When I do finally die and wind up at the pearly gates, Saint Peter will be there. He may be surprised to see me; I'll certainly be surprised to see him. For a moment he will be white robed and regal, but blink and he'll be the earthy bearded amorist he truly is.
"What is this?" I will ask him and he will reply. "An accounting."
"But I don't believe in any of this!"
The clouds and gates will vanish.
"But you believe in this. Be quick you don't have much time."
"An accounting, huh?"
And he will peer over the book that is suddenly in his hand, through the bifocals that appear on his face (I had not noticed, but I will be naked. Whether it feels natural or like a bad dream is up to me I suppose)
"Says here you spent nearly two weeks watching Gilligan's Island for instance. Theres only two days of programming!"
"You've seen it?" I stammer. Saint peter frowns at me.
"I'm not here forever. Ten years of your life watching this television. How do you account for that?" I will shuffle my feet and look down at them.
"Just tired, I guess. Its easy."
"Well its all here: the internet, television, pornography, books! Why have you not lived your life? You only had the one -- did you think you had more?" And I will well up with tears at the wasted pages in his book, "Why did you not choose a purpose, an action, a creation, a nurturing? And here you have in almost every day the most egregious waste: thinking of what you should."
And I will sob and he will look on me with compassion.
"Its all too common," St peter will console," and you don't have…."
(as is often the case with inspiration, the lynch pin gets lost in the fringe of memory, or here on the fringe of the post card photographed. Who know what wisdom Saint Peter had, finally, for me)
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