Tuesday, October 05, 2004

WATER MY MOCCASINS / CALLING ALL SPACE CREMATIONS

So far as I can tell, these things don't serve much of a purpose. No utility, no real aesthetic pleasure (at least in this case) and it's frankly pretty ridiculous to presume anybody would be interested in reading about my quotidian experiences. That said, this is American in century 21, and as a result, I guess I share that urge commonly associated with leathery Hollywood types to pay a lot and have my ashes sent in a sleek little capsule out into space. Our history teacher Moya talked about the recovery of women's stories and how it's proved difficult because people don't always necessarily record the trivial things that happen to them (that would actually accurately characterize their lives) and instead only sound off when something sensational or atypical happens. Those Victorian ladies, wheezing through their corsets, left a legacy of dreamy eyed girls with small diaries with heart shaped locks on them filled with extremely erratic entries chronicling not the [extraordinary] ordinary things, but the deaths of pets, the breakups, the momentous slow dances and so forth. Perhaps in this 21st century where we endure robots checking us out of the grocery store, preparing our morning toast, and teaching us Japanese, we suffer from precisely the opposite problem. We've got this funny realm known as cyberspace and since it's not really a place at all (though it's undoubtedly created a strange non-spatial geography of its own) everyone suddenly has something substantial to say. It's a little dangerous, really, as publishing one of these things doesn't really have a lot of consequences. I'm going to send this off to I don't even know where and it's going to sit out there for awhile. What a strange urge, this desire to shoot our ashes into the cosmos. But I guess what it boils down to is that I don't have a lot of better things to do at the moment--I'm tired of reading and my eyes are suffering from tremendous strain and as a result, here I am clacking away wondering if anyone will ever clack back. So if anyone is out there in the Earth's orbit catching some Z's or eagerly eyeing Greenland and you happen to see a rather sleek looking vessel that happens to be an expensive urn carrying my ashes, please take that to be a friendly shout hello and if you'd be so kind, do shout back.

1 comment:

Katiett said...

It's 9:30 on a Saturday night, and I'm shouting back. How embarrassing for me. And for you in knowing me. But this is what happens when you steal my boyfriend and leave me alone. You and your crazy multi-length hair.

He's such a sucker for that.