This IS me! I’m staring into space in the fall of 2022. I am seventy-two. I’m small. And tall. I have no clue at all.
“Heaven is a new pair of glasses.” ~ Anne Lamott
With this post, I am starting on the second in the series that started with Giving My Self to the Wind. (2017)
This one will be called: Giving My Self to the Stars
Subtitle: How to BE Life (NOTE: Not DO Life)
“How to Be Alive”
“How to Life”
“Life’s Secrets” Hint: There are none.
I didn’t know
I’d be a “ho”
When I was a little girl.
I didn’t plan
On being with a man
When I was a little girl.
I didn’t understand
When they put their hands
On my ‘woo-woo’ when I was a girl.
But then it began
The man paid for his hand
And I was no longer a girl, but a ho.
Mama always said
I was not being wise.
Mama tried to tell me
I was smarter than them guys.
That all I had to say was, “No.” No! NO!!
But you know how it goes.
They were deaf, don’t you know.
So, by then, I was below.
I had nowhere else to go
And I knew it was so,
I was a ho.
Mama tried to lock the gate.
But she knew it was my fate.
She tried to find me a mate.
She tried to anticipate.
But it was too late.
Her dream would have to wait.
Because for me I hate
That I’m a ho…
I didn’t know
I’d be a “ho”
When I was a little girl
I didn’t plan
On being with a man
When I was a little girl
I didn’t understand
When they put their hands
On my ‘woo-woo’ when I was a girl
But then it began
The man paid for his hand
And I was no longer a girl, but a ho.
When the train came through
Looking for cooks,
I said I could cook
And I showed ‘em my books.
Sad for me, my looks
Made the men that were crooks
Suffer me my fate, you know…
You’re not a cook!
Not the way you look!
And so,
I was no longer a girl, I was a ho.
I don’t need anything more.
No nothing. Of that, I am shore.
I don’t need more stuff, it’s all just fluff.
More clothes? I’ll give mine to the poor.
I’m not taking a class or writing a post.
I won’t try putting extra butter on my toast.
I’ll refrain from checking my Facebook Page.
And won’t tweet a Tweet to vent my rage.
I will not compare. I will not look back.
I cannot look forward or fear an attack.
Today is today. And all I can say
To the people who’ve gone astray and lost their way…
EGBOK, my friends. Have faith. Make hay.
Believe me, Receive me. “Everything’s Going to Be OK.”
Now… Am I happy?
* * *
I think the entrepreneur and investor Naval Ravikant would agree with Andy Puddicome, founder of the meditation app, Headspace, that we only find happiness in the present. And we can only be in the present if we are willing to work hard to do nothing.
Do you feel the TENSION in that statement? I do!
When we meditate, we are trying to do just that. We work (at meditation) to pay attention to only one thing in the present moment. Thoughts of the future and the past and the emotions surrounding those thoughts rip us from our present.
Worry is a particularly useless feeling. It’s a projection of a future over which we have no control. Worry can also be a feeling that shoves us back to some previous time when we wish we had done or said something different. Wayne Dyer used to say, “You can’t should have done anything!” I miss him.
I smile at my own ineptitude. I’m not Naval, nor Andy, nor Wayne. (All men, by the way, and what’s that about?). I am, however, beautifully inept. I am wondering about the depth of my imperfection at this second. When actually, in this very next second, I am happy. Grateful. Here at this moment, to be writing this post and nothing else.
It’s bitchin’, I tell you, bitchin’!
I play music as I pass through my day.
Sometimes it’s harsh, and sometimes easy-breezy, hooray.
Each day it’s a choice to:
Curate the chords
Making majors from the minors.
Nurture each note and
Relaxing on the rests.
Dive into dissonance
Forcing fortes and frowns.
Invite
Pianissimos seeking peace,
Soft pedals pushed down.
Channel rock ‘n roll?
Relish Rachmaninoff!
