The Proper Way to Die (Part 5/7)

6. The Memory Will Never Die

And so, after bidding my loved ones a teary farewell, I close my eyes and enter the next dimension a la Dragonball Z.
But how am I to be remembered?
That's where the funeral comes in.
I used to want to be cremated and then have my ashes buried because fire is possibly the most amazing thing on the planet. At least, that's what cartoons taught me. And if the ashes were buried, then people could still visit, maybe leave a few flowers now and then.
But then I realized that if on the off-chance that I wasn't really dead, just comatose, being set on fire is not the best way to go. Neither is being buried alive, but at least I get a fighting chance. Edgar Allen Poe probably wouldn't agree. The guy was obsessed with being buried alive. In his stories, the very idea is terrifying. It's a recurring motif though. You'll find it in The Cask of Amontillado, The Fall of the House of Usher and, of course, The Premature Burial.
So, burial it is.
Epitaphs are important. A lot of people write their own epitaphs. It could be something really deep and ominous like Shakespeare's:

Good friend for Jesus sake forbear,
To dig the dust enclosed here.
Blessed be the man that spares these stones,
And cursed be he that moves my bones.

Some believe that the purpose of the threat is to guard Shakespeare's biggest secret - that he never wrote any of his plays.
Many people believe Shakespeare was just a frontman for someone else who wrote his plays but didn't want attention for it. And some even believe clues to the identity of the real author are buried with Shakespeare's bones. A certain Delia Bacon almost dug up his grave to find out, but eventually chickened out. maybe she doubted her theory. Maybe the curse scared her away. Who knows?
So yeah, maybe I should have a scary epitaph on my tombstone.
Or it could be something devastatingly funny like Spike Milligan's:

I told you I was ill.

Given a choice, I'd prefer funny and memorable, but a meaningful epitaph is pretty enticing. I'll get back to you on that one.
I actually wrote an entire poem in the form of an epitaph. It's on this blog. Look for The Tombstone Talks. Actually, here's a link.
Now another great thing about a slow death is that I get to plan out my own funeral. Unlike Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, not everyone has the luxury of witnessing their own funeral, so at least this way I'd get a vague idea.
My model is Douglas Adams' funeral. Moving speeches by noted personalities and musical performances by famous artists (all of them friends, naturally). The speeches should be funny and nostalgic. Nothing too weepy. The songs? That's more complicated. There's such a long list of songs that I'd love to have played. I'd rather not go into it here, but maybe I'll put it up one day on my music blog, The Glass Onion. As for the kind of songs, some hymns, sure, but mostly popular music. A recent study shows that more and more people are opting for popular music to be played at their funerals rather than hymns. Why? I think it's because people just generally like pop music more than hymns and rather than have people listen to how their spirit was saved by God and is destined for paradise, I think they'd prefer them to groove to some nice tunes. I am reminded of my previous complaint that no one listens to music when you offer it. Maybe that's the root of this trend. People just wanting their friends to shut up and listen to what they like for a change.
And who says pop music can't be just as meaningful as hymns? At my funeral I'd want songs that are poignant, but uplifting. A celebration of life whilst marking a transition, a passing. The best example would have to be George Harrison's All Things Must Pass. In fact, you know what? My funeral should be like
The Concert for George.

Oh, and if not a single Beatles song is played at my funeral, I might just come back as a zombie and kill myself.
How else would I like people to remember me? The best way, of course, would be to remain alive in their memories. To have my friends remember some of the good times we'd had. Maybe laugh over them together whenever they meet. If I remember correctly, Shakespeare left his best friends enough money to buy a gold mourning ring each for them to wear in memory of him. Even though that has got to be the height of conceit, let me have a little fun and add to it.
I'd also like a scholarship or prize or something to be instituted in my name at my school. I've benefitted from such prizes in the past and I'd love to give back in the same way.
What else? A memorial quiz? That would be cool.
A Wikipedia page? Yup. I know you can do it for free with just about anyone as long as you don't make stuff up, but still, it'd be nice.
But the one thing that I'd really love, that may just be a pipe dream but which is the single greatest indicator that you've made a difference in this world, at least in our modern world, has got to be - a commemorative Google Doodle.
Seriously.
That would be badass.

