A story of one soul during two lives

But you’d have to be a Fool not to wonder, if Genesis is as accurate and direct as the New York Times: who did Adam and Eve’s children mate and breed with?

And you’d have to be a mental defective to vouch for the literal infallibility of a text which explicitly prohibits half a dozen kinds of incest, as well as more harmless variations like homosexuality and menstrual intercourse, and answer that question, with a straight face, by calmly saying with a shrug, “each other,” as every fundamentalist I’ve put it to has done.

So while the street preacher screaming and ranting in the street, veins bulging, sweat dripping, may say I’m going to Hell, by my lights he’s already there. Clinging obsessively to an impossible idea, so consumed by emptiness as to need to assault strangers with an incoherent mish-mash of fairy-tale theology and antiquated morality to assuage post-pubescent masturbation guilt or whatever. Give me fire and brimstone over taking anything that seriously.

Heaven, that’s where I was when I sent a stream of asterisks dashing across the screen to signify the completion of over seven thousand words in a single night and the successful resolution of my first chapter in over two years.

Heaven is nibbling on Llewellyn Reece’s nipple.

Heaven is the buoyant manic excitement of an all-night rap session to unravel the myriad mysteries of existence.

Heaven is knowing you’re doing the best you can with what you’ve got.

Heaven is this life, if you’re tuned and true to your Self.

Who needs harps and choirs of castratos? I prefer the Grateful Dead.

Would it be easier to score a sack of herb in Dante’s Paradisio or Inferno?

What does Mr. Romans 1:13 plan to do when he reaches the Pearly Gates? Will he finally shut up? Or continue to harangue the denizens about their iniquity right up to the Big Guy Himself, who does after all have a thing or two to answer for?

Notes! I may be too loopy to write structured prose right now, but I ought to be able to find a place for these theological meanderings in the novel. The Afterlife, after all, is a subject which fits squarely in the realm of Transmigration Blues.