And Those We Leave Behind

The head curator at one of my host museums passed away, unexpectedly, on Orthodox Christmas.

The spectacle of death has such permutations of stage directions, as I briefly mentioned in my last revelation. A death in the US will warrant a wake, a funeral, a buffet spread, and then only the closest family members will visit the gravesite forever and ever, amen. The most "communal" thing might be a general epithet on mortality:

Remember me as you pass by
As you are now, so once was I
As I am now, so must you be
Prepare for death and follow me.

The socially accepted performances here are different. Flowers propagate whenever anyone thinks kindly upon a soul. The gravestones are beautiful, polished granite and marble, engraved by photographic likenesses of the dearly departed in place of Anglo-American cherubs and urns. The performance doesn't depend on personal knowledge of the deceased, but on the amount of respect an individual bears towards that person. Fresh flowers adorn Esenin's (after 85 years), Pushkin's (after 137) feet. I was urged to make a trip to Fayetteville, to J. William's tomb, to make a public display of my appreciation and gratitude for my opportunity to study.

Take this as a living will. When I die, at whatever ritual ceremony takes place, I want a series of eight full-length mirrors to inscribe a semi-circle around my casket, and I want a candle to burn on a low table in front of each (for inspiration, cf. the apparatus used towards the end of the Dr. Who episode "Turn Left"*), and my body, and everyone who sees it, will be reflected. We shall flaunt the tradition! Everyone will see their soul! Everyone will know that they, too, must live and die! Exclamation point!

I think it could be a powerful moment.

<3

Drunk

* 2008, BBC One. Directed by Graeme Harper. Written by Russell T. Davies.