Recent events have me thinking about the inevitable future (NOT taxes).
My life in terms of assets/liabilities is pretty simple these days, so the complicated stuff is thinking about what I'd want in a memorial/funeral service.
The Remains
- Cremated
- Returned to "earth" at Kealakekua Bay, on the Big Island of Hawaii.
I've spent the happiest days of my life in Hawaii, and I have always considered Kealakekua one of my favorite spots.
This should happen at a time when my beloved family and friends could get reasonable get together and share another memory of me in one of the most beautiful places I've ever been.
Swim in the amazing water. Eat some amazing food, and have a Sapphire gin and tonic (with extra lime) for me.
The Service
I'm not a religious person. I don't know if there is a God, and I don't think it matters; if we're to be "judged" after death, judge me on my character and deeds, not on my beliefs.
To paraphrase Groucho Marx:
"I don't want to be in a heaven that would have Pat Robertson or Oral Roberts as a member."
And while I know members of my family would take comfort in something religious, I would feel hypocritical and wasteful to have a Catholic funeral service.
While I like the ritual and tradition that a Catholic service offers, I'd prefer to have attendees taking comfort in one another and (hopefully) thinking about good times with me.
I'd rather have a superb emcee than a priest leading things ... and the memorials I've found most memorable and moving where those lots of shared memories from family and friends of all the person's life-eras.
The Soundtrack
Music is a huge part of my life, and I often joke about what song is "now playing in the soundtrack of my life."
So, here is the soundtrack of my memorial, more or less in order. I imagine a few speakers, sharing memories of thoughts about their role in my life (or mine in theirs), between songs.
"You Can't Always Get What You Want" - The Rolling Stones
I know some will think this a little cliche, since "The Big Chill," but if it's not being played at the service, I'm thinking it.
I think we open the service with this song ... it's long enough and would be a good "call to seats" for the attendees:
"In My Life" - The Beatles
I remember thinking how much this song meant to me when I was 18. EIGHTEEN!?
I was so blessed to have had this life - the people and experiences -- and I've shown you the gratitude I feel.
"The Long and Winding Road" - The Beatles
A sentimental guilty pleasure ...
"Let it Be" - The Beatles
Because I love this song.
"Forever Young" - Bob Dylan
Because I love this song, not because I lived the sentiment, though I will continue to try:
"Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World" - Israel Kamakawiwo'ole
I heard a National Public Radio tribute in to Israel Kamakawiwo'ole on his death in 1997, during which, they played this amazing recording.
I think this is the right song to close with. Joyous and poignant, it's always made me smile.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Perfection Wasted: R.I.P. Joshua
A friend got news yesterday that her son, Joshua, had been killed by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan.
I never met Joshua. But all the day long, I've found myself in moments of grief and tears ... for his loss, the agony his mother must be feeling, and (selfishly) for myself, imagining how I would feel if I ever got news of the death of one of my precious daughters.
I lost a buddy from basic training in the first war in Iraq in 1991, and though I grieved for him, and still honor him every Memorial Day, his death didn't affect me the way Joshua's death did.
You see, I wasn't a parent yet.
And Joshua's death has me considering the agony of all the other mothers and fathers and siblings and grandparents who have had to endure the death of a loved one.
The grief is made the worse by my frustration over the lack of any clear, achievable end to the fighting in Afghanistan, and the inevitability of the world's loss of many more men and women such as Joshua.
So, curse you, George W. Bush. And curse your your administration, which initiated this deadly and wasteful folly in Afghanistan and Iraq.
May history show you for what you are, and condemn you for the debacle, debt, death and anguish you leave as a legacy for generations.
To Joshua ... whom I never met.
Perfection Wasted
By John Updike
And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market --
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched
in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,
their tears confused with their diamond earrings,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories
packed in the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That's it: no one;
imitators and descendants aren't the same.
I never met Joshua. But all the day long, I've found myself in moments of grief and tears ... for his loss, the agony his mother must be feeling, and (selfishly) for myself, imagining how I would feel if I ever got news of the death of one of my precious daughters.
