120731 0459 death
Upon entry into volunteer service at hospice--I feel disinclined to name 'mine' since it is a universal choice of many. None more noble than those they serve or lower in the sense of Mother Teresa and Sr. McAuley or any Religious Sisters/Brothers at all. Their devotion to the poor.
I had a dream the night before our first class, it astonished me as most of my dreams do. Visions too.
It dealt with the funeral of a friend and I a 'civilian' was recruited from the congregation to give the homily unprepared.
Pre Performance I strode the narthex shabbily dressed in street clothes disheveled stewing the various things I could say: He was near the end of his life an agent of the CIA in Cambodia had fathering a gaggle of red haired children with Cambodian faces. And I remembered him from elementary school, my second faze there having stayed back in the fourth grade, brilliant, a bit odd in appearance somewhat cartoonish like Howdy Doody but tall and lanky sans Uncle Bob.
He collected his semen in a one gallon jug filled with wood grain alcohol proudly displayed amongst his young male friends -- always wondered -- did his mother know? His sister or our mutual Doris friend next door with the psychiatrist dad who I later sold a Martin Guitar to at list price. He seemed to enjoy my flimflam sales pitch perhaps it was worth paying 100% more than on 48th Street Manhattan.
He played the piano well and we'd formed a group of shorts, can't remember what I played then conversant with so many instruments--probably cornet. In order to better render our nascent talent we patronized a jazz club smokey dark and filled with adults -- how could we get away with our drink orders? I requested scotch like mom drank and another one or two asked for beer and Win. Well. He. Asked. For. Milk!?
With aplomb or indifference we were served.
What's my point? Oh. Yes. Periodicity of my faith and death and all of that. Starting from now and going backwards: I think hospice should charge a tuition for the experience -- priceless -- since the congress of baboons & goats has decided to cut our budget another 10% while guaranteeing themselves congratulatory raises for killing the world's economy and extending their medial insurance to cover Happy Endings to tax payer sponsored elegant lunches with lobbyist. Especially The United States Catholic Conference of Bishops who sponsor the birth of children produced by rape and incest -- you know I've addressed this subject before -- oh well I'm a shit head and redundant as hell.
Well. Hell. What do you expect me to say? That's 30% in three years! We are near shutting down the lights and heat at night using candles and matchbooks. The staff is finding more remunerative work flipping hamburgers while the professional whore politicians are covered until death that's when I get them.
Oh sweet Jesus on a moped with and iPhone talking not paying attention direction of travel; do I love to role play. Sometimes I'm Mary getting pregnant sans foreplay or penetration no fun at all. Other times I'm Judas, sometimes Job, but my favorite role is as Osiris who greets the dead upon their departure from life . . . and sometimes Isis or God depending upon my mood: who Judges whom and with what mercy?
Or none!
At the first class my image, the experience of death, was no death at all, merely buried alive looking at the coffin top three inches from my nose in the dark forever. I never did deliver the homily covered in a fine film of sweat disheveled but awoke then wrote up my dream -- maybe someday I'll go back and read it -- this is from memory.
Well Jesus! Look at me now riding the Milky Way on my tricycle no handed! Ginning at, to beat the band of goats in hell below me.
©2012 by Jack Spratt All Rights Reserved
