Inspired by Arthur C. Clarke's instructions for his funeral, I thought I should make some notes for my own, even though I hope it's a century away.
No preaching at my funeral, please.
I'm gone.
Don't eulogize me as a saint.
My life was contented and free.
I had the serenity to accept the things I couldn't change,
the wisdom to identify the things I could change
and the courage to admit that I was too lazy to do much about either.
No preaching at my funeral, please.
I'm gone.
Show no attachment to my body.
There was never any more than meat,
fantastic meshes of neurons
that encoded my memories,
that interacted consistently enough
to be recognizable as a personality,
that generated moments of insight
(most kept inside,
some shared,
depending on who had the patience to listen).
For those of you who loved me enough
to pan my dribblings for the few bright specks of intelligence
I am still present...
See,
right there,
neuron number 20,537,713,622 fired
when you thought about
silly verse,
music,
cats,
science,
puzzles,
dark humour...
For everyone else,
You find yourself in a quiet building.
At one end there is a body in a coffin.
There are people here, some tearful.
Try as you might,
you can't help but imagine the chaos
if the recently deceased were to sit up
and announce, "I'm not dead yet."
In case you're wondering,
I'd do that if I could,
Just to see the expressions on your faces.
No preaching at my funeral, please.
I'm gone.
No scripture and no prayers either:
don't speak to each other in that pantomime
of magic communion with a mystic being.
Speak to real people
and share your memories
as finite, fallible, vulnerable humans.
Enrich each other's lives while you can.
No preaching at my funeral, please.
I'm gone.
If any of my organs can be used
to give life to another,
then do it.
I don't need them any more.
In fact I'd be very pleased if you could
donate my brain
in order that some other
less fortunate body
might live.
