I’ve recently felt inclined to write a last will and testament. Whether it be the threat of war that currently hangs over the people of Ukraine like a guillotine’s primed blade, or the chance that one of my own community’s “forgotten men” might decide to push me in front of a subway as casually as one might kick a stone they pass on the walk home, surely you’d agree it is a time defined by mortality? I suppose there isn’t such a thing as any other time, but I’d argue there are times when the dread is omnipresent, as it feels to be now.
Well, at least in my case.
We too easily forget that we created a hunk of metal that can turn us into dust well within the span of a moment. There are thousands of such devices.
I admittedly find myself constantly thinking about my own mortality, consciously living with the knowledge of dying. That’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? We are the only animals unfortunate enough to know that we are finite — temporary.
I wish we were each provided an expiration date at birth, slapped right on our foreheads.
“Don’t bother Dylan, he’s only got another year or so.”
Maybe it’s irrational to think in this manner. I know it can drive someone crazy. Maybe that’s how someone’s chemicals can allow them to push someone else in front of a train?
We never needed a “War on Drugs,” we needed a war on those bad chemicals that make people take drugs in the first place. Our generation is at least trying to address these chemicals now, maybe we can pull off what Nancy Reagan couldn’t.
“Depression? Just say no.”
I eagerly await the arrival of legal dispensaries in my state. I live in New York City, New York. If there’s one thing that can assist in ignoring those thousands of dust making machines it very well might be some “funny cigarettes.” I smoked for the first time in High School, I couldn’t get over how leaves and trees seemed to resemble their own sort of cardiovascular system. When I used to get drunk, all I could think was how good being intoxicated made me feel, and how bad being sober made me feel.
I’ve been sober for 6 months now.
“My Will is easy to decide, for there is nothing to divide
My kin don’t need to fuss and moan — “Moss does not cling to a rolling stone”
My body? — Oh! — If I could choose, I would want to ashes it reduce,
And let The merry breezes blow, my dust to where some flowers grow
Perhaps some fading flower then would come to life and bloom again
This is my Last and Final Will. — Good Luck to All of you, Joe Hill ”
— Joe Hill
Joe Hill was an immigrant laborer from Sweden who joined the Industrial Workers of the World when he arrived in America. He is mainly remembered for writing some of the most celebrated songs to come out of the American labor movement, including “There is Power in the Union” and “The Preacher and the Slave,” the latter of which originated the phrase “pie in the sky.” He was executed by the state of Utah after being convicted on a dubious murder charge. In reality, Joe Hill proved a threat to the business interest of copper miners, so they had the state kill him.
Joe decided against challenging the verdict, all too aware that his death and martyrdom would do more to serve the cause of labor. He was blindfolded, sat in a chair. The shooters cowered behind a wall, stuck their rifles through peepholes. Deputy Shettler, the leader of the band of merry men, called out the orders: “ready, aim…”
Joe finished for him. “Fire — go on and fire!” And they did.
He wrote a letter to “Big Bill” Haywood, a fellow Wobbly. He told him to not “waste any time mourning. Organize.”
That’s a hell of a legacy for a 36 year old man to leave behind.
What would others be able to say about us right now? What would they say about me?
“Dylan was a temperamental son of a bitch with a never-eroding chip on his shoulder. He spent a large portion of his life fighting Goliath, without Goliath even noticing David was hitting him.”
So it goes.
I’m mostly writing in jest. My mom has expressed consistent confusion as to whether my writing should be taken seriously or not.
My response? “Mums the word.”
I’m incredibly grateful to have friends and family that care about me, something that far too many people can not similarly claim. This admittedly puzzles me — who wants to be friends with a temperamental son of a bitch?
I’ve loved and been loved by so many people, was fortunate enough to be born in a time of comparative peacefulness. I have my health, relative financial stability (Prosperity is just around the corner!), and enough good sense to be aware of all of it.
And yet, I still think constantly about the end. The finale. The great gig in the sky.
Fin.
I wish I could have the capacity to believe in some sort of afterlife, but I know enough not to. I don’t judge anyone who finds comfort in such beliefs, as long as they don’t behead or jail those who disagree with them.
I have to be realistic and agree with Joe Hill’s sentiment:
“You will eat, bye and bye,
In that glorious land above the sky,
Work and pray, live on hay,
You’ll get pie in the sky when you die (that’s a lie!)…”
— Joe Hill, “The Preacher and the Slave”
I suppose if I met my end at this moment, my will and testament would look something like this:
“My Will is yours to determine, I won’t bore you with another sermon,
The time spent here has been pleasant and free, I hope to you all this was clear to see,
I wish I’d done more for the good of us all, but my soul has heard ol’ Gabriel’s call,
Up there, I’m sure, I’ll find that ‘great reward,’ in pastures of plenty with no wealth to hoard,
Let me rest somewhere bathed in sun, untouched by man since time begun,
Where the curse of greed finds no fertile soil, and no man is forced to live by needless toil,
My final word is to appreciate all that is nice, so goodbye and good luck, your friend, Dylan Rice”
I’d never claim to be a poet, who would willingly?
Oh, as for my epitaph, just this, exactly as depicted:
To many more years, and to peace on Earth. (At least while I’m still on it. After that, go wild.)
