question of death ·
1 November 04

Death is in the air. La la la la la, death is in the air. La la la la la, hmmmmmmm – Death is in the air. No, I’m not going weird. I was thinking about the eventuality and consequence of death, or more specifically my death, and what it means.

See, I don’t know what most people think about before they go to sleep. i don’t know what most people think about when they wake up. You should know what I think when I wake up, and it’s not the most optimistic of thoughts, but it is a realistic thought. I envisage the possibility that this morning may be the last morning I ever have. That after this morning, it will only be night, and I will not wake up, from that ultimate insomnia killer: death.

The questions that struck me were: what happens to my bills if I’m dead? What about all the gear I have? My CDs, DVDs, my PC, monitor all that crap? What about my hosting service, my cash cards? What about the people that know me, how will they find out? How will anyone find out?

I know my parents may possibly be the first to discover my body, wherever it may be. I will likely have some form of identification on me; be it a passport or cash card, or some bank statement I’ve carried with me for the past 10 years. So how will everyone else that needs to find out, find out that I am actually no more; That my existence on this planet has ceased? I don’t know the answer to these questions by I have some theories.

I haven’t experienced 4 million years of torment, so it’ll definitely be a new experience for me. I’d take some snap shots of what it’s like here, but my hands fell off yesterday from disease. The maggots and leeches are starting to itch

Aside from that, I thought I would do some investigating. I’ve been pretty ill of late, I’ve stopped working out and keep seeing bottles of spirits in front of me, asking to be poured in to a shot glass; welcoming the opportunity to burn my chest with their fire. Last night (or in your case this morning since I am a fucking vampire!) I thought about all this crap, and decided that I need to write to those people that may want to know whether I’m dead.

So, tomorrow, when I get up, I will be writing to as many people as I need to, to find:

• How they will find out whether I’m dead?

• Who gets to keep any money in my account if I die?

• If there are any outstanding bills, will they clear those, or will next of kin be likely to pay for them?

• What about Direct Debit payments? Will I still get charged a penalty once I’m dead and the Direct Debit doesn’t go through?

• What about charities that I currently donate to? What happens to them? Could they sue for not having any donations from me? Will they charge an administration fee if they don’t get their donation?
  
  I guess my parents decide what happens to the stuff I already own. So I’ll have to ask them what they have planned for my funeral. I’m just interested really. I’m guessing it will be one of their religious deals, where everyone where’s a hat, prayers are said and everyone goes home for some toast with jam. I would like to dictate my own funeral, but I need money first. I don’t care what particularly happens to my body, as I don’t think I will be needing it in hell; it’ll just make me sweat more.

  Ideally, I’d want to have a party, some sort of metal gig, lots of Goths, drunk people; may be all the stereotypes of what bad people are gather in one place. They can drink to my death, and say, “See you in hell” or something just as beautiful. My mother would be crying, not understanding why I would do this, just to spite her. She’ll try to change things, but by law, if I’ve paid and requested it, in sound state of mind, she will not be allowed to change it.

  What about my friends? Who will tell them? Who’ll tell those friends that I’ve met abroad? What about those people that I had yet to meet before my untimely demise?

  I wish I could record my death; dictate it by writing it down. I would like to keep it in my blog, and somehow my blog is paid for, while I write from hell.
  nextpage->
  
  “Hi guys,

  It’s not as bad as they say it is here. Kurt’s being a bastard, he keeps taking the shotgun and blowing his brains out. Other than, it’s pretty warm down here. I wish they’d get some air conditioning, I swear, if it was any hotter I’d be ash; as it is I’m trying to find all the pieces of skin that have been scorched off.

  The devil’s had a bad reputation I think. Yeah, he’s evil, and sure there are demons and stuff, but once you make it your own, and you get used to it, it’s not such a bad place. I mean, I remember moving from home to home, town to town with my mother and I hated that; but eventually I got used to it.

  Today it’s my turn to suffer 4 million years of torment. I’m sort of looking forward to it, but you know how I am. I probably have the shortest attention span in the world. I know I’ll get bored of it pretty fucking quickly, but I don’t really have a choice. The other option was being alive again, and you know how I hated that.

