22. Eternal life crisis
Jai-I had told me to go see his dad. I was having an eternal-life crisis. That’s what he said.
“How can I have a crisis? How can anybody have a crisis?” I contradicted, “We are gods after all, aren’t we?”
He waved for me to stop, but I proceeded, “I thought that was why we traded in our mortal life in the first place…so that we could have an end to our…fucking…crisis.”
“Look, I won’t go into details, especially about the necrophilic games you’ve been playing in Utopia,” he winked, “not mentioning the odd sex you had with that Sha-Rronne babe in ZOOL.A.ND as an autistic dwarf dildo chained to the cunt of an imposing gladiator lady???”
I blushed.
“Speaking of which,” he continued, “I’ve done some research, like I told you I would, and came out with some interesting data about her.”
I was curious now, perked. “Yah, what is it? What did you find out about her?”
“Apparently, she’s created by some anomaly.”
“Huh?”
“Look at this.” He sent over some signals to my brain. Charts, graphs, peaks, etcetera. “You created her.”
“What?” I blurted stupidly, “This can’t be, it can’t be right. I’ve not created anything in my life…except…except…for my pocket fantasy dimensions. But I certainly have not created life, not one that’s thinking and feeling on its own, at least. Just essences…yes…for my pleasure, but they’re vapour. They’re gone after I’m satisfied.”
Jai-I was silent. He let me blabber on. After I’m done, he coolly dropped, “You need a shrink. Here, go see my dad.” And with that he gave me unlimited access.
I didn’t know what Jahr could do for me. Just like all patients with mental conditions befalling them, I couldn’t tell head from tail. Heck, I didn’t even know something was wrong with me.
He spotted a white goatee; hair, shoulder-length and rugged like a hippie Jesus. An oily sheen caused the fringe to lump a little, giving the strands volume and body. He appeared to be in Earthly forties, the prime of a man’s life – successful career and family.
Jahr was seated crossed-legged. Casual; and whenever he gestured, the background danced. Sparkles of fire, music bobbing in solid states of blues, yellows and greens, and at one point, the heavenly hosts of pale stallions foamed in the shape of a tsunami.
Otherwise, when I stared into his deep, dark irises, it was just a plain mantelpiece with a flame burning at the back. We were in an ordinary office room; nothing smelled of godlikeness.
But those eyes. Those eyes were like black holes sucking you in, the richness of the palette, a wealth of knowledge, seen many times, lived many lives. It was hypnotic, calm, a kaleidoscope. His spirit drew you in, and you existed in him.
Jahr asked again, sensing my syrup of bewilderment mixed with some honey of awe, “What can I do for you?”
Being god, clearly he knew what he could do for me; but like most deities, he played dumb, preferring to consult the subjects. Perhaps it has to do with fellowship, two-way communication. It’ll be fucking dull if it’s unidirectional traffic always.
‘Conversations’ would probably go something like this:
“So, what can I do for you?”
“I don’t know. What can you do for me?”
“What’s bothering you?”
“You tell me. That’s why I came to see you in the first place.”
“If nothing’s bothering you, why come find me?”
“Something’s bothering me, but I don’t know what. If I did, I won’t be here.”
“Fine. And now if you seek, you shall find.”
“Huh? I thought you were going to tell me the answer.”
“I did. The answer is in you. The kingdom of god is in you.”
Somehow, dialogues with gods always end up like this. They are all-knowing, omniscient, but you leave their presence somewhat more confused than before. I, at times, wonder if he actually knows what he’s talking about. Is he crapping with me? Is god in limbo? He knows nuts? And rightly so; for perpetual continuum is too elongated, and without end, for any single deity to comprehend in its entirety.
For one, I was not even aware that life was disconcerting. Yah, I have occasional bouts of anxiety over Sha-Rronne, and I crave my Earthlife every once in a while, but I am enjoying my adventures too much in eternity to notice that I’m troubled.
Sha-Rronne was made by me? And because of this Jai-I recommended psychiatric help and introduced his father? Perplexing. Why fix something that’s not broke?
Nonetheless, I am curious about Sha-Rronne. As I said, there is something about her, something of which I can’t place my finger exactly. She is different from the rest, I admit. I love and I have sex, I’ve shared intimacies in Dreamstate that are mind boggling, shared worlds (dimensional portals with its own laws of physics), not by the marriage of sperm and ovum, but mere ejaculation, the climax, the union of blood-rush and electrical impulses conceptualizing a seed in the spirit, transporting us there in the calm, serene post-conjugation of a dream; where I’d lived on with my many lovers in encrypted universes, producing a family, the first in the line of kings, origin of a species; civilizations spurred and spawned from a one-night-stand.
