When I Die...

When I die I wish not to buried in an exquisite coffin, varnished and glossed, carved with decorative lines, adorned with gold-plated handgrips and gemmed studs, padded with silk and lace, and me spread out in an expensive Italian suit as if I’m going to a wedding. If a coffin is needed, let it be a cheap box of pine or some other inexpensive wood, preferably a type of wood that will deteriorate quickly and expose my decomposing body to Mother Nature’s womb in a proper, timely manner. And dress me, if dress is needed, in an old thin garb fit for a child of the streets. Honestly, I’d prefer not a coffin at all, if that is possible; and naked I entered, why not naked depart? And why should the corpse be lowered so deep – nearly to Hyades itself – where no plant could reach the nourishment of my cadaver? Ideally, if your sentiments require covering then wrap my corpse in a sheet of cotton, drop it in a shallow hole, and plant a tree on top of it: a sturdy tree; preferably one that bears fruit, or one known for its comforting flowers – a Mulberry or a Magnolia. But before bagging me, cut out all that can be used. Excavate the internal organs: heart, lungs, liver, kidneys; pluck out the eyes – astigmatism and all; peel the skin and hair; suck out the bone marrow; and whatever else can be of use to some poor soul in need of something. Then let the remains be food for that tree.

While, at this moment, I’m fond of my body and relish all the sensuous perceptions it allows me – the sweet and the bitter, food and hunger, the vast array of polyphony, the great spectrum of colours, all kinds of textures under my touch, the explosion of orgasms, the sting of snow against my face, the sweat on my brow in summer, the aroma of lilies, the great comfort of deep sleep – I will not miss such things in death for “the dead know not anything, neither have they any more a reward.”

Thus, it is with Knut Hamsun that I pray:

“Oh Lord, I pray thee do not let me die
In a bed with sheets and blankets piled upon
And with dripping noses about me.
Nay, smite me someday without warning,
That headlong I fall into the forest some place
Where no one will come around nosing.
I well know the forest, I am its son,
It will not deny my humble request
To die on its cranberry bog.
Thus will I give back without word of complaint
My mighty cadaver to its creatures all,
To the crows, the rats and the flies.”