As you proceed down your path in life in pursuit of the happiness that all human beings merit, you will find yourself in situations confusing with no proper decision to make. It is at these times that we distinguish the Noble from the Ignoble, the Brave from the Cowardly, the Heroes from the Villains, the Civilized from the Barbaric and the ironic mustaches from the serious ones.
Each day we awake with the knowledge that it could be our last or even the first day of a new life, but seldom does this knowledge come up from the subconscious and plant itself in our minds.
5 months ago I witnessed a human being’s toe severed off; three other people laid on the street, one of which bleeding profusely from the head. I looked at the severed toe and I was fascinated. It was a human body part not attached to a human. First time I saw that. It makes me think about my body parts. The unmoving people on the street made me think about my soul parts.
If one of them had died I’d like to have attended their ceremonies marking their passage from the world.
I got two cool job ideas — one of which is to be a Philosopher Psychologist; no medicine degrees, no psychology degrees; I just put my name out there and I tell everyone, “Come and talk to me for $20 an hour or something like that, about your problems, and I will use eastern philosophy and some other philosophies, too, to solve your problems and be your friend.”
The other is: Funeral Performer.
People die and their passage needs to be marked by a proper time in their honor.
I come with an old, beaten up electric guitar named Anthony. Get a mate or someone else to bang some drums. I sit next to your corpse or your ashes in front of your loved ones and I plug into an amp. I rest the guitar on my thigh and I look out, at first with smiles dirtied with a sullen feel and then with a strained, serious face that works its way to pure Berserkersgangr Wikingism.
I sing the Drinking Songs of the 1st Wiking Koreanska for your Liebevolk.
They’re songs that haunt.
Gruff, low voice tainted with a growl; simple chord progressions, distorted thoroughly. I’m drunk off soju but I assure you: my fingers are sure and the songs will not suffer. I’ve performed sober twice in my life. I’ve practiced sober less. It’s lo-fi Black Metal. Meant to fuck you up right in the head.
The Drinking Songs of the 1st Wiking Koreanska are happiness tinged with sadness; they’re about God, King & Country, love, natural beauty of the Korean mountains and valleys; lots of songs about drinking in those mountains with the people you love. Lots of talk of lakes in Minnesota. There’s even a song about a special Church in Norway my great grandfather and his family were the Lutheran Ministers at for 700 years (no fucking jokes here, bitch). It is a family tradition the oldest son becomes a Lutheran minister. My Uncle broke that but I re-start it as family tradition of 1st sons being Lutheran Philosophers. Got a picture of the great grand dad sitting with the Bible and wearing his Lutheran minister’s collar… His name was Jakob with a slashy-squiggle ‘o’ and mine is Jacob, OK? Alright.
Your funeral service will be complete.
I was asked to read Ecclesiastes 3 at my Grandfather’s funeral:
I was unable to because I spent the funeral weeping next to my grandmother holding her gnarled hand.
But the next time I go back to Minnesota I will hold two post-funeral services; for my father’s family, I will perform the Drinking Songs of the 1st Wiking Koreanska for my Aunt Sue, who passed last December 15th.
For my mother’s family, I will perform the same for my grandfather who passed on April 22nd, 2002.
I will gather together the Fearsome Foursome — this is the name of my old bestest mates (A. T., P. G., J. A.) and we’ll get drunk, together, as usual, and I will perform these drinking songs for Alyssa who killed herself on a warm summer night in 2002 via wrist cut warm shower bleed out. She was P. G.’s girlfriend and she used to puke on our floors. I remembered that she was happy when we were together. Her tombstone says “Mommy’s Little Angel” under her name. It was fitting. She was an angel going back home to work, earlier than expected. Her vacation was 17 years long. Her heart had seen enough of the Earth.
She was too tender-hearted for a world irrational wrecking her simple wants; she was given with the brain chemistry of an angel who couldn’t bare to suffer. I really think about her a lot and I miss her smiles and laughs and the way she puked, hair shrouding her face and colors spilling on carpet. She always said I was a great guy, had a beautiful laugh. P. G. cried about it but I didn’t cry until 5 years later on a cold night, early Winter, south Korea, outside of a punk show, with the knowledge she’d be proud of us rockers doing it up in the Asian parts auf die welt.
When I die don’t bury me — don’t bother with the hole. Just put me in the Mississippi and play some old Black Metal and drink until everyone’s howling at the Funeral Moon.
End NOTE: If you serious gonna die or get some dead folk on your hands just shoot me a PM. If you can pay for the cost of a flight I’ll croon at your funeral.