Robert (gurdonark) wrote,
Robert
gurdonark

transitory heavens

"the smoke and ash of laughter in your head--sweet laughter, hereafter, ever after, in the islands of the dead"
--snippet of an old Be Bop Deluxe song

When I was a boy, we burned trash in a big round barrel in the back alley. I loved that sense of lighting something, watching it begin to burn, and then throwing it on top of the barrel full of trash. If, by mistake,
an aerosol can mingled in the leavings, then one would hear the violent yet comfortin explosion when the flames heated the aerosol into oblivion.

The scent of burning things can be so appealing, and I'm reminded that I have not burned incense in years, although I love a delicate incense. That the way with muted pleasures--an amnnesia sets in. It's like browsing magazines at a university library, and reading delightful journals one never ordinarily reads, and observing to oneself that one is always happy doing so, and yet forgetting to do it again until years later.

I knew a man once who imagined the afterlife as a non-literal place, but instead a kind of carving into the memory of reality, for which reality he used the expansive term God. Even if the smoke merely rises, and
gives off a burst of the scent it is meant to give, then that, too, is a moment of eternal life.

I like to go to the site deviantart.com, and just browse the photos people post there for other people to see. Today I saw a white puppy bordered with a towel of red and white. That, too, was a moment of eternal life--a slice of Heaven.
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