In the event of my demise, read the Manchester INKLINK!
Whenever I travel, I think about the possibility of death, my death. I know the word “possibility” could be replaced by “certainty,” but I’m talking about dying during a particular period. Morocco is a safe country. I’ll be driving a safe car. I’ll be staying in safe lodgings. Still. Camels get rabi
It’s Tuesday evening. I’m leaving tomorrow to fly to the Sahara Desert. More accurately, I’m flying to Marrakesh, renting a car and driving 600 miles over the Atlas Mountains to the Sahara Desert. My reasons for going are many: a fifth-grade love triangle, a World War II plane crash, my grandmother’s 1923 diary, a fascination with the history of anarchism in the U.S. and some nascent hypotheses about life and death. By and by, over the next few weeks I’ll write about some of these things and why the Sahara Desert is central to them.
Whenever I travel, I think about the possibility of death, my death. I know the word “possibility” could be replaced by “certainty,” but I’m talking about dying during a particular period. Morocco is a safe country. I’ll be driving a safe car. I’ll be staying in safe lodgings. Still. Camels get rabies (I think). Flash floods very occasionally strike the Sahara. Meteors hit the earth.
I can do little to prepare for these eventualities, but I can leave directions for any resulting memorial services, celebrations of life or tribal gatherings in my absence. While I have no intention of dying—ever—here are some notes for those ceremonies.
The vessel my spirit has sloshed around in is now broken beyond repair. A shattered bottle has no value once its wine has seeped into the ground. Please don’t spend one penny more than legally necessary on my corpse. That isn’t me. For this service, no casket, no body—at most a plastic bucket with my ashes, unless it’s possible to just cast that husk out in the woods and let it replenish carrion eaters, bugs and, eventually, the soil.
Some Ground Rules
I am not a born-again Christian, nor a dead-certain believer of any kind. Still, this universe is infinite, so who knows what happens next. I know some people find great comfort and solace in thoughts of an afterlife; who am I to deny them that?
Hence:
If people want to portray me as sitting in heaven, reincarnated as a llama, returned to some huge energy pool or nonexistent, that’s fine. Perhaps they’re all right; more likely, the universe has some kind of surprise planned. The only thing I ask is that no canopy of faith is spread over my life. My life philosophy is pretty much summed up by the Walker Percy quote below.
That said, there is one prayer I say, and that about 78 times a day. “Thank you, God.” This prayer sums up my spiritual practice almost entirely. The thought of mourners chanting this makes me giggle now, so please feel free to intersperse this prayer freely.
Overall, I’d like the feel to be closer to a roast of remembrance than a somnolent reciting of a serious eulogy. Leave that stuff to my future biographers. For now, please re-experience me—warts, farts and all.
At any point in the show, anyone should feel free to grab the mic and tell a story. About me, I hope, rather than how cute their cat is.
I’d much prefer an emcee to a worship leader, although if the Reverend Jacob Young is free, he could do both. Really.
Opening Song:
“Christo Redentor” by Charlie Musselwhite, Donald Byrd or Duke Pearson version.
Message I
I’d love to have someone speak on the following text:
“We are here and it is now. Further than that, all human knowledge is moonshine.”
I suspect Mencken’s original version was bowdlerized to “moonshine” from “bullshit.” Feel free to make that change back.
Funny Stories of Keith’s Walk
My sainthood is well documented. Here, instead, people should tell stories of their encounters with me and how unusual I was. Anything that veers into my kind, generous or physically attractive nature should be shouted down by angry prayers of “Thank you, God.”
Message II:
I’d like for my someone (or a series of someones), to speak for a little bit, using this as the text. It sums up my philosophy succinctly.
“I don’t quite know what we’re doing on this insignificant cinder spinning away in a dark corner of the universe. That is a secret which the high gods have not confided in me. Yet one thing I believe and I believe it with every fiber of my being. A man must live by his lights and do what little he can and do it as best as he can. In this world, goodness is destined to be defeated. But a man must go down fighting. That is the victory. To do anything less is to be less than a man.”
Closing Song
“We Walk On” by Tonio K. I’ve raved and ranted about how great this guy is—now I’ll make a final pitch for it. Bringing in Senor K from his desert retreat or his mountain lair would be best. If that’s not possible, then a tuba orchestra rendition would be acceptable. If all else fails, a live version by local singer will suffice.
Postlude
The chorus of “So Long, It’s Been Good to Know Yuh” by Woody Guthrie. If anyone wants to make up new Keith-specific verses, I’d be happy. If not, so be it. I’d like this to be a singalong with handclapping and roof-raising volume. Since I’d kind of like to not die at all, I’m used to disappointment.