To be continued...

The Proper Way To Die (Part 4/7)

5. The Long Goodbye

Someone told me I may have Munchausen Syndrome. Now, I'm familiar with Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy, which is straight out of The Sixth Sense, but not the syndrome itself. I could guess though. MSBP is basically when an adult caring for a young child intentionally makes that child sick or prolongs the child's illness, just so that he/she (the adult) can care for the child.
Now that's fucked up.
The regular syndrome, however, is basically faking or exaggerating symptoms in order to get treatment or sympathy. It's different from hypochondria as the patient knows he's faking it, whereas a hypochondriac honestly thinks he's unwell.
Now while that is pretty close to what I've been talking about so far, there is a difference. 
I don't intend to fake an illness or impending death. I'm probably on the border though, so do me a favour and keep your eyes open for any warning signs.
Back to the hospital room. This is where it gets fun. Assuming, of course, that I don't die immediately. That's no fun.
Here's where I explain why dying a slow death is better than sudden death. You get time to plan stuff out. How you're going to say goodbye to all your friends and family. What you want your funeral to be like. Your will. Hell, maybe even your last words and epitaph.
Of course, there's a downside to a slow death as well. Extremely painful. The people you love are forced to watch you slowly slip away. You may lose your memory, become immobilised, maybe even become a vegetable. But then all that's going to happen eventually anyway, when I get old. At least, by dying young I'd be spared all that humiliation.
One point in favour of untimely deaths is that it makes an impact. People tend to remember you, miss you more, overhype your work. Look at Lennon. Hell, look at the entire 27 Club! You've got to hand it to the 27 Club though. To think you could become a legend around the same time other people may just be settling into their chosen career! Hell, I was born on the same day as Hendrix (different year, obviously), I'm nine years away from being his age when he died, but I haven't done shit!
Update: I wrote this almost a year ago. I am now eight years away. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
But I digress. The main advantage of a sudden death is that you're spared the indignities of a slow death.
But that isn't for me. Think of all the loose ends I'd be leaving behind. So much unsaid. So many people who would never know how much they've really meant to me.
Much better to die slowly. When I die, I hope at least the people who've made a difference in my lives come to visit me. My family. My teachers. My friends. I'd try to find the words that best encapsulate what they mean to me. I'd thank them for just being there for me. Maybe reminisce. Maybe extract promises.
I'd like to tell someone where all my unfinished writing is. Notebooks, Word documents, scraps of paper... I'd hate for them to be lost forever. I'd love for them to be published someday. But perhaps that would be counter-productive. Look at Kafka. Look at Virgil. Both of them died leaving behind express instructions: their writing was not to be read - it was to be destroyed. Thankfully, their friends disregarded their instructions and so we have the Aenid and Kafka's novels and short stories. I would imagine that story and the knowledge that mankind nearly lost those works only enhanced the value accorded to them. So maybe the smart thing to do would be to ask someone to burn everything I ever wrote and hope they have the decency to disregard a dying man's last wish. But what about the Word documents? Deleting just isn't as grand as a bonfire.
As for a will, I don't really have much to leave behind. Most of my stuff would probably stay with my family. Maybe I'd give some of my books to my friends since I was always averse to lending them whilst alive. My guitar would probably go to my music teacher to give to whoever he thinks needs it most. My mp3 player? Ah, now that's a tough one. I doubt the songs on it would mean as much to anyone else as they do to me. Anyway, nobody really listens when you try to make them listen to your favourite songs. I don't know why though. To me, when a friend offers me his music, it's sacred. It's only when I really like someone that I offer my earphones to them. It's an expression of trust, of camaraderie. 
So far, nearly every friend I have has failed this acid test of friendship. They say no. They say they'll hear it later. They don't. Then I post it on their Walls on facebook. Then they listen.
We really are a narcissistic race. 
Oh, and passwords. It's very important to leave behind a record of all your passwords for your various accounts. Google, facebook, those retro gaming sites, whatever. That way your family can still reply to people who don't know you're dead and maybe keep you alive in cyberspace, although that would be kind of creepy. 
The technological equivalent of keeping a preserved corpse in your freezer.

