After the Grim Reaper, Before Santa Muerta

A child leaving San Diego for Baja California, Mexico. I remember ceviche with avocado slices. A blur of savory meats, tortillas and cheese. I remember walking in a white sanded beach picking up whole sun dollar as souvenirs. Seeing a band of black maned chestnut horses with tourists holding the reins sprint across the beach far away.

That memory melds thoroughly with William Gibson’s visions of purgatory. In Neuromancer it’s an endless silver grey beach. Seems an attractive afterlife option when my time comes. Not that any of that is my decision.

I must cover all my bases. Diversify my portfolio. Avoid Sartre’s “L’enfer, c’est les autres” in No Exit.

“Invoco Baphometus Satana Dionysum, I whisper under the 2017 solar eclipse. Alternate afterlife options. I make a womb moon blood bound deal with the Devil. The pagan Horned God-cum-Christianity’s fallen angel. Or Persephone’s seasonal bad boy bae. The angel Lumiel who brings forbidden knowledge to Eve in the form of an apple.

I trade away the dregs of my lonely soul. To make afterlife arrangements. To haunt this House of the Rising Sun where I have had my happiest years. The American Horror Story model of a traumatized spirit trapped within a building, but without all that bloodshed.

Perhaps my deal is done? Under the Rising Sun? I wonder often in passing years. I never receive confirmation. Or seal it. In supernatural kiss. Blood contract. Or sacrifice of another. Only the single caw of a crow in the apple tree above responds.

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