Pillow Talk

Well, the fat lady has sung. I’m dead. Deader than a doornail. I’m not yet pushing up daisies, but that’s only because no one has gotten around to burying me.

I certainly didn’t see this coming when I got out of bed last Saturday. But I guess that’s just how it is. You make plans, you think ahead, you go for the brass ring, then some ditzy blonde in a Hummer forgets where the brake pedal is and your new, perfectly awesome Mustang is a mangled, tangled piece of pop art, not to mention that you wake up dead.

Did I say wake up? Well, that’s a relative term at best, given my condition. But who knew there really is a sort of waking up that’s a step beyond dead? Damn. Couldn’t our brainiac scientists have figured this one out and given a body a heads up? Even the divinely devout don’t seem to have a clue. What’s up with that? One would think as directly wired as they are they’d have the 411 about something this monumental. But then, it really is kind of out there, like a secret sci-fi society or something. Who could possibly know the afterlife would have you lingering around for the funeral festivities? How’s a guy walking around the earth, living the good life, minding his own business, supposed to prepare for the fact that he’s about to wake up and have a conversation with himself inside a brass tacked coffin?

Of course, I don’t think the adornments are real brass. They’re probably just glued-on fake nail heads. And I’d swear this ‘satin’ lining is polyester. Yes sir, no doubt my penny-pinching twin brother had a hand in this. I can just hear him now… “It’s going in the ground, Mom. Blake wouldn’t want you to waste your money on something you’ll never lay eyes on again. I swear! The cheapest one is good enough.” Yep, that’s my brother. Brett would scrape Lincoln’s head off a penny if he thought doing so would spike its value half a cent. Well, at least the pillow’s nice and soft. I guess I should be grateful Mr. Frugal didn’t just plop my head on a block of wood.

What do I do now? I’m pretty sure there’s no TV in here with me. All I can seem to do is think. That’s kind of a crappy side effect of death, if you ask me. Who needs a thought process when there are no body parts to send the signals to? Weird.

I don’t really feel claustrophobic, and that’s a surprise. One would think that being stretched out toes and nose to puffed polyester without an inch to squirm in would give you the willies. But nope. Don’t have them a bit. In fact, I can’t say I even notice the confinement. I’m here, but I’m not here. Okay, I’m just confusing myself now. I mean, here and not here? I seem to have a whopper of a conundrum on my hands, or uh, in my mind. Well, wherever it is, it can keep me occupied while I wait for someone to throw open my coffin lid for the requisite viewing. At least that little ritual should provide some entertainment.

I’m pretty sure everyone will be crying as they shuffle past my most practical casket to pay their respects. I was a keeper, after all. Everyone said so. Academic scholarship, college football, Harvard Law. Yep, I had my foot firmly planted on the ladder of success. Well, look at me now. I’m not even sure I have a foot. In fact, I think I saw something that resembled one in the pop art. Oh well, maybe feet aren’t necessary in the afterlife.

Okay, here we go. The lid’s going up. I don’t know how I know since I’m certainly not seeing it, but I do. I guess that’s one of the perks of this I’m-dead-but-still-talking-to-myself thing. It’s a hoot being so in touch without having to use those pesky senses once so necessary to every little aspect of life. All my senses, except maybe for that famous, but mostly lazy, sixth one, just fizzled and flopped in the Mustang-Hummer brouhaha, so it’s a good thing I don’t need them anymore.

And, to be honest, now that I’m getting the hang of it, this cogitating thing I’ve got going on here isn’t really crappy after all. It’s actually kind of awesome. I’m like a superhero with mind powers beyond this universe. I believe I’ll call myself…. drum roll please….. Captain Thinker! WooHoo! I like it! I’d have it tattooed on my rock hard bicep if I could actually raise my arms. But I guess tattoos aren’t hip in the afterlife since they stay behind to help absorb the formaldehyde. And by the way, who decided that marinating bodies was a bright idea? That stuff stinks. I can’t actually smell it, but I know it’s ripe all the same. Why the human race feels the need to keep dead bodies into infinity is certainly a question I’m going to ask the afterlife’s head honcho if I get to meet him, or her, or it. “That’s a human thing. Humans are not yet fully developed, and we choose to cut them some slack over such nonsensical matters. The human race is a work in progress.” Wow! That just came to me. It’s like I don’t even need to ask the question now. Cool.

