There's Boston baked beans simmering. Molasses and salt pork of course, bacon and maple syrup are fine for barbeques south of here, but not today. One of my ancestors must have been so committed to following the fourth commandment. Wonder if it was one of the one's who also should have been a Friend of Bill's? Perhaps I should have asked her which once I came to understand, probably while reading Little House, that that's why baked beans were served for supper on Sundays.
Too late now.
Clive Barker turns 73 today, and it is the second time I won't wish my mother a happy birthday on the 18th of January. The first of my investments in my immortality is a huge fan of Mr. Barker. I read him The Thief of Always as a bedtime story when he was preschooler. Let him watch Nightbreed and Hell Raiser too when he was much too young. Please remember how old I was before you cast judgment.
I have a deep appreciation for his work. He created a character, Pie oh Pah, that I think of often, as if they were a friend of mine that I haven't seen in 30 years. Almost every February I re-read The Thief of Always. It comforts me to know if Harvey can survive the great gray beast of February, I'll probably make it through too. My deepest wish is to craft stories as spellbinding. I sent my top a silly one this morning with my morning pictures and gratitude. He may have enjoyed it, but I don't think he is quite spellbound, yet. I'm working on it though.
My spiritual beliefs are fluid, thick and viscous, but lacking starch to alchemize them into a True Faith. I believe in reincarnation. How could we be so deep, complex, multi-faceted and nuanced, and then in a blink of an eye, cease? It seems highly unlikely to me. Conceptionally terrifying, so I remind myself how improbable it is. There is definitely more, there must be. I also really like the idea that we choose our lives. It resonates and feels likely to me. I know I would, absolutely, choose exactly this life. It is easy to picture myself, in some space between heaven and reality, making my wishes known. I'll need a poodle, a pink poodle. But to really believe that, to adopt it as canon, would require a fair amount of narcissism. It lends itself too easily to victim blaming also. My mortal self is not above either, I just would prefer to believe that the character of universe, the God/s, Fate would be.
What sort of soul would choose to be Trump? Whether you admire or abhor 45-about-to-be-47, as an example he fits well. What sort of soul would choose to be him? I'm not wondering what sort of mortal wants to be president, that's an entirely different question and holds no interest for me. What I want to know is, what would an immortal soul hope to experience via being Trump? What about say Dahmer? Or Jesus? Or Sigmond Freud's mother. Why would a soul choose to be any of them? Why would a soul choose to be any of the faceless masses who never, ever, even try to pursue their passions?
So, I like the concept, I'm just not entirely sold on it. But I'm going to imagine that 73 years ago today, a couple of souls were hanging out in the space between waiting for their options. Then the being in charge said we have 2 spots left today. You can be an incredibly successful author, and talented artist, gay, English and handsome. Or you can be (censored to protect my mother's privacy) and Cassidy's mom. Then the earthbound souls arm wrestled to decide who got to hang out with me this time.
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