So there I am, in the hospital, my friends and family around me. I've talked to them, I've said stuff I'd only say over my dead (or dying) body. I've confessed secrets, I've forgiven people, I've asked people to forgive me. 
If there's someone I've secretly had a crush on in the room, I've probably tell her. I've probably laughed about it. Have I deathbed-blackmailed a kiss out of her? Well.... 
If there's a Catholic priest on hand I've probably confessed and had the Last Rites administered to me. Always wanted to see that.
Hell, that would be my real Bucket List. Be sincere, don't keep secrets from friends, make amends, apologize, forgive and forget, say thank you, be fearless, let people know you love them, awkwardness be damned.
I would finally be doing all the things normal people are supposed to do to live honest, simple, happy lives but which real people never seem to get around to doing.
Sad, that.
A man can only truly say he has lived when he's about to die.
And even that isn't a sure thing.
I hope I can say I have no regrets. 

I die.
It's quiet. It's slow. 
I smile. Or not. 
My eyelids close. Or someone shuts them for me. 
If there's wailing, I'm not there to hear it. 
If there are tears, I'm not there to see them.
I'm gone.

To be continued...

The Proper Way To Die (Part 3/7)

4. The Revelation

Wait, wait, wait... I just said I wouldn't want to tell anyone I'm dying because of all the annoying attention it would garner. So what's with all this talk of revelations?
Quite simple. The attention is only annoying in excess. It's extremely desirable in small doses. Hell, that was the entire point of this exercise! I would tell people, but only right at the end, when there's just enough time left for me to reap all the benefits of impending death without reaping any of the annoying solicitous bastards who come with it.
I said 'reap'. R-E-A-P. And no, I don't mean it as an anagram.
Now, obviously I can't just tell someone. That would be really awkward.

"Hey man, wassup?"
"Nothing, nothing. You?"
"Oh, I'm dying."
"Yeah, right."
"No, I'm serious."
"Prove it."

So that's a lot of time wasted there. And it doesn't even end after proving it. Then I have to explain why I didn't tell anyone.

"Because I didn't want you to worry or make a big fuss about it!"
"Then why are you telling me now?"
"Because... um... now I'd like you to worry and make a big fuss about it. Pretty please?"

See? Lame.
So I'm forced to resort to filmi stereotypes once again.
Long argument with someone I care about. Probably about how I don't spend time with them anymore.
Other person says a lot of mean stuff. I don't because death has given me a sense of perspective or some kind of sappy bullshit just like it.
The argument escalates. Voices are raised, accusations are made, things are said that can't be taken back, you know the drill.
And then...
I collapse.
I'm rushed to the hospital. Hopefully there are no traffic jams on the way.
I'm admitted to the hospital. Hopefully there are no protocol-worshipping doctors from Munnabhai MBBS on the way.
While I'm in the ICU, my friends find out that I'm dying. Now see, in this scenario, not wanting a fuss is a valid excuse as it isn't weakened by the fact that I'm telling them now since I'm not the one telling them now, someone else (maybe a parent, maybe a doctor) is because there's no other choice.
Did you understand that sentence? Good.
So what happens? The impact is much stronger. They feel a lot sadder about my death since they now think I'm some kind of noble martyr who didn't want to bother his friends with something so trivial as, oh, I don't know, the frickin' end of his life as he knows it, even though that's complete and utter bullshit. 
Come to think of it, there's a lot of bovine faeces involved in this process. I'm not proud of it, but it's necessary.
It's necessary because I don't want to be remembered as a petty douche even though I am one. So yeah, I'll pretend I don't want people to worry about me even if it involves barefaced lies like, "No, no, don't worry, don't be sad, don't cry."
Yeah, right. 
Of course I want them to worry. Of course I want them to feel sad. And I wouldn't mind a couple of tears.

