I passed away in Jerusalem. It was some kind of strange Kawangee fever that I picked up over the African Asian rift where germs wander when they are bent on revenge.
Until my death, I never once believed in the germ theory.
When found I was laid out on a pallet on the floor of a hotel room cradling a tasty Turkish oud in my arms with a look of such ecstasy on my face that the room keepers thought I was sleeping for two days. Then they decided I was dead.
They wrapped me in a sheet and went about looking for who I was. I left few clues.
They held my funeral between two groves of olive trees. The officiant was a blind holy man, perhaps a woman (“there are so many more than two possibilities,” s/he said when asked), who was called Tiresias, an irony in the Land but just right for the essential ambiguity of the way I experienced life as ridiculous and sacred.
Tiresias described me as light and sound; my soul a luminescent blue, my sound the humm of insects at night.
Of course I wasn’t dead. I revived. I only seemed to be dead.
I hope you have enjoyed my stories.