Blog #31: Been There, Done That

Blog #31: Been There, Done That

—but I already have enough t-shirts…

Last night I dreamt I was reincarnated. So I was a little, tiny, newborn baby — except I remembered being me, Mishka Zakharin (or whomever), adult human (or elderly-teenaged whateverthehell)… whatever hocus-pocus that happens in the In-Between failed to happen for me, and I completely remembered my former (current, wakefully) life…

But my vocal chords weren’t developed enough to speak and my strength and coordination weren’t sufficient for writing — so I was helpless to express the direness of my reincarnated happenchancery! And instead all I could do — was cry…

So then I wondered, what if that’s just the way it works? What if you’re reincarnated, but at first you actually do remember everything from before, and only over time do you forget and get into sync with your current state of corporeity?

That would suck. And it may explain the times when a baby cries and you can’t figure why; inside they’re screaming, unable to effectively communicate their woe: ‘No, no — not again! I just got out of here, I don’t want to be back! I’ve served my time!’

Because some forget more slowly than others. Like when you hear a little kid—four or five or three — saying something that seems far too adult for someone so young to say; perhaps they’re remembering from before… they don’t really remember why they know, but they know.

I seem to recall, as a child, thinking I was dreaming my youth and I would wake up an adult; mayhap such was some spiritual remembrance of some earlier lifetime…?

Or mayhap it merely reflects I have ever been abstrusely unrealistic regarding corporeal existence…

 

 

Here’s a thing from my short story ‘The Obstreperous Woman’:

 

            Rigamortis Honduras Buffalo Shinybottom — but everyone just called her “Skinky Booby Angina Phlegm” for short… and/or (sometimes) “Maud” — was absolutely torn. On the one hand, Venera Sasanian, or “Venza-14 (and counting!)”, was nice enough… but that Garish Mandibles really smelled good — like overripe fruit on a hot, sultry, summer’s day… sans the tiny flies (mostly).

            Still, Maud couldn’t help but berate herself for her fickleness. She knew it wasn’t her fault — it couldn’t be! (Nothing ever was.) Maud had never known her real father — what, with her mother having been an obsequious crack-whore and all. As she was growing up, she had often dreamt her father was a rock star — or a European prince — or the god of the sun! — or even some rich, bourgeois, industrialist scumbag (but with ocean front property!)… Instead, she was given the reality of a never-ending series of “uncle step-daddies” whirling through her mother’s revolving bedroom door. She was also allergic to human hair — which really doesn’t have anything to do with anything, but it doesn’t rather help either.

 

…said story appears in the forthcoming The Mishkan Book of the Dead, 2nd Edition

Oh, and this, too:

 

Istvan had to get away for a while, so he called up his old gal-pal Zelda Stromberg. Zelda used to be a man — or so she claimed… though her vagina said differently. She worked in a circus, as one might expect of a man with a talking vagina.

 

 

Butanyhoo…

What if I actually died years ago and all this since then is just Limbo? While deliberations of mine imminent hell loom soulfully — surround ensconcingly, seeping in, suffocating, grinding to dust and spiritual wisps of nothingness…

Like the show Lost, it makes me wonder at what point I actually died.

I don’t remember my first wife’s name, but I think it began with a ‘C’… (I don’t mean that dirty!) I’m pretty sure I was still alive when we were married — for those sixty seconds or so — but I couldn’t say for sure who I was then. He was, perhaps, less… chthonic? Yet no nearer, methinks, to supernality.

 

But all that is neither here nor there.

(Then where is it?!)

            (Just shut up now, I’m still doing this thing…)

            (Well, yer not doing MUCH! Are ye?…)

            (Grrrr!)

 

Butanyhoo…

            (Again.)

 

I also once dreamt—

No, I can’t tell that one…

I once dreamt that my ex-wife ‘C’ killed me and chopped me to bits, hiding the pieces all around France… and then the gypsy princess Katerina sought after said pieces, and—

No. I never dreamt that. But it seems like it would have been fun. Okay, the one I shouldn’t tell was something about a dude (I don’t think it was me; I’m pretty sure I was a witness, not a participant!) raping a chimp as he bashed its skull to pulp in a kitchen sink.

Yeah… I shouldn’t have said that one…

Oh, Well!

            (Good thing nobody reads this shit…)

 

Butanyhoo…

(3!)

            (sigh~)

 

Just nevermind.

 

Celeste! That was her name, no wonder I couldn’t remember… sounds like a fiesta for molesting celery… or something…

I really miss her sometimes — though she never let me see her naked… (I sometimes wondered if, in the dark of night, she summoned a body-double…)  If she’d let me see her naked, I might actually remember what she looked like. For all I know, she might be dead — so she could be absolutely anybody now! (Or anybody under 20 years old anyway…)

Unless I’m the one who’s dead, and but an almost remembered spectre amidst the panoply of her flannelled dreams~~

 

Butanyhoo…

            (And that’s it!)

 

 

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—Mishka Zakharin ©2015

 

 

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