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| Please make sure you are in a very quiet room when you read this. Heaven is not a Hotel: It�s not a bedroom, but it is the things in that bedroom. Heaven is cd�s and books and pictures and fluffy pillows in worn pillowcases. I often wonder, are there famous people in Heaven? Where do the rockstars and writers fit in to our infinite vision? And do they get backstage passes? If I were to die some terrible death day after tomorrow where would my place in heaven be? And if you were to tell me today, how and when I will die, what would I do tomorrow to make it special? What would I do with my last hours to somehow make it worthwhile, to ensure my place in heaven, next to Kurt and Kerouac? I�ve been thinking: If I were to fall asleep for 1000 years and wake up in the year 3000 would my vision of Heaven still apply? Would that world even exist? And if it did, would I become some sort of Icon, a survivor meant to tell the people of that brave new world about life in the last millenium? I don�t think I�m qualified. I�m living, and I�m here, yet I don�t think I know enough to try to explain to people 1000 years from now what the point of Smells like teen Spirit or On the Road or Diet Coke was. What do these things mean to us? What were the ideas behind these things? Was it entertainment, inspiration? These explanations seem small and quiet and weak. But I would try to tell them, and I would become lost in a flurry of explanatory words. And I would wonder what exactly was the point of all of this, of any of it? What could the people in the year 3000 tell me that I don�t know already? What am I articulating here that you�re not already thinking? And who can tell us more? Because there must be more. There has to be more than this. . . HELLO :) I�m never quite sure weather or not I�d like to be famous. I don�t think I�d want to have to sign autographs. It�s impossible to think of something original and inspiring to write ALL THE TIME. I don�t have the imagination or flair to create a refreshing and illuminating blurb for everyone, but I wouldn�t want to create one all-purpose anecdote either. That�s not fair. I would have to create within my head an intricate network of autographs. 52 or so odd blips, quotations and anecdotes that I could draw on at will, that I could expunge onto paper napkins and on the cover pages of books. It gives me a headache just to think about it, because being famous is not the ticket. It may help me earn a spot at the cool table in heaven, but this version of the afterlife is not one I like to think about much. So, I suppose what I�m trying to ask you is where do I fit in? Where am I in your vision of Heaven? Am I there at all? D�you believe? These are things we don't talk about. There are things we don't share, and this saddens me, because you are all special to me, and that is hard for me to say, only because I don't say it often enough. I pray that you are in a quiet room as you read this. Close your eyes; listen to your heart beating. Listen to that eternal, essential rhythm. Listen to the quiet thumping in your chest. Breathe deeply, draw the breath up through your body and push it out into the warm air around you (because I pray the air around you is warm). Think about the movements of the earth and of other hearts, beating out their own essential rhythms. Then think about me. Take the time. Stop to breathe. Stop to listen. Stop to think. Stop to think about me, and know I�m thinking about you. There need not be more than this . . . |
| Heaven is not a Hotel |
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