There is a quote in my book of Earthly success which defines the dilemma I’m in:
‘In heaven, we are idiots, blissful idiots. And the sacrifice made to attain such perfection is my fragile human state. Paradise is a place where I can’t sob when I see a touching movie, or experience brokenness in a haunting tune; I cannot mourn when a loved one dies, because a loved one never dies, and that seriously undermines my love for that guy. For it is in pain that we can love, otherwise only hedonistic pleasures of unsurpassed libidinous rights reign in the light.
I cannot decide.’
And rightly so this surmises my state. I am too happy. Everything’s so damn fine. Bliss till bored. Even truer, ‘I cannot decide;’ deep, meaningful, progressive human pain which brings significance to life, or self-indulging divine pleasures which numb the skull???
Idiot!
Too much of a good thing makes us sick. Try eating creamy cakes every day, or grade-A steaks. You’ll be up to here in sumptuousness, perpetually wanting to throw up, drowning in fat oil. We need to come down to basics occasionally. Plain rice. This truth is not only applicable in mortal lands. Ironically, it rings louder in heaven. It works like an undercurrent, like a sinister plot hatched in the bowels of a portentous city, shrouded from its complacent citizens till it’s far too late on the eve of calamity, reaching out with its far-flung claws to slowly paw us, tightening its grip on the soul. We don’t even feel it, especially with all that hedonism and libido running wild and naked in paradise. Like me, I don’t realize I’m ill. I don’t feel ill, yet apparently I am. And now that I know I am…I feel!
This sucks.
“Well, apparently I created someone…”
“Sha-Rronne,” Jahr announced coldly, hammering mid-sentence, concluding my words. He knows. Of course he knows. He knows everything…well not everything, but almost.
“Why do you think I did?”
“Let me tell you a story,” he expounded, stroking his immaculate goatee, “There was once a brother and a sister that could never get along. One liked chocolate, the other liked vanilla. One played with dolls, the other played with guns. They fought and they quarrelled all night and day till mother got pissed. Well, I mean she can’t piss technically, `cause she’s a woman, she can only pee*, but anyway, that’s another tale,” Jahr mumbled to himself. “So where was I? O yes, mother got pissed. Angry. And she forced her son to dress like a girl and play dollhouse with his sister. Similarly, the daughter was made to indulge combat pretence. Lo and behold, they both found enjoyment in the other’s games and toys. So, boy now cross-dressers conveniently while girl romps about in camouflage gear.”
I couldn’t relate the relevance of that story to my predicament. “Err…what are you trying to say?”
“Playing with girl-toys is cool; playing with boy-toys is also cool. However, playing with both boy and girl toys is just as cool. You get me?”
“No…”
“Ok, ok, let’s use another analogy. You like chocolate ice cream?”
“No, not really. But can eat, lah.” I reverted to Malaysian slang from days foregone. A clumsy habit.
“O shit, yer fucking picky,” he cursed. “Ok, let me see…” Jahr rolled his eyelids and said, “You like rum & raisins?”
“Yah,” I responded, a bit annoyed he remotely picked my brain, as I could sense the tingle in my head akin to apple squeezed to juice.
“You like macadamia ice cream?”
I nodded. He got it right on both counts. Cheat.
“Do you like macadamia with rum & raisins?”
Cheat again.
“Bingo!”
“Wha…?”
“That’s the answer.”
“What? Rum & raisins? Macadamia ice cream?”
“Yes, separately, but also together,” he prided.
“I’m sorry your eminence, but I still don’t get you,” I said, trying not to be sarcastic.
“Life, regardless temporary or immortal, must be enjoyed on all counts. Embrace all that it gives you, good and bad, light and evil. Enjoy your rum & raisins and your macadamia ice cream separately; but fuse them and a new taste is experienced.
“Joy is good, but so is depression. From each you can take back new meanings that will deepen and enrich your life. So go ahead, embrace your past, explore Sha-Rronne. You will not regret it.” And with that he ascended to the heavens while I gaped on, till an angelic lady in a flowing and intricate evening gown appeared and shot me a flying kiss. She also disappeared in a cloud of mist, but not before I recognized she was the mother (who could pee but not piss*) of the boy who was a girl and the girl who was a man.
* Penises piss; pussies pee