This weekend I finished my DVD box set of the last season of Six Feet Under. The final montage (see clip below) was an interesting attempt to express the idea that knowing you’re going to die shouldn’t stop you living (although some of the old age make-up was pretty cheesy).
It’s been a while since I imagined my own funeral. Come on, don’t tell me you’ve never done that. When I was an angsty teenager I had recurring fantasies about hordes of people standing around my casket, weeping and wailing, cursing themselves for not having appreciated me more/recognised my genius/slept with me. “Who’s sorry now, eh? Eh?”
Nowadays, the self-pity having ebbed a little, if I think about that (hopefully distant) day, I can’t really say I have any strong ideas about what I would want it to be like, for the simple reason that funerals are for the living, not the dead. I can’t dictate how (if) people will remember me, and I won’t be there to see or hear it, so I don’t see much point in choosing a poem to be read or a piece of music (sombre? joyous and uplifting?) to be played, or even a location for my remains. That’s best decided by those I leave behind. They know me and I trust them to choose something appropriate.