyond:
Sultry skies mixed with sea hues of grey and blue
My brain sleeps, yet in that moment
I fuck desire.
Heed the writing on the walls.
As fat crowds fill the streets;
Searching for what?

I hold autumn close, squeezing her ass,
a pitiful tangle of dreams gather;
plastic gadgets for plastic people,
use your plastic card,
Where the inner self meets a soulless void
bickering lips suck champagne.
And fat crowds drain from the streets,
doors slamming.

My hot breath fights against the wind.
I walk the promenade, gliding
And gone.

Fat Crowds (poem)

Back to Sweetness (Poem)

Just you, unresponsive bickering, in your T-shirt and panties. Can you be satisfied? Gliding in, I shove you hard onto the bed. The sky cracks as if slashed by a knife. Let it feast on the air while i feast on you. Binding you with hidden fetters I produce my scissors, cut your cotton off, Partaking of worlds both visible and veiled, Undiluted and unpolluted, you growl at me as I conquer you and your angry fountain, lead you back to love, bring you into sweetness again.

Back to Sweetness (Poem)

Choice Starvation (poem)

A glimpse of perfection from stony blindness.
Trembling through the tenuous tension
of good and evil.
Respect me, I am a person,
my opinion matters.

External motivations are inherently worthless
Down the hatch.
But it's only cappuccino
Forcing the gates of symbolism,
Reflecting tender fears.

I hear you calling my name
grey moon above,
and midnight descends with
this poet’s tears.

Choice Starvation (poem)

Found a Peanut...

Okay, i was talking to a friend of mine the other day, and the conversation went something like this...

"Boy, you know, my butt really hurts..."

(we're really close, but...did I say butt?) "Okaaayy....."

"Yeah, I mean I went to the bathroom yesterday and--"

"Stop right there."

"What?"

"I don't think I want to hear this."

"Oh, come on," she said, "I've seen you naked."

I rolled my eyes and allowed her to continue, although the seeing me naked thing was a long time ago, and, I didn't feel, a sound enough argument.

"Well, I realized I was bleeding, and when I looked in the toilet--"

"Oh god," I said, covering my eyes, and suffering through it.

"There was a whole peanut there."

I uncovered my eyes and looked at her. "A whole peanut?"

"Yeah, here's the thing: I had not eaten any peanuts recently, and even if I had, I know for a fact I chewed them up first, so how the hell did I have a whole peanut in there?"

I just started laughing.

"I mean, really." She said. "How? How is that possible?"

I started singing 'Found a peanut, found a peanut, found a peanut, just now'..."

She hit me on the arm. "Shut up and tell me how there was a peanut in my poop..."

Then I started singing that old Barbara Mandrell song, but with different lyrics: "I was puttin' peanuts in my pooop...i pooped some peanuts, when peanuts weren't cooool..."

"I'm going to kill you where you stand. Please tell me why there--"

"I don't know."

"Well here's my theory--"

She always has a theory.

"I think maybe the peanut came out of some fold in my colon."

"A peanut fold?"

"Yeah."

"Then how do you explain the fact that it was not chewed up?"

She thought about this for a nanosecond and then offered, "Well, now about a month ago, I had a bunch of peanuts in the shell, and was eating them."

"You were eating them with the shells on?"

"No, I mean that's the last time I had peanuts."

"So, you're saying this peanut was a month old?"

"It had to be. It's the only peanuts I've had."

"Well, there ya go..."

"No, but, it was a month ago! Where did it come from?"

"It came from that specialized peanut fold in your colon."

"Oh," she said.

Found a Peanut...