Parting Glances
There's a new genre of book that's been on the New York Times Best Seller List for weeks. And weeks. And weeks. I'm not sure whether so-called first-hand accounts of Heaven and the "after life" are fiction or non-fiction.
I suspect the one by a three-year-old kid's father relaying his son's "journey" to the sweet bye and bye might be, well, fantasy. But who am I to judge whether the little tyke did indeed see a happy and smiley faced Jesus in a "big chair".
An account by a bona fide, highly respected, neurosurgeon is another matter. He may have sniffed too much of Slumber Land Ether 2000 (a good year, by the way).
I do know that these out-of-body accounts sell several thousands of copies, and make each author a tad bit of hard cash. But Heaven only knows, I'm sure — unsaved LGBT sinner that I am — if these authors' intent isn't to get rich from reader gullibility but rather is to provide inspiration. A celestial peek-a-boo at what's to be expected when the old oaken bucket gets kicked. High heels or not.
More to the point: I'm a believer in such o-of-b travels. It happened to me recently in P'Town on a curiously busy and surprisingly out-of-the-way, same-sex beach. Here's my first-hand (manicured to be sure) account . . .
I'm strolling along modestly nude, humming, "I Was Born This Way". As I pause to admire a curious skyward mushroom cloud formation highlighted with a bright halo effect, I notice an intriguing bottle floating by. A wave rolls it to me. I pick it up. It reads SMELL ME! I open it. Oh, my! Goodness Gracious! It's patchouli! One deep whiff … and woosh . . .
… before me are massive gates all a glitter in gold, pearls, leather hinges They swing open and I tremble before a huge sign in rhinestone and opal stone Gothic Letters: COSMIC INTERIORS by TRINITY ENTERPRISES. A smaller sign warns: Trinity Broadcasters! Use Rear Entrance!
An older, in-shape gentleman, spiritual top type, radiant in shimmering gown, multicolored sequins, greets me. "My name's St. Peter. But you, mister newcomer, can call me Saint. For the time being — say the next ten thousand years — I'll call you Mary. The name works wonders here.
"You're in the Noah Rainbow Mansion, Cloud 69. You can showtime it in starry crown or tiara. As a journalist of deathless prose, you've earned both."
"Uh, St. Saint," I venture. "Is this, uh, some sort of gay heaven?" "Well, Buddy Boy. Let's just say it's heavenly, as in Hymn #247, 'Love Lifted Me.' It's impeccable! Other-worldly interior design! Why do you think our streets are gold? And, how about these swinging pearly gates! They're not faux. No siree! There is indeed a Queen of Heaven."
"Uh, say Petey: that sign about the broadcasters — whisper — er, back entrance. What's that all about?" "Don't worry your pretty head, Mary. TV Trash is TV trash."
… suddenly I jolt awake. I don't know who he is, but wow, the life guard's awakening kiss is angelic. (NOTE: My full account — "Patchouli Bliss Beyond Belief" — appears in book form in time for Halloween. $19.75, autographed. Bless you!)