I lost a buddy from basic training in the first war in Iraq in 1991, and though I grieved for him, and still honor him every Memorial Day, his death didn't affect me the way Joshua's death did.
You see, I wasn't a parent yet.
And Joshua's death has me considering the agony of all the other mothers and fathers and siblings and grandparents who have had to endure the death of a loved one.
The grief is made the worse by my frustration over the lack of any clear, achievable end to the fighting in Afghanistan, and the inevitability of the world's loss of many more men and women such as Joshua.
So, curse you, George W. Bush. And curse your your administration, which initiated this deadly and wasteful folly in Afghanistan and Iraq.
May history show you for what you are, and condemn you for the debacle, debt, death and anguish you leave as a legacy for generations.
To Joshua ... whom I never met.
Perfection Wasted
By John Updike
And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market --
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched
in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,
their tears confused with their diamond earrings,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories
packed in the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That's it: no one;
imitators and descendants aren't the same.
Monday, August 30, 2010
How to Be Alone
A friend today shared with me a link to a remarkable work that I cannot stop thinking about. (I'll share it in a moment -- give me a second to reflect here).
I've been adjusting to a mostly solitary life for the past 2 1/2 years, and I've learned the distinction between "Alone" and "Lonely," and most importantly, that they don't always go together.
So there I was, on my birthday two years ago, alone for the first time on my birthday in 43 years, and ... lonesome.
Thirty minutes later, after a wave of greetings and instant messages from friends online, I was still as alone as before, but no longer lonely.
Now -- please enjoy this fantastic poem from Canadian poet Tanya Davis; and be sure and click on the link to the short film of her work.
HOW TO BE ALONE
by Tanya Davis
If you are at first lonely, be patient. If you've not been alone much, or if when you were, you weren't okay with it, then just wait. You'll find it's fine to be alone once you're embracing it.
We could start with the acceptable places, the bathroom, the coffee shop, the library. Where you can stall and read the paper, where you can get your caffeine fix and sit and stay there. Where you can browse the stacks and smell the books. You're not supposed to talk much anyway so it's safe there.
There's also the gym. If you're shy you could hang out with yourself in mirrors, you could put headphones in.
And there's public transportation, because we all gotta go places.
And there's prayer and meditation. No one will think less if you're hanging with your breath seeking peace and salvation.
Start simple. Things you may have previously based on your avoid being alone principals.
The lunch counter. Where you will be surrounded by chow-downers. Employees who only have an hour and their spouses work across town and so they -- like you -- will be alone.
Resist the urge to hang out with your cell phone.
When you are comfortable with eat lunch and run, take yourself out for dinner. A restaurant with linen and silverware. You're no less intriguing a person when you're eating solo dessert to cleaning the whipped cream from the dish with your finger. In fact some people at full tables will wish they were where you were.
Go to the movies. Where it is dark and soothing. Alone in your seat amidst a fleeting community. And then, take yourself out dancing to a club where no one knows you. Stand on the outside of the floor till the lights convince you more and more and the music shows you. Dance like no one's watching... because, they're probably not. And, if they are, assume it is with best of human intentions. The way bodies move genuinely to beats is, after all, gorgeous and affecting. Dance until you're sweating, and beads of perspiration remind you of life's best things, down your back like a brook of blessings.
Go to the woods alone, and the trees and squirrels will watch for you.
Go to an unfamiliar city, roam the streets, there're always statues to talk to and benches made for sitting give strangers a shared existence if only for a minute and these moments can be so uplifting and the conversations you get in by sitting alone on benches might've never happened had you not been there by yourself
Society is afraid of alonedom, like lonely hearts are wasting away in basements, like people must have problems if, after a while, nobody is dating them. but lonely is a freedom that breathes easy and weightless and lonely is healing if you make it.
You could stand, swathed by groups and mobs or hold hands with your partner, look both further and farther in the endless quest for company. But no one's in your head and by the time you translate your thoughts, some essence of them may be lost or perhaps it is just kept.
