From The Workbooks of Randolph Gladwell Fiske: Entry 1: The Near-Dead
Randolph Gladwell Fiske was one of the unsung heroes of the last sixty years. He pops up now and again in conjunction with more familiar personages. For example, he was the one who, at age ten, taught Elvis Presley to make his fried peanut butter sandwiches more delectable by adding a dollop of honey to the peanut butter before dropping the sandwich into the hot, greased pan. He helped Al Gore invent the internet by explaining to him the meaning of the word “digital.” Fiske introduced the phrase “evil empire” to Ronald Reagan during a casual discussion of the Star Wars movies. At an audience with Pope Benedict XVI, it was Fiske who gave the Pope the notion to retire when he cryptically said: “Your miter is shaped like a fish and needs to swim in the ocean.” Once Mother Teresa of Calcutta remarked of him that “This man Fiske loves the sick and the poor, but he can’t wash a dish to save his life.”
Randolph Gladwell Fiske was one of the unsung heroes of the last sixty years. He pops up now and again in conjunction with more familiar personages. For example, he was the one who, at age ten, taught Elvis Presley to make his fried peanut butter sandwiches more delectable by adding a dollop of honey to the peanut butter before dropping the sandwich into the hot, greased pan. He helped Al Gore invent the internet by explaining to him the meaning of the word “digital.” Fiske introduced the phrase “evil empire” to Ronald Reagan during a casual discussion of the Star Wars movies. At an audience with Pope Benedict XVI, it was Fiske who gave the Pope the notion to retire when he cryptically said: “Your miter is shaped like a fish and needs to swim in the ocean.” Once Mother Teresa of Calcutta remarked of him that “This man Fiske loves the sick and the poor, but he can’t wash a dish to save his life.”
Whether Fiske is dead or alive no one knows. For years rumors abounded that he kept a series of workbooks, college-ruled—he despised wide-ruled—in which he recorded his thoughts on a multitude of cultural, social, and political issues of our day. Yet no one had ever laid eyes on these notebooks.
Until now.
A week ago, an old man smelling of tobacco, hot dog chili, and mown grass buzzed my apartment. When I greeted him, he said nothing but thrust a cardboard box into my chest. “Yours,” he said, and turned and left, letting the iron gate slam on his way to the sidewalk. He never looked back.
Opening the box—I spilled the desiccated corpse of the stinkbug atop the box into the yard—I found some notebooks. The top one was inscribed “The Workbooks of Randolph Gladwell Fiske.” With racing heart and sweaty palms—some of this reaction may have stemmed from the salsa I’d eaten for supper—I opened the first notebook. I read through it, and then read another, and another.
Was that Randolph Gladwell Fiske who left the bruise on my ribcage with his box? And if so, why give me the papers? True, I had once written a favorable review of The Silence Between The Lines: Poets, Words, And The Use The Comma by Debra Valencia, a maker of stationary whom Fiske had once highly praised. But was this our only connection? I have no idea. Yet I feel compelled to share the notes delivered by this old man. (I forgot to add that shortly after his departure, I realized I was missing my wallet, my cellphone, and a pack of peppermint sugarless chewing gum, all of which were stowed in the upper pocket of my shirt).
Here is one of Fiske's observations. I will record some of these entries from this man of genius at this site in no particular order—Fiske wrote them so, leaving his observations undated.
First entry:
For whatever reason—perhaps that melancholy brought on by a late Sunday afternoon, when Monday hangs like a black cloud over the remnant of the weekend, or perhaps just the mess of life—I spent half an hour online today reading about near-death experiences. I can’t say what sparked my interest in this particular topic, though I myself once suffered a near-death experience when forced to sit for a two-hour audit with an IRS agent.
These accounts by those who have died and returned from death raised some questions. In no particular order, they are:
*Several people reported being clad in white robes and being greeted by loved ones or angels likewise clad in white robes. My question: Why white? In my closet hangs a dark, thick, greenish-blue robe particularly dear to me in the cold of winter. Could I wear that robe instead of white? And does this abundance of clothing mean there are tailors after death? If so, do they know that I am, as the saying goes, “short in the leg?”
*One man told of being ashamed when he appeared naked before Jesus Christ. Who wouldn’t be? But I wonder: Do we have a choice regarding our age if we have to appear naked before anyone after death? If so, I hope to be the two-year-old version of myself, diapered, belly hanging out like a beer-guzzler, raspberry jelly caked around my mouth, swigging a milk bottle, and not an ounce of shame in my body.
