I
Now that he was dead, everything was different. No more desire or ambition, no more pressures or expectations. All of that had gone the instant his human life had expired.
As a ghost, at first he wondered how he would pass the time. Even on the Other Side, there was still time to be passed, or rather the act of doing or not doing. He could choose to do nothing and idle away his afterlife in a state of benign neutrality. Or he could do stuff: like travel the world, minus the requirements of a plane ticket, accommodations, and other things which had been considerations when he was alive and wanting to travel the world. Or he could haunt whomever or whatever he saw as haunt-worthy. These were things he could do, yet none of them piqued his interest. Now that he was dead and could do whatever the hell he wanted, whenever the hell he wanted, there was only one thing he wanted to do: he wanted to write. When this feeling first arose, he was baffled: You mean to tell me, you want to spend your afterlife writing. What’s the point? There were no longer any goals to attain as a writer, no longer any existential angst which needed ventilation, no poisons which needed secreting. Yet he did realize, there was still desire, expect it was now in a different form, it was desire pure and undiluted. I t wasn’t desire to be somebody, or make something out of himself through writing, it wasn’t desire attached to an ulterior motive, it was simply the desire to write stories, period. Writing about flying a kite in a rainstorm, or swimming with mermaids in a violet lagoon, or riding a bicycle to the beach on hot summer day to buy a hot dog from a vendor named Freddy. Stories, of that nature, simple and endowed with charm and whimsy and crackle. Stories that would make him feel alive. Was that it then? Was there something to being alive that maybe he had missed, something indefinably essential which made every second in his old, sufferable human skin utterly precious. You don’t necessarily want to be alive, he told himself, but you want to feel alive. Hmm, maybe some of the ol existential mojo remained.
If he could speak to the young, aspiring writers of the world, the only advice he would give them: Write as if you’re already dead. In that sense, they would be exempt from opinions and judgments and ambitions, they would be dead and simply writing to feel alive—no more, no less. Young writers of the world, you are dead and freed from your makeshift chains of obligation and meaning, now sit down and get to it! Yes, he thought, that would be some fine, sound advice, some genuinely useful advice in a world that was filled with so much unsound and useless advice decreeing itself useful. Yet he was not inspired to haunt young writers with advice from beyond the grave. No, he’d be busy. flying a kite in a rainstorm, swimming with mermaids in a violet lagoon, and riding his bicycle to the beach on a hot summer day to buy a hot dog from a vendor named Freddy. He’d be a ghost writing stories full of life. Even dead, the irony was almost too much to bear.
II
When ghosts copulate, typewriters fire off rounds. Church bells can be heard in the distance. He knew this was the way the tale was meant to begin. He didn’t know what would come next–the meat of the body always needed time to fill out, and he was okay with that. Now that he was dead, time was in abundance, and he could afford a quality of patience which he had always dreamed of
Dead, he still possessed consciousness, but minus a self to malign, preoccupy, and prey on it. He was surprised that he still had urges, that there remained a sense of passion coursing through him. It could no longer possess him, but would simply pass through, like a warm liquid that both tickles and stimulates. Now that he was dead, love and lovemaking would be easier. The question was: how did ghosts copulate? Would phantasmal touches register? What would be the nature of lightning-strikes and flash-fires? He hadn’t yet found any other ghosts. Where are all the hottie girl ghosts, he joked to himself. The thing was, he hadn’t yet left the house. He wasn’t haunting it, that urge was completely non-existent, yet he was drawn, more than ever, to penning tales. A ghostwriter in pursuit of posthumous glory? That too made him laugh. What could glory or acceptance or resignation mean to him now? Yet despite his liberated state of non-being, he was still compelled to write, he had taken that passion to and beyond the grave.
When ghosts copulate, typewriters fire off rounds. Church bells can be heard in the distance. He listened. The sea was restless. He could vividly imagine the foam-spittle exploding off the hunchbacked rocks. Maybe my love is waiting for me by the shore, bare feet sinking deep impressions into soft gelatinous brown. Maybe I’m supposed to forget the writing of a tale and live my ghost’s life outside of this room. Maybe I can love in a way that I have never dreamed possible. The hot liquid made its passage, and he shivered. It’s like . . . a ghost passing through me. Again he laughed. So much was funny, so much made him laugh, now that he was dead. Why had it been so hard for him to be alive? He wished he could carry this light and easy and grace-slicked death-state-of-being back with him into life. It’s too late for that, he told himself, relax and enjoy your death.
He rose from his chair, float-stepped across the room to the window and looked out. The sky’s blue was several shades brighter than the blue of the sea. He could feel the blueness, feel the variations of blueness, as they too passed through him like warm liquid. A surge of passion then poof!
He remembered: when alive, the blue of the sky, the blue of the sea, the moods aroused by these blues, their minute or dramatic variations: none of that ever passed through him. He saw it, and before sensory impressions had a chance to spread-infect other parts of his body and soul, his mind and its multitude of hands would grab and hoard that which was born of the blues. Now, he knew what had been missing. Blue wasn’t just a color or an idea or a springboard for his Imagination to turn somersaults on—it was a thing, in and of itself, that could pass through. Hot liquid. Passion. It felt good. It felt even better to not feel possessed by feeling good. Everything came and went, came and went, as if through turnstiles in a terminal. This made him wonder: what would it feel like to swim in the sea? How would the water react to him, and he to it, when they conjoined? Ghosts don’t swim, they float. Laughter. Tempting as the textural implications of the sea were, he moved away from the window, went back to his desk, and sat down. There was a tale which demanded its telling, and his obligation to the telling of tales had not ceased with his departure from life. What did all this mean? Would he become a scribe in Heaven, typing up gospels and penning improvisational hymns? Would he be reborn a writer, die a writer, and be reborn a writer again and again? Or would he remain exactly in the state he was in, and simply feel compelled to pen tales throughout Eternity?
He had no idea and there were no tell-tale signs to clue him in. Funny, how you think about life-after-death so much while you’re alive, and now he was dead, and thinking so much about death-after-life. Nothing explained, no mysteries solved. Just doing. Or not doing. The simplicity of it all teetered on the cusp of incomprehensible. Anyway . . . he picked up his nub of a pencil. When ghosts copulate, typewriters fire off rounds. Church bells can be heard in the distance. He stopped writing and listened. The silence passed right through him.
John Biscello 