Oh, this is no fun at all. I can’t see Aunt Mildred straightening my tie, even though I know she surely is. And Dad’s going to try and tuck a football in here with me. I’d bet my bottom dollar on it—that is if Brett hasn’t already stuffed my bottom dollar into mutual funds. I’d like to tell him exactly where to put my money. But that won’t happen. I can’t move my lips. What good is it to be Captain Thinker if I can’t communicate my amazing thoughts? Hell, I can’t even watch the parade I know is marching by my creepily made-up face right now? And that’s another thing. Make up? Someone actually makes a living putting goo and paint on dead faces. Now that’s just wrong in any world.

I’m thinking I should feel sadness for my family and friends, but well, I don’t. It’s like emotions don’t come from the brain after all. Maybe they truly do come from the heart, and since my heart is now just a pickled giblet, it’s a sure fire bet it won’t be spewing out emotions. Yes indeed, living on the green earth is certainly a whale of a lot different than life in a coffin. Or should I say death in a coffin? Man, I can’t even make up my own mind when all I am is a mind.

Oh, they’re gone. The tearful procession is over and I’m back in the holding room. Mom and Dad and Brett and throngs of other mourners have left the building. Well, maybe not throngs. But I was a keeper, after all, so surely there were multitudes filing by, sniffling, trying not to comment on my unnaturally rosy red cheeks. I’m not knocking the process. It’s a wonderful path to closure for the living. I’ve even done it a time or two myself. But the whole enchilada didn’t do a thing for me this time. I’m still dead, still a talking brain and still residing in a box.

I’m presuming I won’t actually stay here much longer. Frankly I don’t know why I’m here now. Shouldn’t I have straddled a lightening bolt and zoomed upward or something? Everyone’s always talking about “the light”. Hello? It’s pitch black in here. Can’t see it, but I know it is. Where’s the light? Is anyone coming to get me? And that’s another thing, how do I know I am still me? Am I going to be Blake Carson in the afterlife, too? I’m still having Blake Carson memories. If I know I’m Blake Carson, but I don’t have Blake Carson’s body anymore, will anyone else know I’m Blake Carson? Am I that falling tree in the forest that no one hears? Okay, this is freaking me out.

Maybe I don’t want to be dead after all. It’s starting to seem all screwy and existential. Whoa. Hold on. Blake Carson would never use the word ‘existential’. Am I losing me? Cripes! If I’m not going to be me, then who am I going to be?

“Oh, show some mercy and stop blubbering over there, will you? You’re making my own thoughts go all squirrelly.”

Who said that!

“It’s me, the erroneously maligned ditzy blonde from the Hummer. And that wasn’t an apt description, by the way. I’m not, or rather I wasn’t, the least bit ditzy. I just spilled hot coffee in my lap. That’s all. It was just a mistake. It could happen to anyone.”

Wasn’t ditzy? You mean you’re dead too?

“Sure enough. I’m over here in the cherry oak coffin with the pearl white satin lining and the goose-down pillow, just waiting, like you, to get on with my afterlife.”

Cherry oak and pearly satin? Goose down? Can you see your casket? I can’t see mine, but, I, uh, I’m pretty sure it’s made of gold. In fact, I’m quite certain of it. And my pillow is so soft that my head is literally floating on a cloud.

“Now who’s the ditz? I’ve been listening to you working it out for a while now and you know perfectly well your casket is not gold. Men. Even dead they feel the need to “one up” everyone. Listen, I just said that my coffin was cherry oak because I know it is. I don’t have to see it to know. I mentioned that my pillow was down-filled, because, again, I just know it is, just as we both know yours is not a cloud. And of course I can’t see the casket, just as you can’t see whether or not brother Brett let your mom spring for real brass tacks. I just know. Like you just know. Got it? Please don’t tell me men are as thick-headed without a head as they are with one.”

