Letters from the Lunar Outpost

The true past departs not, no truth or goodness realized by man ever dies, or can die; but all is still here, and, recognized or not, lives and works through endless change.
- Carlyle, Scottish Author and Philosopher (1795-1881)

The following was a journal entry from the age of 23 . . .

Last Sunday was the most perfect Sunday of my life. Jenny invited me to go to Catalina with her, Robert, Emy and Kathy. I was surprised and delighted to be invited. It seems that she was impressed by how nice Kathy and Emy thought my new place with Marc was.

We took the Catalina Flyer out of Newport and were on our way. The Flyer is a large, three-story catamaran and the trip takes about an hour.

Kathy and I were somewhat engrossed in conversation when we suddenly looked up and there was Catalina in front of us, filling the horizon with its rugged, tropical terrain and the beautiful Avalon pavilion. It was early in the morning and my usually stable stomach was feeling a just a bit woozy, but we all had made it without getting sick, which was a good sign.

Glad to be back on land, we headed straight for the rental golf carts and began exploring the island. . .

As the day was over and Kathy was driving me home, I told her that it really had been a perfect day, said she was just thinking that herself. That put the perfect ending to a perfect day.

The next day when I woke, Marc told me that he’d scored me six hits of acid. I thought it a bit strange of him to do this out of the blue, but I quickly discarded the thought and dropped a couple hits, saving the other four for Kathy and I to enjoy later.

It seemed to take forever to come on, and as I did, I began to get horny for one of my porno mags. Having taken care of that, I decided it was time for a bath. I relaxed for the first time in my new bath and was tickled with how nice my new bath was, with its deep tub and its arm and head rests. I must have been in there for a half an hour, but then, it’s really hard to say.

I began hearing the sounds of traffic, wails of human despair, people fighting and angry voices, as if someone was giving me a sampling of the audio track to hell. Somehow, without a single word of explanation, I knew that I was experiencing one side of the scales of justice, that this was what you reap if this was what you sew. The sound of hell, it was so real, it scared the fuck out of me.

. . . the journal entry ended there, just kind of hanging there like that without any resolution.

Reminds me of more reflections on God and the afterlife on another post.

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