Perhaps in the interest of loving oneself, perhaps all those sappy slogans from preschool over to high school's groaning were tokens for holding the lonely at bay. Cuz if you're happy in your head than solitude is blessed and alone is okay.
It's okay if no one believes like you. All experience is unique, no one has the same synapses, can't think like you, for this be relieved, keeps things interesting life's magic things in reach.
And it doesn't mean you're not connected, that community's not present, just take the perspective you get from being one person in one head and feel the effects of it. take silence and respect it. if you have an art that needs a practice, stop neglecting it. if your family doesn't get you, or religious sect is not meant for you, don't obsess about it.
you could be in an instant surrounded if you needed it
If your heart is bleeding make the best of it
There is heat in freezing, be a testament.
I've been adjusting to a mostly solitary life for the past 2 1/2 years, and I've learned the distinction between "Alone" and "Lonely," and most importantly, that they don't always go together.
So there I was, on my birthday two years ago, alone for the first time on my birthday in 43 years, and ... lonesome.
Thirty minutes later, after a wave of greetings and instant messages from friends online, I was still as alone as before, but no longer lonely.
Now -- please enjoy this fantastic poem from Canadian poet Tanya Davis; and be sure and click on the link to the short film of her work.
HOW TO BE ALONE
by Tanya Davis
If you are at first lonely, be patient. If you've not been alone much, or if when you were, you weren't okay with it, then just wait. You'll find it's fine to be alone once you're embracing it.
We could start with the acceptable places, the bathroom, the coffee shop, the library. Where you can stall and read the paper, where you can get your caffeine fix and sit and stay there. Where you can browse the stacks and smell the books. You're not supposed to talk much anyway so it's safe there.
There's also the gym. If you're shy you could hang out with yourself in mirrors, you could put headphones in.
And there's public transportation, because we all gotta go places.
And there's prayer and meditation. No one will think less if you're hanging with your breath seeking peace and salvation.
Start simple. Things you may have previously based on your avoid being alone principals.
The lunch counter. Where you will be surrounded by chow-downers. Employees who only have an hour and their spouses work across town and so they -- like you -- will be alone.
Resist the urge to hang out with your cell phone.
When you are comfortable with eat lunch and run, take yourself out for dinner. A restaurant with linen and silverware. You're no less intriguing a person when you're eating solo dessert to cleaning the whipped cream from the dish with your finger. In fact some people at full tables will wish they were where you were.
Go to the movies. Where it is dark and soothing. Alone in your seat amidst a fleeting community. And then, take yourself out dancing to a club where no one knows you. Stand on the outside of the floor till the lights convince you more and more and the music shows you. Dance like no one's watching... because, they're probably not. And, if they are, assume it is with best of human intentions. The way bodies move genuinely to beats is, after all, gorgeous and affecting. Dance until you're sweating, and beads of perspiration remind you of life's best things, down your back like a brook of blessings.
Go to the woods alone, and the trees and squirrels will watch for you.
Go to an unfamiliar city, roam the streets, there're always statues to talk to and benches made for sitting give strangers a shared existence if only for a minute and these moments can be so uplifting and the conversations you get in by sitting alone on benches might've never happened had you not been there by yourself
Society is afraid of alonedom, like lonely hearts are wasting away in basements, like people must have problems if, after a while, nobody is dating them. but lonely is a freedom that breathes easy and weightless and lonely is healing if you make it.
You could stand, swathed by groups and mobs or hold hands with your partner, look both further and farther in the endless quest for company. But no one's in your head and by the time you translate your thoughts, some essence of them may be lost or perhaps it is just kept.
Perhaps in the interest of loving oneself, perhaps all those sappy slogans from preschool over to high school's groaning were tokens for holding the lonely at bay. Cuz if you're happy in your head than solitude is blessed and alone is okay.
It's okay if no one believes like you. All experience is unique, no one has the same synapses, can't think like you, for this be relieved, keeps things interesting life's magic things in reach.
