Idk why I’ve been in this morbid mood, maybe it’s an extended Halloween hangover, but death has been on my mind and my dreams. My dreams have not been about me dying but watching other people, often horrifically. My thoughts have been like, “Well, maybe this is how long you get to live. You seem healthy now but a cancerous foot or a violent sociopath is just around the corner.” When the guy at the liquor store asked me, “Is that it?” I responded, “Seems that way.”
Lately, I’ve been considering end-of-life directives—living will, assigning a Durable Financial Power of Attorney, an Executor of Este (for whatever that does)—and I think I know what I want to happen after the monitor flatlines.
I really just want to be buried in the woods with a casket embedded with mushrooms so that I’m offering up my body to feed the forest. Also, anyone there to put me in the ground has to be ripped on shrooms, psylocibin, having fun as they dig up a hole for me, drop me in, then cover me up and dance their asses off.
IDK if this blog post counts for me stating how my corpse should be disposed of but I’d drop this motherfucker into a court deposition, if it came down to that. I used to say that I didn’t care if I got chopped up and my parts distributed among several dumpsters each labeled with a cryptic clue that was a non sequitur) but I realized family wants some closure other than a cruel joke on local police.
So, whoever shows up for the burial ceremony gets to dig a hole large enough to fit my mushroom casket into, IDK, two-three feet deep? I don’t want anyone to work too hard and the six-feet deep thing is total bullshit. Just enough for the mushrooms to take hold and the critters from scattering my bones—not that I’ll be around to protest that misbehavior. In the meantime, within the midst of their trips, I made a mix to play while they’re dealing with my corpse in the woods. Jamming to my tunes while they throw dirt over me and dance like fiends, lit and glowing like fireflies.
The mix I made rocks, filled with tunes I’ve loved my entire life, less about death and more about my life. Yeah, there’s some death stuff on it but really, I spent my life pretty much obsessed with dark things—the aroma of tombs hanging lightly off me—so there’s a congruence with who I am (or was) and reminds me of something my mom said to me when I was like nine or ten: “You have a sick sense of humor.”
Heh, you need to hear this mix I made for the party thrown in my honor that I won’t attend.