Tragedy and Comedy in the Afterlife: Or, a Mystic Dream I Had Under the Effects of Pfizer
Last night I had an extremely strange, mystic dream, which I shall now relate. I now have some sympathy for people in premodern times who had strange and vivd visions in their sleep, and used them as the basis for some decision or action. It's a lot weirder being on the receiving end than expected. Perhaps it has something to do with the vaccine, which I got a dose of just that morning. Maybe my 5G is finally working.
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In the afterlife, one's life is judged and classified not by good or evil, by law or chaos, but by Tragedy or Comedy. They are color-coded for your convenience.
I was ferried into the underworld aboard an airborne Higgins boat (there was no sign of any ferryman or conductor) which brought us to a floating island. I say us, for I was not alone; I was accompanied by a nameless woman. We looked at each other, as if for reassurance, and stepped into the otherworld.
The landing of the afterlife is bathed in the blue shadows of tragedy, and we were greeted by a holographic psychopomp in the form of an elegant Victorian lady. However, neither of us could hear what she was saying, nor could we hear each other. Something had turned off the sound in my dream.
We continued without her, down the floating harbor and into a long alleyway with high walls on either side. We found that each of us possessed a two-sided portrait locket, which could be safely stored in a niche in our wrists, and which when opened depicted two individuals most connected to the two most important moments of our lives. Both such events and people for me were Tragic, and the portraits emitted a deep blue shadow, and they sometimes flickered to show a white skull on that shadowy blue background.
Both of the people and events recorded in her locket were instead Comic, and emitted a golden light, though, like mine, those portraits sometimes flickered to depict a white skull against the golden light. Is it always so that souls come to the afterlife in pairs? is one always Tragic and the other Comic? Is it possible for a soul to possess one defining moment which is Tragic and another Comic, instead of both of the same?
On my left, as we passed through the alley, I saw figures from my life displayed in a tableau, watching me, but not judging. People who had betrayed me, and people whom I had betrayed, those gone too soon, those who had escaped my grasp, six, seven, eight of them, I forget how many. They were not in torment, they were arranged as if having a portrait taken by an artist out of frame to the left, or perhaps a photographer, some smiled and looked to me before returning to their positions, dressed in their Sunday best, happy together, these who had known each other in life only as enemies or not at all.
I wept. Around this time the sound got turned back on in the dream. My companion comforted me. I wanted to reach out and touch them, and I had the impression that doing so could bring them back to true and lasting life, at least one of them. But a voice, no, a vibration spoke from out the tableau, and I saw myself from its perspective, as a grasping wretch, and knew that it would be a perversion of some order to do so. I left them in peace.
The blue shadow-light of Tragedy lifted and we moved into a region lit by golden Comedy, and soon found ourselves in a building, perhaps an office, and before us was a maze of cubicle walls. These were perfectly ordinary cubicle walls, only up to chest height, and a path through the maze to the other side was plainly visible. Driven by some fearful impulse, she and I rushed headlong through the maze and came out the other side. She then pointed out that, just to the side of the maze, was a corridor that led to the same place, and our effort and haste was completely superfluous.
We laughed, at ourselves more than anything, and the tone of our souls was purged of Tragic influence.
Beyond the maze was an office, and two suited men sat on the other side of a long desk, with two chairs set out for us. These, I recognized, were some form of authority, or guides, in the domain of Comedy. She sat on the left and I on the right, and each of us conversed with the figure before us. I did not listen to what she spoke of, it was private, and being herself of a Comic bent, I assumed this conversation was as important for her as my vision of the tableau was for me.
On the wall behind my interlocutor (who spoke only Spanish) was a rectangle which seemed to be both a painting and a window, and which I decided was a painting. I asked him what it depicted, as it appeared out of focus. He was confused by my question, and explained, as though it were obvious, what it was. As he did so, it came into focus, and I saw that the painting depicted the view from a balcony, framed by pillars, and a low wall, clearly from the second floor of a Roman villa, which was actually a Renaissance imitation of a Roman villa, and a crossbow balanced on the low wall. The vista beyond remained hazy, characterized by pastel clouds.
In that moment, some memory of my life before death returned, and I recognized that I had come to the Underworld with a mission, or at least a goal. Before my death, I had acquired (don't ask me how) three golden feathers from the wings of the archangel Raziel, who in Kabbalah is known as the Keeper of Secrets, and these possessions had accompanied my soul into the afterlife. I had the impression that if I could find Raziel here during my journey, before I reached my destination, then I could be purged of my regrets and sorrows.
Why did I want to be purged of such memories and feelings? Do souls touched by Tragedy have some undesirable end in the afterlife? Would this transform me into a Comic soul, and is that truly a better state? Or would that process remove me entirely from the dual category of Tragedy/Comedy? What might be the result? is it desirable? Is it good, in some metaphysical way? I do not know. Few memories are retained in crossing the Aetherial Styx, and I was lucky to preserve as much as I did.
I made all this clear to my interlocutor, who flew through the roof and began shouting incomprehensible directions in Spanish, "Mas adelante de lo mas alla! Entre y detras de ti!" (Beyond the furthest reaches! Within and behind you!)
My companion and I left that building and found ourselves walking along a highway that passed through a golden city. Our destination lay ahead, and the highway descended into the earth, a colossal tunnel lit by blue shadow-lights. I had the impression that a soul's path through the afterlife included Another passage through a Tragic region, and then another Comic region, and at the end of that lay the final destination.
Yet I could hear the Comic Interlocutor yelling impossible directions back in the golden city. My traveling companion seemed shocked by the prospect that I might stray from my path, yet I said my goodbyes and turned back, following the loud calls, seemingly the only sound in the entire city. Despite the nonsensical nature of his spoken instructions, the interlocutor led me faithfully, with stiff and jerky motions to a corridor which led into one of the golden buildings, the inside of which was filled with shadowy blue light. I thanked him and went in.
The inside at first seemed to be an apartment building. None of the plaques on the doors read 'Raziel, Keeper of Secrets', so I kept looking. The layout transformed into that of a coworking space, or a hospital, with row on row of beds cast in blue shadows, all occupied. In one nook I found a robot that looked exactly like Baymax from Big Hero Six, but which became aggressive when I spoke with it, and refused to be turned off, so I smashed it to pieces with a hair dryer.
The violence continued as I found a former lover being harassed by plague-bearing vampire bats, and I nearly came to blows with the bats' owner, but received the support of an old friend, roused from sleep in one of those beds, and by a friendly stranger who looked for all the world like Andre the Giant. The three of us shook hands and marveled at our unlikely meeting.
At that point I woke up.
I have little idea what to make of any of this, assuming that dreams should be interpreted at all. Nevertheless, I think there is some value to recording it, if for no other reason than to increase the total quantity of weirdness in the world.
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If you burn to learn more about the bizarre mind that birthed this dream, consider reading some of the posts linked below, commenting, subscribing, or contacting me at nrposner@uchicago.edu. Until next time, stay strange.
(Intro Post) What Are You Doing Here?
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