  Anyway, I haven’t experienced 4 million years of torment, so it’ll definitely be a new experience for me. I’d take some snap shots of what it’s like here, but my hands fell off yesterday from disease. The maggots and leeches are starting to itch, and they don’t really offer any sort of cream to relieve the pain. Still, although it’s a fucking effort typing with the only toe I have left, it’s an experience in itself.

  I hope you’re all doing well, and if you happen to stop by, give me a call in about 4 million years, and I’ll show you around the place. I’ll even take you to the places where you can die with the greatest of pain and horror; I think you’ll like it here.

  Ciao fer now – torment is calling.”

  There’s a couple of other considerations I’ve had. The first is to carry a camera where I go and take at least three pictures, regardless of quality and subject. As I was walking home one day, I was thinking about buying a travel card, and just spontaneously travelling across London all day taking pictures of whatever I wanted, be it people, buildings, skylines; anything really. I didn’t do it in the end, because it was a pretty shitty day; it was raining, I was smoking like a fucking chimney, I was drunk and sleepy. It was also 1 am in the morning and trains tend to stop around that time.
  

  I’ve been pretty ill of late, I’ve stopped working out and keep seeing bottles of spirits in front of me, asking to be poured in to a shot glass; welcoming the opportunity to burn my chest with their fire.

  
  I have a Dictaphone. I used it once, like some sort of teenage journalist. I bought it when I was 14 years old, as I wanted to record interviews and conversation with people that I met in life. It was an ambitious project that I never really took up. I wanted to capture a moment, something that came from their heart, from deep down; a moment where I was out of their hand, and they felt they were talking to the person that understood them the best; themselves. Sometimes, when you’re talking to someone, you’re actually talking about yourself, and you start to reflect. That’s what I wanted to capture. I don’t know why.

  When I was younger, I met a lot of strange people. They were inspirational as much as they were dodgy looking; but they all gave me sound advice about life and death. None of which I remember. I remember what they looked like, barely; eccentric characters, which made you smile, but worried they may paint you as a fucking clown of some sort.

  These people, I met only once, but they’ve left an imprint in my mind. Even at that age I was suicidally depressed (I always have been); but they lifted my spirit just enough to get through a few more hours, just to get over that hurdle that held me back.

  The Dictaphone is still with me. I find it harder and harder to stop thinking, so I’m thinking that having a Dictaphone may provide some immediate relief. Sort of like an asthma pump to relive an attack; it will clear my mind just as the pump would clear my lungs, and it may provide some sort of relief; a degree of sanity that can help me survive just a little longer. The only thing putting me off is how far will I take it? Will it be a case of holding up the Dictaphone to my mouth and saying,
  
  “Star date: 19.11.2004 – This is the Captain of the Starship: Sekhu’s Pants.

  The creatures of the planet keep on moving. My ship and crew have been stranded on some strange planet called Earth; it’s unfamiliar to us. These people seem obsessed with currency, material objects, while their own people – though of different colour – die starving without clean water or food. Colour, something called religion, and money all seem to divide this planet into an materialistic hierarchy.

  Each keep to their own; elitism and social deprivation are never dealt with, instead furthering segregation. The planet is inhospitable; with disease, famine, and natural disasters being caused by the creatures who continually pollute the planet, without logic – assuming that things will fix themselves. These creatures are stupid, and selfish.

  It is my determination that the planet be wiped out, and a new world be created; a world where people creatures that are not so petty and greedy may exist; where co-operation, not survival of the fittest is the rule.”
  
  or perhaps I can be even more annoying….
  
  “Note to self. She has just picked a fight with me, as she feels agitated at my constant talking into the Dictaphone; I feel her stress level increasing, and her eyes are turning red. She has now picked up a knife and is making the statement of “Will you shut the fuck up you bastard!”. I feel this is partially due to the question I posed to her, “Is ugliness your gift, or do you keep it because of it has some sentimental value?”.

  I…..am…now….running…..she…is…still chasing….me. I’m….out of…b…reath. Huh. She seems to have stopped, and I’ve made a little hiding place in the shadows. I never realised a Dictaphone could cause such angst. Fuck! She heard me…..running…again….she’s f….ast….”

  ciao fer now