*Still another man recalled being greeted by an angel and then by his first dog, Pepe, who was very happy to see him. Then all his other dogs appeared, barking and wagging their tails. His uncle appeared too, and the man moved to embrace his uncle when a Voice said, “What have you learned and whom have you helped?” All the dogs fell silent. The uncle refused the embrace. This whole incident was bizarre. So dogs can go to heaven? I thought only cats did. As to what I have learned and whom I have helped, I can cite with confidence some facts about the boyhood of King William III of England and can speak learnedly on the works of Ernest Hemingway. And helpful—why, just this morning I assisted an old woman through the door at church, though it took me a full minute to realize she was trying to leave rather than enter the church. Plus, I was once a Boy Scout.
*Nearly everyone mentions the “bright light” toward which they are drawn. The majority of these near-dead persons report diving headlong toward this light, but one woman wrote of floating on her back with her feet in front of her as she approached the light. As a teenager, I much preferred to enter a swimming pool feet first. Does the woman’s experience indicate we have a choice? I certainly hope so. Actually, I’d prefer to be driven toward the light, but no one mentioned taxis or limos in their accounts.
*One visitor to the other side reported people playing Skip-To-My-Lou beneath tall trees. This vision raises all sorts of troubling questions. Trees require rain. Does it rain on the far side? If so, are umbrellas provided? Do we have to rake leaves in the fall? Who trims the trees? And Skip-To-My-Lou—I have occasionally played Ring- Around-The-Rosie with my grandchildren, but will I really be expected to play such games with a bunch of grownups? Is there no sense of decorum on the other side of the river? Could we not just sit together, have a glass of wine, and admire the trees?
*A near-dead woman described herself as dividing into two dots and then into four dots and then into more dots as she approached death. Her account reminded me of high school geometry classes with Mrs. Purdue. I loved geometry with its dots and lines, but have not revisited my Q.E.D.’s for over forty years except for measuring carpets and square space in various rooms. Do I need to brush up on my postulates and theorems? If so, should I immerse myself in Euclidian or Non-Euclidian geometry?
*Everyone reports seeing things: trees, dogs, relatives, Jesus. Yet many of them communicate only by telepathy with their relatives and the Almighty. So the dying can hear, see, and feel, but they can’t speak. Instead, they resort to telepathy? At first glance, telepathy sounds good—you could eat and talk at the same time, as my Uncle Buck does now—but what if you don’t want to converse with someone? Wouldn’t they know and be offended? Right now all I have to do is to keep my mouth closed, and I can block my thoughts from others. Telepathy? Wide-open communication? Sounds like Facebook on steroids.
*Finally, many of these near-dead speak of being drawn through a tunnel to the other side. This slide through a tunnel worries me. Is there oncoming traffic? Do the other near-dead beep their horns going through the tunnel? Using a water amusement park as a benchmark, is the slide through the tunnel fast or slow? (Given a choice, I opt for slow). And why a tunnel in the first place? Why not a leisurely walk down a country road, shaded by maples, surrounded by fields of wheat and poppies? What’s up with the tunnel?
Enough. I feel near-dead just absorbing all this information. Or maybe it’s the heat. Anyway, my sentiments from this Sunday afternoon excursion may best be summed up by the slogan of that gaudiest of American newspapers: “Enquiring minds want to know.”
Whether Fiske is dead or alive no one knows. For years rumors abounded that he kept a series of workbooks, college-ruled—he despised wide-ruled—in which he recorded his thoughts on a multitude of cultural, social, and political issues of our day. Yet no one had ever laid eyes on these notebooks.
Until now.
A week ago, an old man smelling of tobacco, hot dog chili, and mown grass buzzed my apartment. When I greeted him, he said nothing but thrust a cardboard box into my chest. “Yours,” he said, and turned and left, letting the iron gate slam on his way to the sidewalk. He never looked back.
Opening the box—I spilled the desiccated corpse of the stinkbug atop the box into the yard—I found some notebooks. The top one was inscribed “The Workbooks of Randolph Gladwell Fiske.” With racing heart and sweaty palms—some of this reaction may have stemmed from the salsa I’d eaten for supper—I opened the first notebook. I read through it, and then read another, and another.
Was that Randolph Gladwell Fiske who left the bruise on my ribcage with his box? And if so, why give me the papers? True, I had once written a favorable review of The Silence Between The Lines: Poets, Words, And The Use The Comma by Debra Valencia, a maker of stationary whom Fiske had once highly praised. But was this our only connection? I have no idea. Yet I feel compelled to share the notes delivered by this old man. (I forgot to add that shortly after his departure, I realized I was missing my wallet, my cellphone, and a pack of peppermint sugarless chewing gum, all of which were stowed in the upper pocket of my shirt).