And it doesn't mean you're not connected, that community's not present, just take the perspective you get from being one person in one head and feel the effects of it. take silence and respect it. if you have an art that needs a practice, stop neglecting it. if your family doesn't get you, or religious sect is not meant for you, don't obsess about it.
you could be in an instant surrounded if you needed it
If your heart is bleeding make the best of it
There is heat in freezing, be a testament.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Time in a Beerbottle
In my several careers so far, I've worked with hundreds of people, nearly all of whom have contributed to the person I am.
Of course, in each workplace, some individuals have had much larger impacts than others.
Today, the birthday of American poet Charles Bukowski, has me thinking of one of these individuals.
S.L. Sanger was a reporter for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer newspaper. It was he who introduced me to Bukowski's work, and possibly instilled in me the restlessness I've struggled with in my work over these past 23 years.
I met Sanger (that's what everybody called him, including ex-wives, girlfriends, and co-workers) in the summer of 1987 on my first day as an intern reporter at the vaunted (and lamented, at least by me) P-I.
Under the auspices of the Joint Operating Agreement with the rival Seattle Times, the newspaper had just moved from its gritty offices to the posh (and very corporate) building on Elliott Avenue, near the waterfront and adjacent to Myrtle Edwards Park.
This newsroom was a strange mix of "newspapermen" (NOT gender-specific -- think characters from the "Lou Grant" series) and "journalists" (more polished, fancy-pants types).
I can still see/hear many of the former in my mind's eye - Sanger, of course; Dan Coughlin; Jon Hahn; Jean Godden; Grant Haller, Phil Webber, and many others whose names I've forgotten but who have merged into a composite of crusty, cussing, cynical, and colorful newsroom types.
One day early in my 12-week internship, I found myself using the telephone at Sanger's desk.
On the desk was a photocopy of the Bukowski poem below.
I remember asking Sanger about it. While I don't recall his response, I do recall spending several evenings at the Blue Moon Tavern, talking about life and work -- his history and future plans, my future plans.
Sanger left the P.I. after I had moved on, and I last heard from him when he was in the Midwest working on a book. I still have a letter I received from him while he was back there, in the dwindling collection of mementos I keep as life continues its course.
Next to his letter is a copy of HIS photocopy of the Bukowski poem below.
I can't say precisely what about this poem appeals to me so strongly, but I think its the mingling of misery and hopefulness all at once, in simple and vivid terms.
Read it aloud.
beerbottle
By Charles Bukowski
a very miraculous thing just happened:
my beerbottle flipped over backwards
and landed on its bottom on the floor,
and I have set it upon the table to foam down,
but the photos were not so lucky today
and there is a small slit along the leather
of my left shoe, but it's all very simple:
we cannot acquire too much: there are laws
we know nothing of, all manner of nudges
set us to burning or freezing; what sets
the blackbird in the cat's mouth
is not for us to say, or why some men
are jailed like pet squirrels
while others nuzzle in enormous breasts
through endless nights - this is the
task and the terror, and we are not
taught why. still, it's lucky the bottle
landed straightside up, and although
I have one of wine and one of whiskey,
this foretells, somehow, a good night,
and perhaps tomorrow my nose will be longer:
new shoes, less rain, more poems.
Of course, in each workplace, some individuals have had much larger impacts than others.
Today, the birthday of American poet Charles Bukowski, has me thinking of one of these individuals.
S.L. Sanger was a reporter for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer newspaper. It was he who introduced me to Bukowski's work, and possibly instilled in me the restlessness I've struggled with in my work over these past 23 years.
I met Sanger (that's what everybody called him, including ex-wives, girlfriends, and co-workers) in the summer of 1987 on my first day as an intern reporter at the vaunted (and lamented, at least by me) P-I.
Under the auspices of the Joint Operating Agreement with the rival Seattle Times, the newspaper had just moved from its gritty offices to the posh (and very corporate) building on Elliott Avenue, near the waterfront and adjacent to Myrtle Edwards Park.