Well that was uncalled for, but being the good guy I am, I’m going to let that last remark slide out of respect for the dead.

“That’s most generous. But is that all you have to say?”

What is it you want to hear?

“Honesty would be nice. It cleanses the soul, you know. Now about that casket…”

Okay, fine, you win. My casket isn’t made of gold. On the contrary, thanks to my miserly twin, the pitiful thing is probably just lucky to have real working hinges. There. Are you happy now?

“I’m neither happy or sad. We aren’t generating emotions, remember?”

Good grief, I didn’t mean it literally. It’s just a saying. And though I don’t suppose I have nerves either, I think you’re trying to step on my last one just the same. Why are you hounding me? First you drive your monster of a vehicle over me then you won’t even let me get away with a little fantasy upgrade on my casket. Do you have a mean streak? Oh, never mind. Just answer me this. How is it that I can hear you and you can hear me?

“Well, Captain Thinker, what do you think?”

Was that another crack? As you just so annoyingly pointed out, I don’t have the emotions to be embarrassed, you know.

“And I don’t have the tickles to produce laughter although I’m thinking a few chuckles would be an appropriate response here. Nevertheless, I’m just trying to help you process some things for yourself. This clarification should help. The hearing of each other is not hearing at all. It’s the consciousness.”

Consciousness of what?

“It’s not an “of what” kind of consciousness. It is the consciousness, the interconnection of all souls, the shared spirit, the intertwined cosmic memories.”

Hey, my memories are my own, thank you very much.

“Are they, Number 24?”

Number 24! That was my college football jersey number! How did you know that? What the hell’s going on here? Is my brain suddenly an open book where anyone can wander in and out at will?

“Something like that.”

Well, you’re dead too, so what about your brain? If you can know my memories, then I can know yours, right? How come I don’t?

“You do. You’re just still caught up in Phase One of the transition. Your most recent personal memories are crowding out all others in the consciousness right now as you settle this earthly identity into its passive state.”

And how is it, may I ask, that you magically have all the answers when you’ve only been dead as long as I have?

“Actually I haven’t been dead quite as long. I made it to the hospital. You didn’t. You just bailed right then and there.”

Well, I’m decisive like that.

“Uh huh.”

Come on. Just tell me how you know all this.

“Okay. First of all, we aren’t ‘talking brains’. Our earthly brains are just as pickled, as you so colorfully characterized it, as our other organs, rendering them quite useless. There’s no physical presence at all surrounding our thoughts now. We are simply meshed within the fabric of the consciousness. And as for how I know this, well, I’ve been around a few times so I’m more aware of the knowing. It’s like how you were thinking you were freaking out about losing your earthly identity. That’s just emotional aftertaste, sort of the way the onions on your Philly cheesesteak hung around after lunch to knock out your co-workers. Our earthly incarnations are clingy and dependent and sometimes kind of stinky. You aren’t really freaking out. You’re just observing the remnants of what you might have felt had your walking, talking, human self found itself in a coffin. But what’s in the coffin is no longer you.”

Wow. That’s deep.

“Not really. The consciousness is not deep at all. It’s airy and light and free and blissful.”

Ah Ha! Caught you! Bliss is an emotion, and we don’t have them. I knew you were making this all up.

“Sigh.”

What?

“I said ‘sigh.’ I can’t do it, so I’m saying, or rather, thinking, it. You’re really trying to fight this aren’t you?”

Well, I don’t know. But something’s just not right. I don’t feel sadness for my family. I loved them, even my Scrooge of a brother, and they will miss me I know. So why don’t I miss them?

“Because you know what they don’t, that they are part of you and you are part of them, and a part of me, and the mailman, and the grocer, and President Lincoln, and Hitler, and every other soul traversing the universes.”

What? Hold the fort, Missy. That can’t be right. There’s no stinking Hitler in me. No way. No how. You’re really out there, you know that?

