In 1995, I swore I would never return to academia.
I toyed briefly with the thought of grad school, and then seemed to shock some people by not going. I guess I always seemed the type. At least an MFA, said one of them. I balked.
I had been so sucked dry by Bennington that I just could not imagine school continuing past what I referred to as the 16th grade. I also couldn’t imagine “tests” and having to be judged on some arbitrary numerical system that told me that what I created was an “A,” “B,” and so on.
Then why the hell am I sitting in Los Angeles at the age of 33 considering that I should indeed go to grad school?
Well, I could draw a flow chart or something, but it wouldn’t do you any good. The serpentine path would make no sense. And the majority of it revolves around my fascination with death, design, and maps–like so many other people’s dreams, I am sure.
I’ve been beating myself up for a while on this stalled death book. I write a paragraph; I erase a paragraph. I write a page; I erase 50% of it. I stare at the computer; I read the news on every Web site I can find.
And then, over the last few months, it’s really dawned on me as I struggle with a variety of things that vaguely relate to my “purpose” or whatever you want to call it–the invisible pull toward something. I have always known writing will factor in there somewhere, but I can’t try to make my living that way. And yet, there’s death… sitting there, popping up around me in ways I am sometimes unaware of until I read the pages I’ve written.
Last weekend, I was quite ill–a fever of 103 that literally had me flat on my back, sweating buckets, shivering, crawling to the bathroom to fill my water bottle, too tired to make it downstairs to the kitchen. And in the midst of that fever, I had a flashback to my father’s illness, to the moments when he could do nothing but look at my mother and I from bed, his whole face betraying the labor his body was enduring.
I hate to say I had an epiphany. I am not sure I believe in them. But I sat there in my sweaty stupor unraveling everything that had seemed like a giant knot two days prior, including what had been gnawing at me about death: I simply hated the way, after my father died, I was expected to stand in a sterile national cemetery and look down at a simple brass plaque on the ground, like thousands upon thousands of others, and remember him. In that context, he became no one to me. I couldn’t remember anything–none of his jokes, his long legs in his shorts he wore to play soccer, his incredibly lanky frame stuffed into a Volkswagen Beetle.
So with my fever still raging, I began looking up cemeteries around the country that perform so-called “natural burial.” In short, these spaces are more like parks or land preserves–with plants, trees, animals–in which un-embalmed bodies or cremains are buried, perhaps marked by a rock, some other natural form or object that can be engraved, and left in a space that can be enjoyed by the living as a beautiful sanctuary, a park, a befitting place in which to remember someone.
The one I fell in love with is near Syracuse, NY, one of maybe 5 in the entire country that stay true to this philosophy. It was everything the cemetery where my father is buried was not. Instead of careful manicured, pesticide-fed greenery made banal by row after row of headstones and markers, pinwheeels, vases of flowers, this was somewhat wild, peaceful, and yet carefully considered.
And why aren’t there more of these spaces in the world? Why are we so fucking hung up on pumping bodies full of chemicals, throwing them in hardwood caskets (that help essentially cut down forests) with steel, brass, and bronze fittings and lowering them into the ground, chock full of pictures, jewelry, and gaudy dresses? How much does the funeral industry (which is essentially a handful of major companies–akin to Wal Mart) brainwash us into thinking the best way to remember a loved one is to spend $10,000 at least to never see them “dead” and throw them in the ground of a fake, lifeless place?
Yes, I know. A fever. 103 degrees. Delirious. And yet, I’ve felt this way for a while.
I just never suspected I could actually do anything about it.
Hence the word I had avoided for 12 years: school. Could I combine, say, urban planning, landscape design, environmental studies, and sociology and study ways to build more and more natural cemeteries? Can I possibly convince some people that honoring the people who pass away in our lives should include more than a cheap-looking plot in a corporate-run cemetery?
The spark has been illuminated fully.
I am not sure what’s next. But I feel like there’s some elemental truth to this idea for me. It’s as if it’s inescapable. I never wanted to admit that I thought I was destined to do something that would help others. After all, I tend to hate most people. But there’s that optimist in me. We can always learn, right?
And I can apparently entertain the idea of an academic pulse existing past the 16th grade.
Obelus Projects 