An uncomfortable amount of death permeated my life last summer. I witnessed the “good” death process of my Uncle Steve, who passed away after a fully realized, abundant 85 years on this planet. Though we would have liked more time with him, we are grateful for the time we had. And I now know what an affirming, restorative funeral feels like.
But I also
know that smart, respectful, loving, sober, 19-year-old girls can die while
driving south on 116 across from Bub’s BBQ at 6:30pm, and that is a hideous
thing Too Unfair to rest your mind on any longer than you possibly have to.
Inconceivable. Horrific. Heartbreaking.
Finally, I
know what it is like to watch children attend their mother’s funeral. If I were
in charge of the Universe, this would never happen. I don’t care about yin and
yang, the balance of the Universe, and all that shit. It’s not Right, and it
shouldn’t happen. No exceptions. Period.
Moving on…
As a result
of this sadly gained, new knowledge, I’ve been thinking a lot about my own
funeral. It’s a hard thing to talk about because you don’t want to jinx things
or create a misunderstanding with the Universe that you are inviting death. So
let me clearly state, I don’t want to die any time soon.
Is this mic
on? Ok, good. If you are listening, Universe, I would like my great-grandchildren
to attend my funeral.
If you are
still listening, I would like to perform comedy more often with people I love
and admire who love and admire me. Oh, and I don’t want to be greedy but while
I have your ear, so to speak, I also would like Michael Franti to sing to me
and 30 of my closest friends on a tropical beach. (There are other things I
would like to do with Michael Franti, but this doesn’t seem to be an
appropriate venue. We can speak again privately, Universe. Thank you.) Oh, shit.
Was the mic still on for that last part? Dammit.
As a writer,
it seems fitting that I should write out my wishes, and particularly apt at
this virtually social-rich time in my life, that they should be published on my
blog which you may read by way of my Facebook page. Live by the status update, die by status update. Speaking of
which, if there is still social media at my passing, my final status update
should be a recycled post of an oldie but goodie like this one: “Sometimes I like to walk around naked with shoes on. It makes
me feel like a fat, old Slavic woman in a rundown Russian bath house.”
As far as
the technical wishes for disposing of my post-Pam body, I absolutely do NOT want
to take up any space on this Earth where a tree could be planted instead. I
don’t really believe that a person lives in or around their physical body after
death; so beyond the aforementioned primary wish, my immediate family should do
with my remains whatever feels best for them. Cremation is fine. One of those
new-fangled “green” burials that I saw on Six
Feet Under would be okay too. I don’t care. If you would like to spread my
ashes and plant a new perennial flower garden over them somewhere in the
country in Massachusetts, that works. If you care to carry them around in a
purple and blue vase, it’s your call. Whatever feels good to you. That’s not
where I’ll be.
Where will I
be after death? If all goes according to plan, I will be in kittens and
laughter. Kittens are Pure Joy in a soft, furry form. I could totally get into spending
eternity sending Light through kitten pounces, snuggles, tiny mews, and those
ridiculously big saucer blinky-blink eyes. But mostly, if I get my wish, I’ll
be in laughter. Preferably in laughing about something I’ve said or something
stupid I did, but failing that opportunity I’ll hang out in laughing about
something stupid you said or did.
I’ll live in laughter at off-color jokes, preferably of the penis-vagina
persuasion, (less so in puns and knock-knock jokes). If you want me to live on,
play with kittens and laugh at least once day but hopefully much more than
that.
Which brings me to my funeral…
I understand
the need to boo-hoo and mourn. It is cathartic and important. Tell stories,
sing songs, and do whatever you need to express sadness. But then you must
laugh at my funeral. Please laugh. And laugh a lot. Tell funny stories. Improvise. Do your best
five-minutes. It doesn’t necessarily have to be about me. Just laugh. I also
would like to request that at least one person tell a completely distasteful
joke or story of epically improper proportions. No need to go all the way to The Aristocrats level, but go ahead and
aim in that direction. Say “fuck” a lot. Be inappropriate. Take off the filter.
After my funeral, you simultaneously should feel spiritually cleansed but also
like you may need to take a shower.
I think it
would be nice if you get the local animal shelter to bring over some kittens
and cats that most need to be adopted. No pressure to take one home right away.
But in my experience, it’s almost impossible to be inconsolably sad in the
presence of a kitten. If a few kittens and, more importantly, adult cats find
good homes at my funeral, well, that would rock really, really hard. I would
love that so much, you guys. I really would.
Franti singing to me and my friends (Northampton, MA - 2012) |
Lastly, I would
like the service to conclude with a very loud playing of Michael Franti’s “Say Hey (I Love You).” It’s not my
favorite song (Jerry Garcia’s rendition of “Dear Prudence” might be my favorite
song, but I also love McCartney’s “Blackbird,” plus obviously pretty much
everything by Michael Franti…), but I think “Say Hey” is best suited for the
message I’d like to send. People have asked me if I’d like Mr. Franti himself
to play at my funeral, and the answer is a resounding “Fuckity fuck NO WAY.” I
would be really fucking pissed if you guys got to hear him in person without me
there. And fuck you because it doesn’t count that I’d be there in spirit. If I
can’t hug him with our very-much-alive, warm, ganja-scented bodies pressed
tightly against each other, I don’t. want. him. there. I hope we’re clear on
that ‘cause I’d fucking haunt your ass otherwise.
So, let’s
see:
Take up no tree
space - check
Kittens –
check
Laughter –
check
Recorded
Michael Franti song – tall, dark and tattooed - checkity check
Ok, we’re
good.
Please share
these wishes with my great-grandchildren.
Thanks.
Peace out.
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