Explore wasichu

Monday, April 06, 2015 — 10:06 AM “How are we doing today, Mr. White?” I cringe.  “That’s not my name.” The orderly just nods and gives me a patronizing smile.  He sets down the tray adorned with paper cups of multi-chromatic pills and a large plastic pitcher alongside a soft plastic red cup. “I hate taking those.”  I fold my arms and use my forehead to point generally at the drugs.  “It’s morally irresponsible for you to make me take them.” He just frowns at me, picks up the largest horse-sized one, and hands me a half-filled cup.  “If we start with the larger medica

There are too many people who die in the hopes that whatever pain they feel, it will end once they are dead.  But it doesn't end, much to their sadness and surprise.  People still feel pain in the Afterlife.  We all feel it, perhaps more than we did in life.  And here, there is no death to save us from this pain.  Some poor souls will go through great lengths to avoid it, but the best anyone can do is put it off for a while.  That’s the reason we end up here—to finally deal with the pain once and for all.  Easier said than done, I know, but it happens.  And if we can do that?  Well, then we get to move on.  Usually. The Prison ne

“Welcome!  I’m Kathy.”  The comfortably plump woman spreads her arms like an afghan.  Her smile illuminates the Walking-World like a bedside light.  She gestures into the Room.  It is pleasant and spacious.  The chairs have cushions, and the cushions broadcast happy patterns.  A wide window looks out to a big sky.  “We’re pretty informal here, so just come on in and make yourself at home.  There’s beverages on the table, and we’ll have snacks after.” I just stare out the window.  The Room is for visitors, not residents.  Not us.  It is an interstitial meant as advertisement.  Propaganda.  ̶

The window of Elk’s car rolls down.  Mirrors meet.  An infinity of light reflects between eyes that see beyond.  It is the police officer that finally speaks. “Do you know why I pulled you over?” It’s a smug question.  No police officer ever really cares if you are up to date on local traffic laws.  First, they want to establish their dominance over you.  Second, they want to know if you are a threat to them in any way.  Sometimes those priorities interchange.  More and more, it’s the threat part that’s scaring them.  That’s probably why a number of them shoot first, ask questions later.  It is the

Do the dead dream?  That’s a tricky question.  As with most preconceived notions of the Afterlife, there are a lot of schools of thought.  There are those that would say, “Of course not!”  Those people quickly branch off into the theists who say that the Afterlife is more real than this one, and the atheists who maintain that there’s absolutely nothing here but the complete absence of anything.  Both sides of the same coin, really.  Then there are those that say that it is death that is nothing but one big dream, much to the consternation of many a merry row-row-rower.  For those of us that have been to the Afterlife,

There is no government in the afterlife.  No bureaucracy.  There is no Saint Peter standing at pearl-lined gates, checking your name in a book or scroll or database.  When I was young, they would teach me stories in Sunday school about heaven.  It seemed funny to me that the same people who told me segregation and exclusion were bad would turn around to tell me that Heaven was a place people were kept out of while hell had open membership.  It sounded more like the difference between a country club and the little shit-hole city park by our apartment with a broken swing dangling like a lonely noose that never got fixed.  When I pointed this ou

Most Western towns were built around something.  Some were built around gold and silver mines.  Others were built around trade posts and lumber mills.  And some were built around crossroads or railway stations.  But the town of Lodgepole was built around Nothing. “No, really.  Lodgepole was built around Nothing,” says Coyote. “How can it be built around nothing?”  I continue to brood in the back seat as the car slips into the town-turned-county seat.  Sagebrush and cottonwood start to share space with grass lawn and flowerbed.  Buildings cease to be occasional shacks and some gain a second story.  Rounded foothills b