Here is one of Fiske's observations. I will record some of these entries from this man of genius at this site in no particular order—Fiske wrote them so, leaving his observations undated.
First entry:
For whatever reason—perhaps that melancholy brought on by a late Sunday afternoon, when Monday hangs like a black cloud over the remnant of the weekend, or perhaps just the mess of life—I spent half an hour online today reading about near-death experiences. I can’t say what sparked my interest in this particular topic, though I myself once suffered a near-death experience when forced to sit for a two-hour audit with an IRS agent.
These accounts by those who have died and returned from death raised some questions. In no particular order, they are:
*Several people reported being clad in white robes and being greeted by loved ones or angels likewise clad in white robes. My question: Why white? In my closet hangs a dark, thick, greenish-blue robe particularly dear to me in the cold of winter. Could I wear that robe instead of white? And does this abundance of clothing mean there are tailors after death? If so, do they know that I am, as the saying goes, “short in the leg?”
*One man told of being ashamed when he appeared naked before Jesus Christ. Who wouldn’t be? But I wonder: Do we have a choice regarding our age if we have to appear naked before anyone after death? If so, I hope to be the two-year-old version of myself, diapered, belly hanging out like a beer-guzzler, raspberry jelly caked around my mouth, swigging a milk bottle, and not an ounce of shame in my body.
*Still another man recalled being greeted by an angel and then by his first dog, Pepe, who was very happy to see him. Then all his other dogs appeared, barking and wagging their tails. His uncle appeared too, and the man moved to embrace his uncle when a Voice said, “What have you learned and whom have you helped?” All the dogs fell silent. The uncle refused the embrace. This whole incident was bizarre. So dogs can go to heaven? I thought only cats did. As to what I have learned and whom I have helped, I can cite with confidence some facts about the boyhood of King William III of England and can speak learnedly on the works of Ernest Hemingway. And helpful—why, just this morning I assisted an old woman through the door at church, though it took me a full minute to realize she was trying to leave rather than enter the church. Plus, I was once a Boy Scout.
*Nearly everyone mentions the “bright light” toward which they are drawn. The majority of these near-dead persons report diving headlong toward this light, but one woman wrote of floating on her back with her feet in front of her as she approached the light. As a teenager, I much preferred to enter a swimming pool feet first. Does the woman’s experience indicate we have a choice? I certainly hope so. Actually, I’d prefer to be driven toward the light, but no one mentioned taxis or limos in their accounts.
*One visitor to the other side reported people playing Skip-To-My-Lou beneath tall trees. This vision raises all sorts of troubling questions. Trees require rain. Does it rain on the far side? If so, are umbrellas provided? Do we have to rake leaves in the fall? Who trims the trees? And Skip-To-My-Lou—I have occasionally played Ring- Around-The-Rosie with my grandchildren, but will I really be expected to play such games with a bunch of grownups? Is there no sense of decorum on the other side of the river? Could we not just sit together, have a glass of wine, and admire the trees?
*A near-dead woman described herself as dividing into two dots and then into four dots and then into more dots as she approached death. Her account reminded me of high school geometry classes with Mrs. Purdue. I loved geometry with its dots and lines, but have not revisited my Q.E.D.’s for over forty years except for measuring carpets and square space in various rooms. Do I need to brush up on my postulates and theorems? If so, should I immerse myself in Euclidian or Non-Euclidian geometry?
*Everyone reports seeing things: trees, dogs, relatives, Jesus. Yet many of them communicate only by telepathy with their relatives and the Almighty. So the dying can hear, see, and feel, but they can’t speak. Instead, they resort to telepathy? At first glance, telepathy sounds good—you could eat and talk at the same time, as my Uncle Buck does now—but what if you don’t want to converse with someone? Wouldn’t they know and be offended? Right now all I have to do is to keep my mouth closed, and I can block my thoughts from others. Telepathy? Wide-open communication? Sounds like Facebook on steroids.
*Finally, many of these near-dead speak of being drawn through a tunnel to the other side. This slide through a tunnel worries me. Is there oncoming traffic? Do the other near-dead beep their horns going through the tunnel? Using a water amusement park as a benchmark, is the slide through the tunnel fast or slow? (Given a choice, I opt for slow). And why a tunnel in the first place? Why not a leisurely walk down a country road, shaded by maples, surrounded by fields of wheat and poppies? What’s up with the tunnel?
Enough. I feel near-dead just absorbing all this information. Or maybe it’s the heat. Anyway, my sentiments from this Sunday afternoon excursion may best be summed up by the slogan of that gaudiest of American newspapers: “Enquiring minds want to know.”