On a good day my stories have a saffron glow. Amber and sepia tint my tin type dreams; lavender and rose wash my visions. Then I remember I am color blind and black is more slimming.
Many stories start at the beginning and are over at The End. Here is a discussion-lite, in attempted reverse. I will start at the end, work my way inexorably toward genesis. This vignette contains a middle………. There are things that are inescapable.
DEATH for example:
I have given thought to death (really, dude). I am deep that way. Look for free verse from me soon. Some are scared to death of death. Where is the fun of that? I say if you want something done right, do it yourself.
I have a recherché appreciation for those who mourn in advance. It is the only way to attend your own funeral. Start twenty years early. This is interactive fun for you and your friends. Rigorous Zen discipline is required see each wrinkle and new ailment as a step closer to dust. If youth was eternal it would be a spiritual happy meal. Humankind does not have the shelf life of a Twinkie. We are perishable. But will the circle be unbroken by and by?
In spite of the rumors of recycled souls and reincarnation my memory fails me when I reach for all those former deaths I died.
I reckon I will just have to wing it?
My neighbors have all the details worked out. They love waving their big black book of answers around and advising me what to pack. I stick to my own council and will take a flashlight along just in case we can read under the covers after lights out.
If there is a celestial after hours bar, I promise to send morse code. How rude that out of the billions of dead no one has sent back a greeting card. I expect I will sleep the dream of the apples. Perhaps our spiritual molecules gain a negative charge and repel each other growing ever more distant until they lose the router signal? Are we drops of water that rejoin the ocean? I know that those who know, don’t.
I feel an obligation to orchestrate my going away party. It’s great fun to plan your own funeral. ” Truly sad People get the most out of life”. (Talking Heads) The dark side of humanity enjoys a good roll in the morbid, like a fresh washed country dog wallows in a soft cow pie.
I am torn between the riderless horse with legions of young, handsome uniformed men, marching in perfect step, with spit polished dress shoes, (if spit don’t work it ain’t love) and all of them at half mast. Maybe they fire a cannon or two and beat the drum slowly………
Or the pushed out to sea on a flaming viking ship thing. Everyone could wail and throw copious amounts of ash and sack cloth confetti. And horned helmets….I see horned helmets.
Conceptually, the traditional Tibetan Sky burial would be nice. Your body is hacked into manageable bits and gift wrapped. It is transported to a mountain top as a gift for the birds of prey. Don’t ask me to do this for YOU. I have a great fear of chain saws.
Maybe just the basic burn and urn? I figure once Elvis has left the building it won’t matter much.
I realize that both of you will miss me terribly, the cute way I belch the alphabet after a single beer, the constant, clever, hand biting innuendo, maybe even my Scream of consciousness ravings. But………… you will go on.
Few choose to surrender to grief, and remain in the pyramid as the last 2 ton stone slips into place forever. Over the centuries, this expression of desolation has become viewed as old fashioned and has lost popularity, replaced by a more lackadaisical, I will be along eventually, attitude.
Some perceive death as a problem. There is a move afoot to ban or at least privatize it. Where is the jollity in that?
The first shoots of spring growth are cracking the soil in my garden. If it stays warm, the fresh green tips, will break through. I will shower them with love, attention and the watering can. I will talk to them. The edible looking shoots will darken and stretch. Buds will spring from the center, (clap your hands if you believe), on stubby, CHUBBY, stalks that grows taller every day toward a bright spring sky. The buds will swell, ripen, and begin to split. Moist and rumpled, the blossom will dry and firm and be PERFECT, briefly. As if the whole cycle is for this moment! It is downhill from there. Or is it? It is about the bulb. Blossoms are the legendary bee vaginae of the world. But you knew that.
Just promise to get me up and out once a year as long as I hold together. Let’s resurrect dancing with the dead.