At my funeral, please just play T.Rex. When it gets late in the night, play the LCD Soundsystem songs that are a little sad, and then, if it feels right, let Bree start a dance party. Sweat and jump and sing the songs we like. At my funeral, please sit around on the floor and give each other manicures, and talk about whales and boys and your favorite trees.
At my funeral, swim naked in the ocean. Smoke cigarettes and collect neat leaves and maybe, if the vibe is there, light off some fireworks from the party drawer. Read all of my diaries. Eat pasta. Play quija, but don’t just try and communicate with ghosts. Communicate with all the yous you used to be and still are, since the past is inside of all of us, like a great big papery onion. At my funeral, draw pictures of each other without letting each other know. Sit outside until the mosquitos are too much for you, and know that I would have gloated about my stinky blood that they never cared for, as always.
At my funeral, take all of my stuff and stack it up in a great big pile and cover it in seeds and compost and let it rot. Bring peonies that you stole from other people’s yards, pick stickers off of fruit with your fingernails, and eat berries off of bushes in the woods. At my funeral, close your eyes, everybody at the same time. Don’t make too much fuss about it. But close your eyes. Do you hear it? Are you there? Did you know that we could all talk to each other like this? Isn’t existing the most marvelous thing?