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The Holy See of CEE
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Fisherman

CEE

    Piece of pie be with you, nonfriends. It is I, the creature obsessed with himSelf and Death, in that order. Why the first one, well, you’d have to know me—believe it or don’t, I’m more fun than Mardi Gras on three Red Bulls. Why the second, is a longer bit. It has to do with a place in Time that is no longer, the one which now Is, another that’s coming a lot sooner than I’d like (yet still trumps Chevalier’s bullshit, re: old age) and with where I’ll be the moment after that. You probably think you know the answer to that last, but you think you know a lot of things. Eat your pie. If I valued the opinions of others, I’d scarcely have become a hermit. Or a poet. There’s no money in either one. Just a lot of quiet mindplay, wide as a Gene Autry croon.
    Thus, given that mindplay, I see myself in living minutes of an electraglide Past, anticipating everything up ahead, thinking the world’s not what it was, but it’s pretty okay, and I just have to treat Life like a cakewalk, because in this country, essentially, it is. And then, I step in the frosting. Lose my lifescript. I stand there. And Farrah and beach sand and all the soft colors, fade away.
    Cue Here. A Now increasingly inhospitable. Reality as I was taught and knew, rewritten. No cornerstone, no center and no base. I’m in the basement, typing. Farrah’s smiling from “that poster”, as she has for over 30 years. No time has passed. All Time has passed. My Life has been made for me. I live in a stone womb.
    On deck, there’s a moment in Time. I don’t know specifically, which one. But, though I’ve not lived healthfully, I know my body and I read its very detailed reports. I’ve had scares already. In 2003, I woke from a dream, wherein I was given my month and year of Death. Depending on who and what you are, nonfriend, you mayn’t buy into the. latter, but in perhaps a “Dana Scully” sense. I prattle that selfsame pragmatism at my inner demons, but minus my consent, The End is on its way. And, I’m not the type to sip an appletini and trade aphorisms. You can have that wrinkleshit stuff. I haven’t liked Life. I don’t like it, now. But I’m goddammed, if I wanta move beyond it.
    There is something beyond it, you know. Even if you’re a member of the “die and rot” crowd...which, if you’re right, big deal, but if anyone else is right, Pascal and I are gonna have one helluva good laugh. Point is, discarding Death as finality—which, is a single viewpoint in the pantheon, pardon the pun—every other alternative, though what madly diverse hope offered, is daunting. Too big a thing, anyway, as Jackie Gleason told Morley Safer, to be able to hustle your way out of.
    Know this, as seconds tick: New Life isn’t what dwarfs Self. Only Self ending, does. Mmyeah! See, Cagney?! Where’s your appletini, Now?
    CEE    on course over the Pacific with Amelia Earhart, July 2nd, 1937



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