Meet Miranda or Mozart.
It’s a joy, it’s an art.
The best news is
The music I play.
Is totally mine,
To make my day my way.
. . .But she doesn’t smell nearly as good!
Death has had all manner of bad press for centuries–even before there were media outlets. History, literature, music, and life are replete with death. It’s not something we can avoid.
But Death has her job to do. Death, a.k.a. Coco, climbs aboard the train of life to complete her mission of passing souls from the Earthly plane to the Metaphysical space. When she enters the train’s passenger cars, she fills the closed spaces with her “aroma.” As we find out in Deathlist, her odor is compliments of God, and it’s a definite turn-off. We want to know why it’s there, and so does Death!
“Why couldn’t I smell like bacon?” she might ask herself rhetorically in a quiet moment.
We all have odors. I mean, I feel like our odors are the mistakes we make. They are the hurts we pass to our fellow humans. And to ourselves. We have things on us that we think we cannot expunge, although we try desperately. Bad habits. Sins, maybe. A divorce! Well, heck. I think we all have those, and yet, we save our friends (and sometimes our enemies), our pets, spouses, and ex-spouses because, in a brave moment, we come above our sins. Maybe we step around them. Or we push them aside, even for a split second, to do something we never expected we could or would do.
And at that moment, we realize that we aren’t so bad after all. We can even hug ourselves or at least pat ourselves on the back.
“Well done!” you say to yourself in the mirror.
AND we need to remember that day for the funky times when all looks lost. Those are the times when the “odor” of unworthiness surrounds us. And we’re in the dumps.
@AustinKleon, in his book Steal Like an Artist, says, “Keep a Praise File.” Collect the pats on the back and the hugs, so you can find them when you’re sad.
In the meantime, chin up. Help a friend in need. Or… heck…save the human race. We’ll be glad! And for you… You’ll smell like bacon!
I’m often asked, “What was the inspiration for this novel?”
Well, pretty often. Um, so. Hmmm. Okay. I’m telling you now that you’ve asked. Thanks! 🙂
Here’s my ANSWER: Every time I saw someone on the news or heard of a person dying that seemed especially odd (like a child, for gosh sakes, or someone sitting on a bench eating a sandwich and a tree fell on them, maybe), I began to form a theory that everyone had a specified death date. Death was not by chance, happenstance, or being in the wrong place at the wrong time. God had it planned out. He kept track of it in a big database, which someone or other dubbed the Deathlist.
I still believe there might be one somewhere. How do you explain those little times when you were two seconds behind that huge traffic accident? Or, okay, on a morbid but equally mysterious level, why do some suicide attempts not work? Without bogging down my explanation with statistics, we can all report anecdotal evidence of failed suicides.
Then imagine that humans were somehow allowed to know what their death date was. That was the germ of the book.
I could know how much time I had to finish and publish the Deathlist. Write a how-to book about anything. (I’m not sure, but I buy a lot of those fix-me-please books, so I think I should write one!)
Hello and welcome. I’m Ana Cortez from ACME NEWS. Today, we’re sitting with Death in her penthouse living room in New York City where she often stays between gigs. If you’ve not met Death, you are in for a treat. Death has a history of being misunderstood for much of her life. In fact, she didn’t understand a lot about her own existence until the Deathlist was published and now, she’s much more relaxed and has time for interviews. Like today’s.
By the way, for you radio listeners, Death is wearing a très chic just-last-week’s Paris collection torn jean look with gold spike heels, a Vera Wang backless top, a John Hardy necklace and bracelet, and a Chanel scarf. Her hair is pinned up in an elegant chignon with not-so-tiny diamonds nestled throughout, sparkling against the camera lights.
Ana: How are you today, Death? You look amazing. As usual.
Death: Thank you so much, I’m fine. And I’m glad to have a few days off.
Ana: Days off? What happens to the souls you’re supposed to pick up today?