After all... that was the whole point!

To be continued...

The Proper Way To Die (Part 2/7)

(Quick note: For those of you who don't know, I'll be adding more to this theme every three days)

3. The Bucket List

Since we're on the subject of movies, the question of the bucket list needs to be tackled.
For those of you who don't know, a bucket list is a list of things you've always wanted to do, but never had the guts, but you definitely want to do before you die, or, in other words, kick the metaphorical bucket. It was made famous by a 2007 movie starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman, called, unsurprisingly, The Bucket List.
Now, here's the problem. If I haven't told anyone I'm dying, then I can't really do all the stuff on my bucket list without making some people suspicious. I mean, can you imagine this conversation:
"Hey, dude, I heard you dropped out of college..."
"Yep."
"To become a matador..."
"Yep."
"In Barcelona..."
"Yep."
"While learning how to scuba dive and play the violin...."
"Yep."
"At the same time."
"Yep."
"And now you're going bungee jumping."
"Nope. That's next week. This week's skydiving."
"Why?"
"Because the bungee jump guys were all booked up this week."
"You know what I mean."
"Ummm... I had a religious experience?"
"..."
"I watched an inspiring movie."
"..."
"I'm kinda dying."
"Oh you poor thing! Can I hold that helmet for you?"
Followed by a long attempt to convince me that death isn't scary, that I'm really brave, that people die all the time, really it's nothing yadda yadda yadda.
See what I mean? Annoying.
Also, I don't think I'd have enough cash or time to do all those things. But if I had more time, presumably I could still be cured or medicated, which is then a completely different scenario.
As for money, I'm reminded of the Make A Wish Foundation. Basically they're a non-profit organization that seeks to grant the last wishes of terminally ill children, to give them hope, strength and joy before they leave this world, provided, of course, that the wish is possible to fulfill. I've always felt that's a really cool idea. As a kid I always dreamed of getting a chance to, I don't know, learn a new language or become rich and famous or meet my favourite author or get superpowers or become a martial artist or be inserted in an artificially created video-game-like world a la The Matrix, so the idea of getting wishes fulfilled is really appealing.
I think that's probably where this obsession with a slow death began. My over-active imagination would create these elaborate fantasies that could never in a million years come true. As I got older, the fantasies got more realistic. For my dreams to come true, it would have to involve a break from reality. Hence the introduction of a convenient far-fetched plot device like a wish-granting genie. Then, when I learnt about the Make A Wish Foundation, it was like I'd found out that genies were actually real. Except, they were only real for dying kids. So, like with all kids, my fantasies took a morbid turn. Whenever I was sulking or sick, I'd imagine I was dying and think about how everyone would be sorry for being mean to me after I died and maybe how my wishes would finally come true, thanks to the Foundation. And since I sulked (and was sick) a lot as a kid (and only a wee bit less as.. well, not quite an adult), I've had a lot of time to think things through. Which is how this blogpost was born - it's a message from ten-year-old me.
Problem is, I'm already nineteen and eighteen is the maximum age for your wish to be fulfilled by the Make A Wish Foundation since, obviously, you're no longer a child after you turn nineteen. Legally at least. I can still picture myself making That's What She Said jokes at age 69. See, I even inserted an age with sexual connotations while talking about it!
Although, technically, that's immature; not exactly childish. It's cool though, I'm childish as well. I still like Pokemon and I still cry if I'm really upset.
Nonetheless, the Make A Wish Foundation is probably one of the most noble causes I can think of. Maybe I'd make a donation if I had the money.
But anyway, let's stick to one hypothetical scenario.
What I could do is tick off the least expensive and time-consuming things on my bucket list like acting in a play/movie (I know that takes time but a bit part would do), or performing my favourite songs live, or going on a date with a girl and kissing her (preferably with her permission).
In any case, I wouldn't want to do anything really tiring or scary. So no bullfighting or bungee jumping or paragliding for me. I guess I'm just too lazy. And anyway, I want a slowish death. Slightly less scary, enough time to come to terms with my mortality. If I died while bungee jumping, I'd die really suddenly and painfully and in a terrifying way. I don't want that. Why not? I'll come to that later.
What I'd really love to do is publish a book, but that takes time and money.
So that's one downside - I'd probably be dying without really doing anything meaningful in life. I'd never become a writer or get married or have kids or anything like that.
And that's precisely why I would never intentionally do this, never intentionally kill myself. The scenario might be cool, but it isn't worth all the regrets that go along with it.
Maybe some day I'll actually put my bucket list down on paper. Maybe I might even it share it here someday, like a friend of mine once did with his blog (No links. I've put up enough links to his blog in my post. Just surf around a bit, you'll find them easily enough).
Not now though. Not yet.
But enough doom and gloom.
Let me enjoy my imaginary death spiral.
The whole point is that it's just... happened. Call it fate, Providence, bad luck, random accident, whatever.
The point is, now that I'm dying, how can I make the most of it?

