Knatz.com / Teaching / Personal /
@ K. 2001 06 02
It is my will that when I die my body be chopped up and fed to my beloved fishes:
preferably to my beloved bass, and bluegills,
preferably on my beloved Lake Istokpoga.
Pencil-reeds, off Lake Blvd
2014 12 10 (See below for a real update to my true will, the potentially legal one.)
I don’t blame anyone who doesn’t feel like doing this for me: after all, I can’t pay any of you. And who these days is used to putting their hands in human gore up to the elbows? Maybe a doctor would do it, or a soldier.
If boat traffic keeps increasing on Lake Istokpoga, then forget I ever mentioned it. Maybe there would still be a little patch of my beloved Everglades where pencil-reeds still stand thick enough for a misanthropic fisherman to fish unobserved.
Just bury me on top of Marilyn Monroe.
(I have to confess though: maybe it’s my age, creeping up on 70 this 2008 04 23 as I finally revise this old and unsuccessful file a bit. Just recently I’ve been wading, alone, unobserved in my intention, but make such a ruckus when I hook a nice bass that by the time I bring the fish to my hand there will be packs of people gathered to watch, pedestrians who heard my whoops, girls with a camera to take my picture, tourists who just happened to have strolled to the shore in my area just as I hook a good ‘un. Even a hermit appreciates an occasional audience, especially if the audience was not invited (at least not consciously).
I hope the exit is joyful and I hope never to return.
It was a joke, like so much of pk’s writing: because the society and its laws don’t care what my will is; they care what their laws are: and I’m supposed to fit the Procrustean-cookie-cutter bed. No, no: you can choose Chevy or Ford, but you can’t walk to the river: traffic comes first, we have to choke ourselves with hardware. You can be buried in a coffin which you buy from the licensed mortician or you can be burned, your ashes put in an urn which you buy from the licensed mortician. No, no one cares what your will is: except as it coincides with the familiar prescription. Getting cremation approved took forever.
funeral pyre, New Delhi
I don’t want to be buried: I’ve spent enough time lying down.
2013 05 09 Yesterday Jan was prodding me about making a Living Will. I reminded her to put me on hers: third surrogate to make sure the medical industry doesn’t empty the estate keeping her vegetable corpse alive once her mind is gone. She has one, a living will, but it’s out of date. I have none: I fussed with my dear Catherine over hers, but that was a decade ago. And when Catherine was alive, I fussed over my normal will, making sure that she and Brian got any materials left over from my passing: feed me to the fish, and give anything else to my patron Catherine: she’ll get what’s appropriate to my son, bk.
Well, I gotta do both those things: make my will, and make a living will: Pull the Damn Plug, if I can’t.
If I can’t pull the damn plug, then it isn’t me: kill it! and stomp on those vermin parasites trying to destroy the earth to keep a state trickling money to the experts in my name. Stomp all of them, but let poor pk die and decay, feeding the fish, the lake, the gators: renewing life, not spending it, wasting it, selfish bastards.
Here follows the original pk “Will” module, subject to editing in the future, possibly trashing.
2003 03 04 I fear this piece isn’t as funny as I meant it to be. I also fear that the older I get, the more far out my comedy becomes, sometimes approaching (or even passing) Andy Kaufman’s crowd stunners. I’ll try to make time to rewrite: grossly shortening. In the meantime, just know that I want my dead body to be chopped up and fed to the fishes: especially my beloved bass and bluegills. About that part I am dead serious. About my conviction that the state and its factitious laws have no business interfering with my will I am also dead serious.
2005 12 05 Well, I still haven’t shortened it. Today though I see that John Grisham’s The Broker has the Mossad planning to kill his protagonist and feed him to the fish of Lake Geneva. It just occurred to me: maybe the Mafia won’t go quite to God’s deepest part of hell: they feed humans to the fish too. I now see a note to myself reminding me to make some point about Howards End here. Damned if I remember what point though.
I, pk, being of sound mind and rational disposition, here write my will, my testament.
I will my body to my beloved fishes. Once dead I would like to be chopped up into little pieces, bluegill-sized morsels, and fed, the tidbits distributed one at a time to likely bluegill hiding places on my home waters. I will that 10% of my body be distributed along the pencil-reeds of Grassy Island on Lake Istokpoga. Another 5% should go amid the spatterdock lily pads of that same Grassy Island. Don’t worry if the bass take some: they should.
Another 10% of me should go amid the bulrushes and pencil-reeds along Istokpoga’s north shore due north of Grassy Island (perhaps a shade to the north-east).
The reason for living was to get ready to stay dead a long time.
5% should go to the reeds along the north east shore. Another 5% may go to the cattail weed line along that same shore.
2005 12 05 You know, sleep is nice, sleep is wonderful. How can death not be better?
I can see how kids could think that this universe is real, this life important, but how can any adult believe that for one second?
2008 06 18 This module sat for many years in my personal section. Today I move it among my Teaching / Society / Survival / Culture modules: burying the dead as an attempt to preserve the dead individual, to thwart decay, is an ancient human practice and is I believe deeply pathological. With a few thousand or a few million humans on the earth it hardly matters, but our harms are way off scale now.
2013 08 14 The other day a medical insurance guy was here, asked me if I had life insurance. No, never have. Who’s gonna pay to buy you? he asked me. Nobody, I answered. He made the shortest exit he could fumble.
I have never been able to find a straight man. The right straight man could have gotten very funny, profound answers from me. But communication would have to be possible in the first place: they’d have to be human, intelligence, have a sense of irony, be open to facts: be willing to launch from some sense of my life and experience.
Only a Nazi would steal the Jew’s livelihood, then the Jew’s piano, the the Jew’s gold teeth: then be indignant if the Jew isn’t contributing to the Nazi party! Jesus owes nothing to the Temple once they’ve crucified him.
2014 12 10 I recently, currently, went over my will with my beloved Jan, emailed my son, bk, to update him: I’d proposed making Jan my sole heir with the understanding that she’d see that bk got whatever he wanted, wasn’t saddled with whatever he didn’t want. She said No, just give everything to bk. I reminded her that Catherine had simplified my getting her stuff by putting my name as “Or” on all her tites: when she died, 2004, it was already mine!
I don’t own anything of recognized importantce: my house, my car: not worth much. My house is worth much more now thanks to Jan renovating things for me, but still not much. I haven’t yet, but do intend to: curses on anyone who would interfer with the simplicity of my son taking what he wants, leaving what he doesn’t.
I wish that bk did respect my files, my accumulated testaments against my society, but when I’m dead that’s up to him.
I really do wish someone would chop me up and feed me to the fish: now Jan’s lake Charlotte would do as well as Lake Istokpoga. But I also understand that the society doesn’t give a damn what my real will is, it will do what IT wants.