Death: I have assistants that help out. We’ve always had a team, of course, but I have to say some of the younger collectors are in too much of a hurry.
Ana: What do you mean?
Death: I try to help people at the end of their lives. I like to give them a chance to ponder their existence, revisit their purpose, and hopefully forgive themselves.
Ana: Who knew? You don’t take people’s lives then.
Death: No. I don’t. They’re already out of the earthly, mortal plane when I arrive. I’m the go-between.
Ana: So, who sends them to their eternity?
Death: That’s another department entirely. And people’s sins are tallied in the Sin Almagamator Department for that.
Ana: Um… Oh. Gee.
Death: Don’t worry. I’m sure you’re fine.
Ana: Uh… Well. Let’s talk about the Deathlist. What was that exactly?
Death: Everyone on the Earth has a designated time when they’re born. God makes sure they’re here when they’re supposed to be. [Death sweeps her arms around the apartment and out to the amazing view of New York.] Then, they have to have a time when they die, of course. The Deathlist is a big database where all that is recorded. We decided people shouldn’t know when they’ll die ahead of time. Although we’re still open to opinions.
Ana: Huh?
Death: Yes. If you’d like to take the survey, it’s here.
Ana: Oh. Great. I’ll do that. And our listeners can too! But I’m not sure if I want to know.
Death: Yes. Yes. Everyone has a different thought on that. It’s very personal. We get that. But, I’m afraid I have to go.
Ana: So soon?
Death: Yes. I’m very sorry. But I have to collect some souls now. There’s a terrible war going on in Ukraine, and we just didn’t put enough collectors on for today. Thanks so much for putting me on the air.
Ana: We’ll do this again! Thanks for coming on our show, Death. And listeners, would you like to know when you’re going to die? Take the survey and be sure to read Deathlist. Until then, signing off from ACME NEWS.
Ana: That’s a wrap.
Ana to self: I probably better scoot to confession.
It was a sunny day. Beautiful. When George stepped out of the house with his dog that day, he didn’t know it was the last walk he’d ever take. The Amtrak train came out of nowhere.
He didn’t know, but I did.
If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you know I’m Death. And I pick up people’s souls. I don’t kill anyone. That’s another department. I just collect souls. This guy was a doozy because if the DEATHLIST were still active, he could have consulted it before he started out that day, and he may have decided not to “chance” the run across the tracks. Right? But it’s not. In Kathryn’s book, DEATHLIST, we know humans could see when they were going to die. But it’s gone now, so this person was taken quite by surprise. I know it because when I picked him up, he was, like, “Did that train hit me?” He looked at me very confused. “Are you the grim reaper? You’re beautiful!”
“Yes. I am she. And yes, thank you for the compliment. But I’m not that grim. At least I try not to be.”
“What about my dog?”
“I’m sorry. It was hit, too. I don’t know you, but you might see your dog again.”
He was going to ask me about it, but I knew I had to comfort him and tell him how lucky he was that I could be here with him. “Uh. Okay,” he said.
Just for the record for you animal lovers, the DEATHLIST was not for animals. Good question, though. The DEATHLIST was only for people. However, heaven lets good people have their animals with them. It’s one of the perks. I’m not sure this person walking their dog will have their pup with them. It’s not my job. See. As Death, I don’t make those calls. I just answer the call to pick up the person’s soul and then we turn them over to the Sin Amalgamators to tell them to check their credentials.
Our last-walk guy has gone on his way. And now, I have to take care of a few other people. The poor conductor who killed our dog walker was a basket case after the accident, but he didn’t die. His wife had a heart attack when she heard the news. I had to collect her soul later that night because truth be told, the conductor had a teeny drinking problem, and was on his last chance to straighten out or lose his job. Of course, he did lose his job, and his wife was sure they’d lose their home and their beat-up car. She probably brought on her heart attack, at least she may have thought so. But God had her on his list for that day.