To be continued...

I may not have a list, but I sure as hell have a bucket.

The Proper Way to Die (Part 1/7)

Have you ever had days when you wished you were dying of a terminal illness?
Okay, before anything else, let me clarify: I'm not being suicidally emo here. I'm not talking about wanting to die because I'm depressed, because life is no longer worth it, blah blah, moving on...
What I mean is this: I think the whole "on my deathbed" experience would be really cool.
Very filmi, but still cool.
Let me explain. I'll do it in steps.

1. So You're Dying...

Okay, first things first. I go to my doctor because I've been experiencing weird symptoms - chest pains, coughing blood, wounds that won't heal, whatever. And I get diagnosed with some kind of terminal incurable disease, and I have just a few days or maybe months to live. Not more than a year at any rate.
Now let me be clear, I admire people who are diagnosed with, say, cancer and then decide to fight it by undergoing chemotherapy or surgery or other treatment.
But in this case, it's very important that there is absolutely NO chance of my recovery AND that I'm still mobile.
Now comes the tricky part...

2. Telling People

Now, unless I went to the doctor without my parents getting to know about it, which is unlikely at this stage of my life, they're going to be the first people (after me) to learn that i'm dying. But the question is, should I tell other people?
Let's weigh the pros and cons.
If I tell other people, I'll get sympathy, understanding and presumably they'll start making a lot of time for me.
BUT they would also probably become overly solicitous. They'd start being extra nice even if I was a douche and probably pity me, which could easily get annoying.
Since I've established that I'm mobile, if I tell no one, I can still continue my normal life while hiding my symptoms and at the same time making preparations for my demise in private.
Plus, if somebody accidentally finds out that I'm dying right after being really mean to me, they feel guilty as hell (yes, I'm really that petty), which is really the best revenge there is. There's nothing more despicable than making a dying dude's life hell.
Need I mention that in most "Guy has a week to live" type movies, this is also exactly how the protagonist gets the girl?

To be continued...

Feeding My Brain-Fish

It’s been a very long time since I last updated this blog. So much has happened in the intervening span of time that I feel compelled to describe it all in detail. Yet, whenever I set out to do so, the words fail me. I suppose constantly having to justify my choices in real life has made doing the same in cyberspace seem needlessly tedious. So that will have to wait for another time.

For now, I feel unusually fecund. Creatively, not biologically. A host of things to write about are swimming around inside my head like goldfish in an aquarium, their pouty faces begging for sustenance. Excuse me, for I must feed my brain-fish lest they die an untimely death.