“Look, just because someone’s earthly self is evil or misunderstood doesn’t preclude them from their role in the consciousness. That also goes for those who appear stupid, or lazy, or infuriating, or a host of other things. The choices President Lincoln and Hitler made before their incarnations have value. Humans can see Lincoln’s value right off because his choices made them feel good. Conversely, humans just won’t see Hitler’s value because his earthly actions were harsh and painful. Value doesn’t always come in pretty packages, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. All things are bigger than any one lifetime.”

And I’m supposed to take the word of someone who thinks Hitler was just a poor misunderstood soul?

“Oh, give me strength. From all that I just said, that’s all you heard? Listen, you stubborn talking head, quit resisting through human rationalization and just let the knowing take over. You’ll see what I mean. All souls, even boneheaded ones have value.”

You’re awfully sarcastic for someone “in the know.” Is sarcasm permitted in the afterlife?

“Sure, why not? Emotions are earth-bound, but sarcasm gets to go the distance.”

Gets to go the distance? What distance? What is it you’re trying to tell me, but won’t? Why do I feel you’re holding back? I swear you talk in circles, inexplicable crop circles at that. You go on and on but you make about as much sense as my mom’s poodle, and that dog is as dumb as a post. Of course, now that I think about it, it’s blonde, too.

“Ha Ha. Dumb blonde jokes. How original. Men sure are difficult transitioners.”

Well I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to be transitioning to, now do I? Is this conversation even happening? I’m beginning to think you’re nothing but a figment of my suddenly hot-wired imagination.

“No, you are not imagining me.”

Are you sure, Miss Sarcastic-But-Emotionless? One can hope.

“I’m quite sure. And just for you, Captain Thinker, I’m going to spell it out. Consider this ‘The Role of Sarcasm in The Consciousness 101.’ Now pay attention. Emotional feelings pop up without warning to embellish our psyche and our earthly heart, but they can’t survive in the consciousness. They arrive unannounced and uninvited, like sweet dreams, or scare-the-snot-out-of-you nightmares, but they have no basis in thought. Love, hate, fear, joy, sorrow, reverence, they’re all subjective human trappings, so when the ‘human’ ceases, so do they. Understand? But sarcasm isn’t like that at all. It’s most definitely based in conscious thought. That makes it quite welcome in the consciousness. And once you get yourself over that clingy, sticky hump you’ve beached yourself on, I guarantee you’ll see what I mean.”

Yeah, you keep saying that, but how can I be sure you know what you’re talking about, or, excuse me, thinking about?

“You just answered your own question, Captain. You just know.”

Well, thank you old wise and mystical one. How’s that for sarcasm?

“I’m thinking….SIGH!”

And I’m thinking smile since I know that remark would have made my lips curl if they still had blood in them. I…uh…hey! Whoa! Wait a minute! What’s happening?

“Yes, Captain?”

Spilled coffee? Two dead strangers sharing the same funeral home? You hearing me, me hearing you?

“Now we’re getting somewhere. That’s it. Think it through.”

This was no accident, was it? You’re here for me! I’m right, aren’t I? That whole ‘your car thrashes my car’ thing was just a cover. You’re my guide!

“Ah. Now, I’m thinking smile.”

I knew it. I knew it. Something’s different. I’m different. My thoughts are swirling and exploding like fireworks. This is so amazing! Why didn’t you just tell me?

“Amazing doesn’t begin to describe it, for there’s no earthly word for what you are about to experience. And I couldn’t tell you. It’s part of the process for you to arrive at the truth on your own. I can only assist.”

What’s next? Do we stay together? Do we get to meet God? Do we get to go to Zentaurha and Aljaale? Wow, I didn’t even know there was a Zentaurha or Aljaale, but now I somehow think I know them well. Let’s go there! What are we waiting for? Let’s float, or fly, or whatever it is we do. I’m ready!

“Ready for what?”

Choices. I have to make choices. I have universes to study, lessons to learn, incarnations to consider. My thoughts are a thousand layers deep and I want more. I want knowledge. I want infinity. I want . . . .

“The knowing.”

Yes.

“It’s already there, Captain Thinker. It’s already there.”

Hey, is it just me, or is it getting really bright in here?

Pillow Talk4.255