View From the Bottom

Here’s the thing about this view from the bottom of the laundry chute, sometimes I feel smaller than the person looking down on me, and sometimes I feel bigger. It just depends on the day, how much sleep I’ve gotten, whether I’m constipated, how many assholes I’ve been around, and how much praise I’ve received…real or imagined. There’s about a thousand other factors too...proximity to attractive young people, moon phases, financial situation, and so on.

I’m feeling particularly introspective today. I’m reading Paul Harding’s book Tinkers, about what it’s like to lay in a hospital bed in the middle of the living room knowing the next big thing you’re going to do is die. And I’m reading Craig Ferguson’s book American on Purpose. Two wildly different reads.

They both make me think about death based on how life is lived.

I wonder if those who are highly accomplished are any more well-received than those of us who spend most of our time lying about gazing up into great, dark chasms when we finally cross over into the big unknown. I’ve always petulantly thought that it really doesn’t matter how big a celebrity you are, you’ll just rot same as me someday. Our spirits, if we have them, will be on a completely equal footing in the vapors…right along side of Jack the Ripper and Mother Theresa.

But what if the joke is on me? What if our energy ends up in a long line and heaven is a huge social gathering, the biggest one in the universe? Bigger than a royal wedding? Bigger than the Oscars? What if there really IS a Saint Peter and he moves along the line of dearly departed asking questions like, “What have you done to improve the world? Who did you know? How much money did you have? What are your talents? Were you famous? Did you have a gorgeous house? Were you happily married? Were you pretty and fit? How many people adored you and dropped your name? Were you ever on Oprah? Did you travel all over the world?”

“No? Then I’m terribly sorry dahling. We simply can’t let you mingle with the others at THIS party. What a shame. You had such potential.”

Jeezus Christ . I’ll be so shit out of luck. I’ll be in the back of the line for eternity with all the bland and generic souls from millions of years ago. Even the Neanderthal who was well known for his petroglyphs is at the party, as are the hairy beasts than invented fire, the wheel, and arrowheads.

I have a girlfriend who asked me why I write about the stupid things I do and the times I’ve made a total ass of myself. Why do I write about my depression? She contends that it’s almost as if I’m PROUD of these things. Nothing could be further from the truth.

I’m not proud of anything when it has to do with me.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I’m proud of my daughter. But it doesn’t take any particular talent to have a baby…any more than it does to get married. Those things are pretty easy to do, at least once. SHE has turned into one of those amazing people that will get moved to the front of the cosmic line for the party of the universe. Either that or she’ll con the toga off Saint Peter and make HIM go to the end of the line… behind her mother.
But I can’t take credit for her accomplishments. She was born that way…nod to Lady Ga Ga.

Craig Ferguson lived a pretty standard life, albeit different since he lived in a different country. He felt like an awkward, nondescript child. Same as me. It just constantly amazes me how some people rise to the top regardless of non-remarkable circumstances, and some of us just work, get old, and die. I had the tools to do well, God knows. I came from an interesting bunch of folks. But I’ll be more like the man in Tinkers who worked and schlepped all his life until he finally just fell apart, got old, and died. I’m more than halfway there.

My goodness. Aren’t WE a Gloomy Gus this afternoon?