25 + 21 points
Funeral of Scyld Scefing by Not Here No More
August 23rd, 2011 2:38 PM
Here's an inventory of the things that I left behind from 2005-2008:
3 Large paintings, Visions of Hells: one abstract, one of a heart, one of a ravenous maw.
10 Small paintings, Visions of More Hells: a winged beast flying over a barren land, impalement, bones, a blue sky under which a destroyed playground lies, Another heart, various tarot cards, a fountain, cartoon pictures of acquaintances, a wall of eyes.
Countless sketches of the worst things I could imagine.
Eight notebooks, none of which were full. They spanned the duration of 2005-2008
All of the tasks done by myself before Merci with the exception of Goblin Market.
I had always been extremely sure that I needed to leave something behind, a magnum opus or some strange story of disappearance. A normal finale never seemed to be possible. The objects that I had left in my name seemed sufficient, as were the legends that were passed around San Francisco concerning my character.
Now, however, as my life has steadily improved and I have become something much more worth everyone else's time, the objects that I left behind seemed horribly inadequate. I had all of this stuff that I had touched, people, places, and the things that I had made, all of which felt so...heavy. I had much more interesting things to leave behind now than these paintings, notebooks, and tasks.
With that, I lugged all of these objects down to Ocean Beach. I bought a coffee at my favorite shop, and shared it with a friend who helped me bring the box. It was extraordinarily heavy for just being paper. We crossed over to the beach and walked up to the fire pits. It was a beautiful day, the seagulls and crows flew together overhead, jelly fish washed up onto the sand, two women fought with fencing sabers. We unloaded the whole of the box into the pit and, using a long lighter, we caught the first paintings aflame. We threw the rest of the small ones on as kindling and they burned quickly. The paint evaporated, the paper lost all of its form, becoming white ash. Over them we threw the first few books, then the larger paintings. We played with the fire all the way, lighting page after page of the books, fanning them, lighting bits of the paintings in ways that would interestingly converge. The wind blew away a few of the ashes, towards the Windmills that stand sentinel in the nearby park. We finished the black coffee, and were pleasantly jittery. The smoke caught in my hair and my mouth making me cough out the remnants of the past. I would not feel completely free to make something new until I washed my hands and head that night.
3 Large paintings, Visions of Hells: one abstract, one of a heart, one of a ravenous maw.
10 Small paintings, Visions of More Hells: a winged beast flying over a barren land, impalement, bones, a blue sky under which a destroyed playground lies, Another heart, various tarot cards, a fountain, cartoon pictures of acquaintances, a wall of eyes.
Countless sketches of the worst things I could imagine.
Eight notebooks, none of which were full. They spanned the duration of 2005-2008
All of the tasks done by myself before Merci with the exception of Goblin Market.
I had always been extremely sure that I needed to leave something behind, a magnum opus or some strange story of disappearance. A normal finale never seemed to be possible. The objects that I had left in my name seemed sufficient, as were the legends that were passed around San Francisco concerning my character.
Now, however, as my life has steadily improved and I have become something much more worth everyone else's time, the objects that I left behind seemed horribly inadequate. I had all of this stuff that I had touched, people, places, and the things that I had made, all of which felt so...heavy. I had much more interesting things to leave behind now than these paintings, notebooks, and tasks.
With that, I lugged all of these objects down to Ocean Beach. I bought a coffee at my favorite shop, and shared it with a friend who helped me bring the box. It was extraordinarily heavy for just being paper. We crossed over to the beach and walked up to the fire pits. It was a beautiful day, the seagulls and crows flew together overhead, jelly fish washed up onto the sand, two women fought with fencing sabers. We unloaded the whole of the box into the pit and, using a long lighter, we caught the first paintings aflame. We threw the rest of the small ones on as kindling and they burned quickly. The paint evaporated, the paper lost all of its form, becoming white ash. Over them we threw the first few books, then the larger paintings. We played with the fire all the way, lighting page after page of the books, fanning them, lighting bits of the paintings in ways that would interestingly converge. The wind blew away a few of the ashes, towards the Windmills that stand sentinel in the nearby park. We finished the black coffee, and were pleasantly jittery. The smoke caught in my hair and my mouth making me cough out the remnants of the past. I would not feel completely free to make something new until I washed my hands and head that night.
