August 31: "Writing in the Afterlife," Eternal Punishment, Fluffing Clouds

I grew up with a Catholic concept of the afterlife:  Heaven, Hell, Limbo, Purgatory.  If you've read Dante's The Divine Comedy, you know what I'm talking about.  Of course, other world religions and mythologies have versions of the afterlife, as well.  Most of them involve places of eternal punishment and eternal reward.  

Billy Collins has his own poetic version of what comes after breath and heartbeat . . . 

Writing in the Afterlife

by: Billy Collins

I imagined the atmosphere would be clear,
shot with pristine light,
not this sulfurous haze,
the air ionized as before a thunderstorm.

Many have pictured a river here,
but no one mentioned all the boats,
their benches crowded with naked passengers,
each bent over a writing tablet.

I knew I would not always be a child
with a model train and a model tunnel,
and I knew I would not live forever,
jumping all day through the hoop of myself.

I had heard about the journey to the other side
and the clink of the final coin
in the leather purse of the man holding the oar,
but how could anyone have guessed

that as soon as we arrived
we would be asked to describe this place
and to include as much detail as possible—
not just the water, he insists,

rather the oily, fathomless, rat-happy water,
not simply the shackles, but the rusty,
iron, ankle-shredding shackles—
and that our next assignment would be

to jot down, off the tops of our heads,
our thoughts and feelings about being dead,
not really an assignment,
the man rotating the oar keeps telling us—

think of it more as an exercise, he groans,
think of writing as a process,
a never-ending, infernal process,
and now the boats have become jammed together,

bow against stern, stern locked to bow,
and not a thing is moving, only our diligent pens.

I wouldn't mind if the afterlife was a lot like today.  Sleeping in.  Leisurely breakfast of leftover prime rib on toast.  A walk with my wife and dog.  Cleaning the house (I'm not against a little work in Heaven--polishing stars, fluffing clouds, etc.).  Playing the pipe organ for Mass (no harps or lyres for me, please).  An evening of dinner and a movie with some best friends.  It was kind of perfect.

But I know that perfection for me is not perfection for everyone.  For example, Billy Collins' vision of the afterlife seems far from perfect--ankle-shredding shackles, an eternal sulfurous river of boats, rat-happy water, and a logjam of naked, suffering souls.  The one part of Collins' life-after-death that I wouldn't mind:  the writing.  The poem makes it into a kind of purgatory, scribbling away for eternity.  To others, that may sound like Hell (or at least Purgatory).  To me, it sounds like paradise.

Often, when priests or pastors begin their sermons during worship services, I take out my journal and pen.  For the next 15 or so minutes, I scribble away on a blog post or new poem or essay.  I've always thought of writing as a form of prayer.  Some of the shit that comes out on the page seems divinely inspired.  In fact, I believe that the best poems I write are all gifts from my Higher Power, however you want to define it.  

So, after I die, if I'm trapped naked in a boat with my journal and writing utensil (hopefully a fountain pen), that will be a really, really great afterlife.

In the meantime, Saint Marty will just keep writing poetry here on Earth.  Call it practice.  Hopefully, the River Styx has a few nice waterfalls to describe.