Ron’s Theory of the Afterlife
Shamrock McShane
Men must learn by suffering.
I am ready to make a contract with the evil genius.
Funny how things change, isn’t it?
Somebody you can’t stand becomes your best friend.
And you still can’t stand him.
After midnight and you’re sitting there and you’re watching the tv over the bar and it’s a rerun of The Cosby Show with closed captioning and you’re reading the shit.
I know.
It’s horripilating.
What?
The hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
This is my tragedy.
The Satyr’s Tragedy.
This is my Wild West.
That’s a mixed blessing.
All blessings are mixed.
God plays the percentages and the odds are always with the house.
Comedy is to fuck with power.
Our craving for beauty is simply a specified craving for pleasure, and by the time the sun goes down it knows no bounds.
A natural nocturnal tendency toward dreams.
And intoxication.
Right away. Immediately. It all comes clear, and you have a perfect understanding, a true idea, you have grabbed hold of it.
And that’s a dream.
And then the dark clouds come in, the fog.
And you can’t see a thing.
At least you’re not tied down to time and space.
This must be the hall of mirrors.
That’s a certain text.
When reality fades away, my expressionism creeps in.
The framework of the inquest . . .
Away from the linear and into the visceral. . .
Create and destroy.
Creative destruction.
Does not equal destructive creativity.
If you want to write about yourself, about the only thing you have to offer is your pain and misery.
The seasons change, and with them our psyches alter.
Our fecundity withers.
All is autumnal-tinged.
And the lengthening shadows reveal rather than conceal our darkest thoughts.
Assuage our soul.
And torment can lead to peace.
But you’d never guess it from the candy display at Publix.
A joyful fear before the unknown.
It was not a conversation, but rather some mysterious communication.
Kismet. Turkish for doom, appointed lot, fate, pre-determined fortune.
Don’t you never aint gone not never no more nor the grits in the NASCAR with the country music don’t won’t caint not no more in Graceland and won’t never don’t, you hear me, boy?
So, it’s no longer time to die?
Not today.
What’s gotten into you?
What a funny thing to say?
Tell me.
Happiness. Happiness has gotten into me.
He felt all over the tension of happiness.
You really are free. You can start to use your God powers the moment your belief that you actually have them takes over.
What are you doing, like some quasi-religious thing?
What do you mean? This? You think it’s a cross, don’t you?
You telling me it’s not a cross?
You can call it a cross if you want to.
What would you call it?
I wouldn’t call it anything.
Ron’s Theory of the Afterlife.
You have a favorite chair that you sit in at home?
Do I have a favorite chair?
Certified Behavior Analyst.
Matter of fact I do.
Can you think of what it’s like to sit in that chair? Right now? Can you think of what sitting in that chair is like? Can you feel it?
Yes.
That chair is in your house?
Yes.
What if your house burned down an hour ago? You won’t find out until you get home.
There goes my chair.
Does it? You just told me you could feel what it’s like to sit in it. You haven’t forgotten it, have you?
No.
That chair has become a reality in your mind.
Desire and Denial are twins.
Home.
Home finally.
Finally home.
To the house of tears.
Pink clouds strewn across a fading blue sky as background to the neon sign at Mellow Mushroom that reads: Baked on the Stone.
Shamrock McShane
Men must learn by suffering.
I am ready to make a contract with the evil genius.
Funny how things change, isn’t it?
Somebody you can’t stand becomes your best friend.
And you still can’t stand him.
After midnight and you’re sitting there and you’re watching the tv over the bar and it’s a rerun of The Cosby Show with closed captioning and you’re reading the shit.
I know.
It’s horripilating.
What?
The hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
This is my tragedy.
The Satyr’s Tragedy.
This is my Wild West.
That’s a mixed blessing.
All blessings are mixed.
God plays the percentages and the odds are always with the house.
Comedy is to fuck with power.
Our craving for beauty is simply a specified craving for pleasure, and by the time the sun goes down it knows no bounds.
A natural nocturnal tendency toward dreams.
And intoxication.
Right away. Immediately. It all comes clear, and you have a perfect understanding, a true idea, you have grabbed hold of it.
And that’s a dream.
And then the dark clouds come in, the fog.
And you can’t see a thing.
At least you’re not tied down to time and space.
This must be the hall of mirrors.
That’s a certain text.
When reality fades away, my expressionism creeps in.
The framework of the inquest . . .
Away from the linear and into the visceral. . .
Create and destroy.
Creative destruction.
Does not equal destructive creativity.
If you want to write about yourself, about the only thing you have to offer is your pain and misery.
The seasons change, and with them our psyches alter.
Our fecundity withers.
All is autumnal-tinged.
And the lengthening shadows reveal rather than conceal our darkest thoughts.
Assuage our soul.
And torment can lead to peace.
But you’d never guess it from the candy display at Publix.
A joyful fear before the unknown.
It was not a conversation, but rather some mysterious communication.
Kismet. Turkish for doom, appointed lot, fate, pre-determined fortune.
Don’t you never aint gone not never no more nor the grits in the NASCAR with the country music don’t won’t caint not no more in Graceland and won’t never don’t, you hear me, boy?
So, it’s no longer time to die?
Not today.
What’s gotten into you?
What a funny thing to say?
Tell me.
Happiness. Happiness has gotten into me.
He felt all over the tension of happiness.
You really are free. You can start to use your God powers the moment your belief that you actually have them takes over.
What are you doing, like some quasi-religious thing?
What do you mean? This? You think it’s a cross, don’t you?
You telling me it’s not a cross?
You can call it a cross if you want to.
What would you call it?
I wouldn’t call it anything.
Ron’s Theory of the Afterlife.
You have a favorite chair that you sit in at home?
Do I have a favorite chair?
Certified Behavior Analyst.
Matter of fact I do.
Can you think of what it’s like to sit in that chair? Right now? Can you think of what sitting in that chair is like? Can you feel it?
Yes.
That chair is in your house?
Yes.
What if your house burned down an hour ago? You won’t find out until you get home.
There goes my chair.
Does it? You just told me you could feel what it’s like to sit in it. You haven’t forgotten it, have you?
No.
That chair has become a reality in your mind.
Desire and Denial are twins.
Home.
Home finally.
Finally home.
To the house of tears.
Pink clouds strewn across a fading blue sky as background to the neon sign at Mellow Mushroom that reads: Baked on the Stone.