This newsroom was a strange mix of "newspapermen" (NOT gender-specific -- think characters from the "Lou Grant" series) and "journalists" (more polished, fancy-pants types).
I can still see/hear many of the former in my mind's eye - Sanger, of course; Dan Coughlin; Jon Hahn; Jean Godden; Grant Haller, Phil Webber, and many others whose names I've forgotten but who have merged into a composite of crusty, cussing, cynical, and colorful newsroom types.
One day early in my 12-week internship, I found myself using the telephone at Sanger's desk.
On the desk was a photocopy of the Bukowski poem below.
I remember asking Sanger about it. While I don't recall his response, I do recall spending several evenings at the Blue Moon Tavern, talking about life and work -- his history and future plans, my future plans.
Sanger left the P.I. after I had moved on, and I last heard from him when he was in the Midwest working on a book. I still have a letter I received from him while he was back there, in the dwindling collection of mementos I keep as life continues its course.
Next to his letter is a copy of HIS photocopy of the Bukowski poem below.
I can't say precisely what about this poem appeals to me so strongly, but I think its the mingling of misery and hopefulness all at once, in simple and vivid terms.
Read it aloud.
beerbottle
By Charles Bukowski
a very miraculous thing just happened:
my beerbottle flipped over backwards
and landed on its bottom on the floor,
and I have set it upon the table to foam down,
but the photos were not so lucky today
and there is a small slit along the leather
of my left shoe, but it's all very simple:
we cannot acquire too much: there are laws
we know nothing of, all manner of nudges
set us to burning or freezing; what sets
the blackbird in the cat's mouth
is not for us to say, or why some men
are jailed like pet squirrels
while others nuzzle in enormous breasts
through endless nights - this is the
task and the terror, and we are not
taught why. still, it's lucky the bottle
landed straightside up, and although
I have one of wine and one of whiskey,
this foretells, somehow, a good night,
and perhaps tomorrow my nose will be longer:
new shoes, less rain, more poems.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Get Busy Living, or Get Busy Dying
The company where I work laid off a bunch more people this week. A bunch of friends and former colleagues were among those affected by the cuts.
One of them shared with me this poem (in the original Spanish). I found several translations, none of which were great, so here is a hybridized version of the best of them
Die Slowly
by Pablo Neruda
He who becomes the slave of habit,
who follows the same routes every day,
who never changes pace,
who does not risk and change the color of his clothes,
who does not speak and does not experience, dies slowly.
He who shuns passion,
who prefers black on white,
and the dot on the i rather than the whirlpool of emotions,
the kind that make your eyes glimmer,
that turn a yawn into a smile,
that make the heart pound in the face of mistakes and feelings, dies slowly.
He who does not turn things topsy-turvy,
who is unhappy at work,
who does not risk certainty for uncertainty,
to thus follow a dream,
who does not forgo sound advice at least once in his life, dies slowly.
He who does not travel,
who does not read,
who does not listen to music,
who does not find grace in himself, dies slowly.
He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem,
who does not allow himself to be helped,
who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck,
about the rain that never stops, dies slowly.
He who abandons a project before starting it,
who fails to ask questions on subjects he does not know,
he who does not reply when asked something he does know, dies slowly.
Avoid death in small doses,
and remind ourselves that living
is an effort far greater
than the simple fact of breathing.
Only a burning patience will win a splendid happiness.
One of them shared with me this poem (in the original Spanish). I found several translations, none of which were great, so here is a hybridized version of the best of them
Die Slowly
by Pablo Neruda
He who becomes the slave of habit,
who follows the same routes every day,
who never changes pace,
who does not risk and change the color of his clothes,
who does not speak and does not experience, dies slowly.
He who shuns passion,
who prefers black on white,
and the dot on the i rather than the whirlpool of emotions,
the kind that make your eyes glimmer,
that turn a yawn into a smile,
that make the heart pound in the face of mistakes and feelings, dies slowly.