On a happier note. It turns out the dog got into heaven with his owner. They were both on God’s good list. I like happy endings. Don’t you?
HAVE A GREAT LIFE!
Signed,
Death
P.S. Would you want to know when you’re going to die? Drop us a line here. We’ll be including the results in a post on social media near when Deathlist launches.
The woman on the Paris runway during Fashion Week does not wear a black hood nor does she carry a scythe. She is not bent over in the crone position and does not have a warted, hooked nose. If you saw that kind of woman, she might be selling poisoned apples to a hapless Snow White character, soon to be part of a group of weird short men with names like Sleepy, Dopey, Grumpy, and the rest. (Can you name them?)
No. This woman is Death. A female princess of darkness as it were. She’s in Paris to strut her beauty and clear her name. Of the former, she might succeed. As to the latter, the chances of clearing her name are remote. But she will try in the novel Deathlist, by Kathryn Atkins.
“Hey, Coco,” the woman behind her in the lineup says as they begin their exit off the stage. Death’s name to the mortals around her is Coco. The woman continues, “Do you smell that?”
“What?” Oh. No. Death thinks to herself. My odor is seeping out. I forgot to hold it at bay and it is not Chanel No. 5!
You see, Death has a terrible smell (think rotting flesh) that always surrounds her unless she expends enough energy to suppress it. Sometimes she fails at it, especially when she’s concentrating on something else. Sometimes she’s just too sad. The odor seeps out of sad tears. Other times she’s happy, and the stench (incredibly enough) squeezes out through the tears of laughter. Nah. Doesn’t make much sense, except to say Death loves clothes. Loves to be beautiful, and really does like humans.
You’ll see. Read Deathlist to find out. And besides, you might like to know when you’re going to die. That is if you believe that there is a Deathlist. I think there is or I wouldn’t have written the book.
~ Kathryn Atkins, Deathlist Author
“What would you do if you took a day off?”
Off-off. Off the computer. Off the phone. Off responsibilities. Off the hook to play hooky. Here’s what I’d do. I’d go to the train station. Take the next train out. Doesn’t matter where.
*
I buy a ticket without checking the destination closely. In fact, I tell the cashier, “Don’t tell me where it’s going.” He nods knowingly as if this is quite common. He smiles into my eyes to keep me from looking at the ticket. He even puts it in an envelope, so I won’t see it!
“Have a good trip.”
I’m standing on the platform and feel the vibration as the train nears. I close my eyes and listen. The hugeness of the train pushes the air as it nears. I am forced to open my eyes so I do not fall, my stability threatened by the rush as the train rumbles into the station. Plus, I don’t want to miss its lovely massiveness.
The train looks like the Hogwarts train! Steam pulses from the stack. An impressive grate probes the tracks in the front. And the gigantic wheels squeal and hiss as they roll to a stop before me.
“ALL ABOARD”
I pull my eyes from the time-stricken train to look for my ticket, and as I straighten, I realize the smells have changed and that other travelers are wearing clothes from two centuries ago. Me too!
“ALL ABOARD”
I pick up my skirt and my carpetbag and walk toward the train. As I lift a dainty shoe up to the lowest step, my fluffy white petticoats peek out from under my dress’s rich blue satin skirt, tightly cinched at the waist. I catch a glimpse of myself in the train’s large window as I make my way back to my seat. My hair is bundled on my head, curls frame my face, and a matching blue satin hat accented with feathers perches atop my coiffure.
“TICKET?”
The conductor smiles down at me. He looks like Tom Hanks in “The Polar Express,” which doesn’t surprise me in the least. “Ticket?” he repeats kindly.
“Yes.” I pull the ticket from its little envelope, look down and see that we’re headed to someplace I’ve never heard of. Luckily, that’s exactly where I want to go. I sit back. Close my eyes. And I smile.
Joy seeps into my consciousness. “Hello there,” I say.
“Hello,” she replies. “It’s been too long.”