I just finished reading a newspaper article about Carlos Santana which led me to dwell upon the plurality of music. No two people can possibly have exactly the same tastes in music; of this I am convinced. If they do, then music itself will have entirely different meanings to them. Musicians feel this exceptionally so. The evolution of a distinctive style is what every musician strives for. While some believe in hooks and riffs, others may prefer dreamy soundscapes where no two vistas seem the same. Personally, I like my music deceptively simple. Music that affects you on a primal level on first hearing but which on repeated hearing unveils layers and layers of complexity. No, I’m not into heavy metal. I can appreciate the technicality, but the genre often seems dead to me – needless posturing and mechanical flourishes that try too hard to be something they’re not. I prefer harmonies over screams and guttural growls, slide guitar over shredding. That is not to say, however, that I can’t get tired of one when it is used gratuitously or be unusually affected by the other when it is used innovatively and tastefully.

When it comes to lyrics, I feel there is no real hard and fast rule. So many people write abstruse lyrics these days. Lyrical complexity is most certainly an ideal, but at times songs seem uncomfortably pretentious – a stringing together of random images. When the effect intended is one of chaos and unpredictability, these songs work, but when people claim that those same random lyrics hold a deeper meaning which they themselves do not feel compelled to analyze, it just seems fake. It seems like lazy writing, writing meaningless verse to shock or impress. An I Am the Walrus, I can appreciate. A Black Hole Sun, to a lesser degree. Whatever happened to beauty in simplicity?

I cannot read good books without feeling intimidated. A failing, but one that I can use productively. Such moments of inferiority compel me to improve as a writer. Evolve, or face extinction.

The cold is miserable. I do not like it. How can I enjoy life with a blocked and chapped nose? It is impossible. Yet for everything, there is a time. Without the monstrous discomfort of winter, perhaps my beloved summer would lose all meaning.

I keep trying to write about something, but it slips away like a greased orb, a simile I have borrowed from another writer, I am sad to say, but of which I am not ashamed – it is so apt.

Would human flesh taste like lion meat? I would say so. We are not so different after all.

Death erases many a grudge, smoothens many a rough personality and consolidates many a career.

Again! It slips away from me.

Time slips away so fast, leaving nothing in its wake but an overwhelming feeling of shame and regret – so much left undone!

There is no greater tragedy than when a brilliant idea disappears without a trace. But perhaps that is necessary too. Perhaps what seemed astounding in the heat of the moment is later found to be dull and inspired. Perhaps thoughts never disappear; perhaps they merely withdraw into the vegetation of the mind, eluding the questing gaze, fattening themselves on the kelps of the subconscious and re-emerging unrecognizably changed, like a camouflaged catfish in an enormous aquarium.

I had intended to end with the previous paragraph, fittingly I thought, since I revive the fish metaphor. But look! Fate, or my mind, or both had other plans! Contrarily and perversely, my missing thought has resurfaced and now I must put it down posthaste – to hell with aesthetics!

Why does the word ‘woman’ have so many associated connotations while the word ‘man’ is so sterile? ‘I am woman, hear me roar’ is filled with so much pride and power! ‘I am man’ pales in comparison. Man means only humanity. Woman seems to represent a whole different species. Of course, this is how patriarchy functions, creating stereotypical gender roles and universalizing the interests of the male, but I can’t help but feel the male has lost so much in doing so. Someone once wondered at the lack of literature on male sexuality. That would be because it never seems to be a concern to us. So overrepresented it is, we feel no need to dwell upon it. Sadly, this only perpetuates a masculine stereotype of machismo and stoic dominance. My kingdom for an alternative masculine model!

The idea is fading. Put it down, fast!