He who does not turn things topsy-turvy,
who is unhappy at work,
who does not risk certainty for uncertainty,
to thus follow a dream,
who does not forgo sound advice at least once in his life, dies slowly.
He who does not travel,
who does not read,
who does not listen to music,
who does not find grace in himself, dies slowly.
He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem,
who does not allow himself to be helped,
who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck,
about the rain that never stops, dies slowly.
He who abandons a project before starting it,
who fails to ask questions on subjects he does not know,
he who does not reply when asked something he does know, dies slowly.
Avoid death in small doses,
and remind ourselves that living
is an effort far greater
than the simple fact of breathing.
Only a burning patience will win a splendid happiness.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
A carrot, an egg, and some coffee beans
Michelle Myers is a DJ at Seattle's remarkable public radio station KEXP.
After each week's show, she sends an e-mail to fans with her playlist, and usually some wisdom she's gleaned throughout the previous week.
This week, she shared a great parable received from a listener.
It is so relevant to me and some people I care about, I had to capture it and share.
Turning to her daughter, she asked, "Tell me what you see." Carrots, eggs, and coffee," she replied.
Her mother brought her closer and asked her to feel the carrots. She did and noted that they were soft. The mother then asked the daughter to take an egg and break it. After pulling off the shell, she observed the hardboiled egg. Finally, the mother asked the daughter to sip the coffee. The daughter smiled as she tasted its rich aroma. The daughter then asked, "What does it mean?"
After each week's show, she sends an e-mail to fans with her playlist, and usually some wisdom she's gleaned throughout the previous week.
This week, she shared a great parable received from a listener.
It is so relevant to me and some people I care about, I had to capture it and share.
--------------------------------------------------
A carrot, an egg and a cup of coffee...
A carrot, an egg and a cup of coffee...
A young woman went to her mother and told her about her life and how things were so hard for her. She did not know how she was going to make it and wanted to give up. She was tired of fighting and struggling. It seemed as one problem was solved, a new one arose.
Her mother took her to the kitchen. She filled three pots with water and placed each on a high fire. Soon the pots came to boil. In the first placed carrots, in the second she placed eggs, and in the last she placed ground coffee beans. She let them sit and boil, without saying a word.
In about twenty minutes she turned off the burners. She fished the carrots out and placed them in a bowl. She pulled the eggs out and placed them in a bowl. Then she ladled the coffee out and placed it in bowl.
Turning to her daughter, she asked, "Tell me what you see." Carrots, eggs, and coffee," she replied.
Her mother brought her closer and asked her to feel the carrots. She did and noted that they were soft. The mother then asked the daughter to take an egg and break it. After pulling off the shell, she observed the hardboiled egg. Finally, the mother asked the daughter to sip the coffee. The daughter smiled as she tasted its rich aroma. The daughter then asked, "What does it mean?"
Her mother explained that each of these objects had faced the same adversity. Boiling water. Each reacted differently.
The carrot went in strong, hard, and unrelenting. However, after being subjected to the boiling water, it softened and became weak.
The egg had been fragile. Its thin outer shell had protected its liquid interior, but after sitting through the boiling water, its inside became hardened.
The ground coffee beans were unique, however. After they were in the boiling water, they had changed the water.
Which are you?" she asked her daughter. "When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?"
Think of this: Which am I?
Am I the carrot that seems strong, but with pain and adversity do I wilt and become soft and lose my strength?
Am I the egg that starts with a malleable heart, but changes with the heat? Did I have a fluid spirit, but after a death, a breakup, a financial hardship or some other trial, have I become hardened and stiff? Does my shell look the same, but on the inside am I bitter and tough with a stiff spirit and hardened heart?
Or am I like the coffee bean? The bean actually changes the hot water, the very circumstance that brings the pain. When the water gets hot, it releases the fragrance and flavor.
If you are like the bean, when things are at their worst, you get better and change the situation around you.
If you are like the bean, when things are at their worst, you get better and change the situation around you.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)