my will

November 23rd, 2017 § 0 comments § permalink


I have always had this feeling I’m not going to be alive for much longer.

Maybe it’s because I have no money in my savings so picturing getting older is simply scary. Or because I’ve been vaguely suicidal my whole life, even at my happiest, it’s always there if you brush away the dust. Or maybe because the world and universe are entropic and we could all die at any moment.

I will be amazed if I make it past thirty-two. That’s—at most—four years left. Three and a half, really. So I figure it’s time to let you know a few things.

Listen: the first thing I’ll say is that you can read all of my journals. Maybe you can make sense of who I was and what I meant. But also maybe that’s not such a great idea because it could be pretty confusing and bring up some complicated feelings which you can’t talk to me about because I’m dead. So I don’t know, maybe burn them all at my funeral, what do I care, I’m dead, I don’t really get a say in what happens.

Some options of my death include:

  • freezing to death—that honestly sounds like the nicest way to go, plus I’m already always cold
  • somehow I get hold of a gun and blast my head off—I really wouldn’t want anyone I love, or anyone actually, to find that mess—maybe I could get lost in the middle of the woods and just leave a note at home that says “killed myself, don’t go looking for me, love you”
  • cancer—eesh that will be messy and I will have totally deserved it for the way I’ve treated my body
  • aneurysm—see above: world is chaos
  • falling off a cliff while hiking—ok, sure.

Gosh I hope I wasn’t eaten alive or burned alive or basically anything that involves me being like: this is truly the worst thing that has ever happened and I can’t believe how much I’m about to scream. Because, to me, death isn’t the worst thing that can happen. Pain is. And compared to the potential for pain that exists in the world, I’ve been pretty lucky.

Okay, if I could make one request, and then, that’s it, I’ll shut up and not be a controlling dead person, I would really love it if you would distribute my books to my friends and family. Tell them to underline the hell out of whatever they want, to write their name on the title page, and share those books with each other. A book is the best gift you can give a person, because a book contains everything you could ever want. For me, it contained every life I could have hoped to live. So no matter how I go, I will be okay with it. I read, I loved, I wrote, I’m totally fine.

Also, definitely don’t bury me in a stupid coffin. Burn my body or bury it right in the ground. I mean, I don’t really care how you treat my body I just think cemeteries and coffins and embalming are all pretty wasteful. Well actually—the world’s going nowhere fast anyway—so never mind, do whatever makes you feel best.

Also—seriously, the last request—please care for my sweet dog Hen. She won’t remember me but Hen may have been the greatest thing that ever happened to me. Actually, I find myself saying that a lot: this thing, this person, this sweet angel, was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. So I must have lived a pretty great life. I think I knew that, at the time of being alive. And still, like I said, wanting to die was always just a couple of scratches below the surfaces. Who even knows if I killed myself. Well, you probably know at this point. I hope it’s not causing you unnecessary pain.

All that being said: I’m pretty sure it’s all dirt and decomposition from here on out but, if I can, I’ll try to come back as a bluejay or a bluebird or heron or really any kind of blue bird. I’ll definitely try to come back as something blue. It’s entirely possible that you already think of me when you see a really good blue—great! I won’t have to work that hard to get back to you. I’ll just—linger on. Like a ghost. A blue ghost.

Or I’ll try to come back as a bee, gosh even though they’ve all just about disappeared. Actually, that works out nicely: another reminder that bees are precious, that all life is precious, even if it doesn’t mean anything in the whole stretch of the story, preciousness still exists. So I’ll be this precious little honey bee. And if you see me, one day on a hot summer afternoon, when you’d love nothing more than to go swimming in the ocean, and I’m there buzzing and bumping against a glass window, both of us just wishing we could get outside—could you open the window please? And let me fly free? Thanks, love.

TL;DR? 

  • take care of Hen
  • read my books
  • even if it doesn’t make any sense and you’re pretty sure that I am definitely just rotting away, I think that’s okay to look for me and talk to me, if you want or need, that it’s okay to make meaning out of things even if it’s all longterm-meaningless. I mean, why else would I write or read if meaning didn’t help me survive whatever number of years I survived?

And the final, most important point, so important I can’t possibly stress it enough, perhaps the most important thing I did during my short time in existence:

I loved you more intensely than you can possibly imagine.


Catie Rosemurgy Quotes, in Verse

May 2nd, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

Do you want a fucking

                                    meaning nugget?

Here,

Here is your meaning nugget.

Godammit,

G. Stein is a

sweet lady

who kicked the top off that shit

 

Unexpected items in a list—

that’s poetry!!

 

I don’t give a shit what it means it’s cool.

 

Untitled, 1997

April 16th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

Here’s another old one, when I spelled my name like the “e” was just eaten. Clearly a perfectionist and escapist from the start.

 

The mirror has a reflection

I prefer to play perfection

Mirrors come in small, medium and large

Oh how I love to go on the other side

 

by Alli Axel, 1997

The Land of Heartbreak, 2007

April 16th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

I just found this poem in my old email. From September, 2007.

 

The Land of Heartbreak

Dear—

I am writing from a place

Of heart break.

A thousand beats away

I lie to you

Between sheets of golden grass

Wrestling with my heart’s infidelity

As blades bend beneath my weight.

A river runs between (us?)

Separating Routine from

Discovery.

The tumbling waters drown

My apology.

At the bottom, graying with decay,

Waits a young heart.

Watery beats count

One, two, three,

Then—still.

This is the land of heartbreak.

(This heart’s on fire).

Where Am I?

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