Women accuse men of so much. So much repression, so much evil has been done to women by our very hands. Yet why do I generalize? Who is this ‘us’, this ‘them’? Are we not equal? Ah, the learned ones say, equality need not mean absence of difference. We are equal but different. This seems unfair. Why complain of the evil patriarchy has wrought while talking about girl power? It either creates further division and vindictiveness or lessens the true cruelty of a patriarchal society. If patriarchy is truly repressive, should not women be stunted by generations of its existence? Even as I write this, I am aware of the flaw in my logic. If stunted, affirmative action is, in fact, the need of the hour. But need affirmative action be at the expense of another? Common sense would say yes. But there is a difference between upliftment and pettiness. But see! Even these words of mine will be criticized and called chauvinistic and regressive! Why should I be prevented from airing my opinions and judged in this way if I try not to do the same? (I’m usually very diplomatic – but to hell with diplomacy! For once, let me be a Chughtai – let me be brash and opinionated and embrace the consequences)

Why must all men be vilified for the crimes of those who are long dead? Patriarchy still exists, no doubt, but please do not tar all men with the same brush. Not all of us believe in dowry or rape women or sit in the seats reserved for women in the metro. Some of us are as angered by sexism as women. And we still feel hurt when a joke aimed at a woman is censured while similar jokes mocking men are praised as progressive. Either allow both, or frown on both. That is equality!

It is finished!

Postscript: I’ve been working on a very long blog post that is nearly finished and will probably have to be split up into multiple posts. It’s going to get very morbid, but bear with me.

Paint and Turpentine and I

Turpentine, O Turpentine!
How I recall this scent of thine
Which oft into my nostril would
Creep from yon newly polished wood
Along with Paint, thy cousin fair,
When fresh, whose fragrance too was there.
You hail fresh starts and ventures new;
To my cold casket from the pew,
Always together were we three:
The two of you and one of me.
When I was but a newborn child
And carried home in arms so mild
And tender, what should boldly wait,
But of mine home, the painted gate;
And inside: tables, polished, gleaming,
Silently heard my shrill screaming.
Unfamiliar with your scent,
I wept until my tears were spent.
But soon I grew to love thee, Paint
And Turpentine, even when faint,
I would rejoice when you were there,
Which, since forever in repair
Was my house, I would always find
You waiting only to remind
Me that though mortals always fade,
Your musk forever will pervade
All houses, halls and institutions
Like the one where all my tuitions
From the tender age of five
Till eighteen, when I learnt to drive,
Were given to me that I may
Become a learned man one day.
And still, today, thy gentle vapours
Will remind me of the capers
That I had while still a child
Whose curiosity ran wild
Except when I would kneel in church
As Jesus Christ, from his high perch,
Would send your scents from far away
To me as I would kneel and pray
Because he and his giant, sainted
Cross had just been polished, painted!
As they were when I stood standing
Right before them, smiling, handing
All my love trapped in a ring
To my bride whose bright, shimmering
Tiara, veil and gown so fair
Could not with her pure heart compare.
And Paint and Turpentine, you seemed,
(Or perhaps 'twas something I'd dreamed)
To stand by my side, silent, beaming,
Proud to see the child who, screaming,
Was presented to you all
Those years ago inside that hall
Where now I took my soul, my wife,
So that we might spend our new life
For what seemed like eternity,
But in years was but forty three,
Until far from me she one day ran
With an older, bolder man;
A beau who unlike me succeeded
Through his courtship, unimpeded,
To forever with him keep her.
And so she left with the Reaper,
Leaving me alone again,
In my large mansion by the Seine,
With tables made of gleaming pine
And you, Paint and dear Turpentine,
For we could never have a child,
To which we both were reconciled.
But as now I was left to potter,
How I wished for son or daughter
To remind me of my love
Who now looked down from up above.
Who knows how long she'll have to wait?
Not very long, because my gait
Has turned already so unsteady
And my organs all seem ready
To relax and stop their working
And so surely, there is lurking
He whose kiss, though cruel and cold,
Had turned me into a cuckold
And he shall take me to his hollow
Peaceably, for I will follow,
Meekly led by his thin hand,
To yonder silent, frozen land
Where I shall meet my turtledove
And with her look down from above;
Down at the hall that once was mine
At you, sweet Paint and Turpentine.