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Jett Superior laid this on you on || July 14, 2009 || 8:54 am

DIY epitaph

One day we all will die. Did anyone remember to tell you that, to tell you that you will expire and let go your skin? I’m sorry to always have to be the one to deliver the hard truths, but the people that love you –really and truly love you– will always tell you the truth.

And oh, I love you, you tender giant of a person.

What would you surrender to be remembered? After what part of yourself would you fashion that memory?

Here is what I know (today, anyway….two weeks from this today could be an entirely different matter): I would like the me of last night, the me that existed around eleven-thirty in the central standard of time, to serve as your memory of me. She had a can of Krylon in one hand, rattling the mixing ball within furiously, a half a fudgsicle in the other, sloppy ponytail bobbing lightly as little white discthings delivered Steppenwolf into her ears. Running-shortsed and tank-topped, she stood with legs approximating two-thirds of an isosceles triangle, right hip jutting slightly, back straight and surveying the piece on the floor.

bite of fudgsicle

shakeshakeshake

purse mouth, squint eyes

dance head up and down near-imperceptably

squat and spray

feel satisfied and …dare I say?… fulfilled

I feel like a god when a piece comes together, like something feral and unkempt and in complete control. That’s how *I* want to be remembered. With bare legs and an imprecise ponytail and a strong sense of self.

3 worked it out »

  1. cIII 7.15.2009

    So it shall be, then.

    ‘Cept, instead of a Fudgsicle, can it be one of those Drumstick frozen novelties? Those are my favorite. I mean it’s your Epitaph and all, but I feel like I’d enjoy it more with a Drumstick.

     
  2. red 7.19.2009

    “One Minute of Night Sky

    John Engman

    I worked for a year in the cellar

    of an airtight clinic, trudged through a valley of cabinets

    in a gray smock. My job was filing bulging folders of the dead:

    I carried a wire basket through the alphabet, dumping envelopes

    of aneurism, cancer and cerebral lesion into yawning racks.

    I could travel decades in a few steps,

    stop and page through a chart until

    I was in the blue hills west of brain damage, dwindling hills

    and rivers of red that met in flatlands on a black horizon,

    ticker tape from a encephalograph. Stapled on last

    reports of death there was a small snapshot from the morgue,

    a face no larger than my thumbprint.

    The work made me sick.

    Reading histories of tumors and fatal transplants

    until the lines on the graphs convulsed and snarled like wiring

    come loose in a circuit for the mind of God. Once, I saw

    close-ups of the malignancy which killed a man my age,

    nothing much on the X-ray,

    a blemish vague as memory,

    a burr which swam through the nervous systems into his brain.

    I could have sworn he was staring back at me from his worn

    snapshot but, of course he wasn’t. He couldn’t. His eyes

    were shut. I put him away with unusual force and heard

    his chart jar the rack, as if something

    small had gone off, a mousetrap.

    The next day I quit. For the first night in weeks, I slept.

    But in my deepest sleep, even now, if the chemicals balance

    and tissues are ripe, a synapse forms the memory: iron

    spring slips, the trap shuts, and my eyes fly open and all

    the darkness around me wakes.

    Supposedly, each human being

    has a built in mechanism for one minute of knowing

    he or she will someday die. One minute of night sky: life

    going on across the street where someone greets darkness

    with tins of food and drink, where someone listens, pauses

    by the door and throws the bolt and lets the animal in.”

     
  3. Coelecanth 7.29.2009

    Recycled blog post. So I’m lazy, what of it?

    I have one really long hair in my right eyebrow. I mean really long, freaky long, maybe six time the length of my regular eyebrow hairs. His name is Dennis. I’ve been aware of him for a decade now in that vague masculine way: “Huh, lookit that. Cool.” After his discovery I never thought about him save when he sat up to take a look around and I had to coax him back into the bushy fold. Live and let live was my strategy.

    My wife and I had been together for a number of years before she notice Dennis. Her reaction was more like someone discovering proof that the Prime Minister is actually a robot. Shock, disbelief and an unholy glee that wouldn’t let her leave well enough alone. She badgered me mercilessly. Badgered? Hell, she downright bobcatted me.

    “Let me pluck it.”

    “No.”

    “Come on….it won’t hurt.”

    “As if. No.”

    “I’ll do [insert dirty act of your choice] if you let me.”

    “Ha. You’d do that anyway, it’s in our marriage contract. No.”

    “If you love me you’d let me.”

    “Hmmmm, let me think about that……NO!”

    She’s a persistent woman that wife o’ mine, but then, I’m pretty stubborn too. I fended her off for weeks. Finally she gave up asking and simply rolled over, grabbed Dennis by his head and yanked him out. “There, isn’t that better?” “Fuck no! And may I say: OW!” Having accomplished the deed that had been upsetting the balance of the the universe by remaining undone she rolled back and slept the sleep of the righteous. I grumbled and rubbed my throbbing eyebrow and plotted folliclular revenge, knowing full well that I didn’t have the guts to carry out any of my schemes.

    Dennis grew back as hairs are wont to do. Maybe not as proud and thick but just as long. I’ve been hiding him from my plucky wife like a drunkard living in a Temperance Hall would his bottle.

    You see, Dennis is a part of me. A tiny part to be sure, perhaps even the most insignificant part, but he’s unique and he’s mine. One day soon enough I’ll be gone. My child will remember me and perhaps my grand children will too, if I’m lucky enough to have them. But that’d be about it. The memory of me, of all the things that made me unique, will eventually fade from this earth and it’ll be as if I never existed. I’ll be damned if I’ll let Dennis be repeatedly plucked until he grows no more. I’ll not let him or anything else that makes me unique fade one second before it has to. I’ll fight entropy, yes, and time itself if I must because there ain’t no afterlife. Not for the likes of me and Dennis.

    I’m perfectly comfortable with this quixotic battle.

    Just don’t tell my wife, okay? Thanks.

     

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