…is the name of a piece that the brand-spanking, shiny new Threadcount Magazine has been kind enough to publish in their inaugural issue. I’m really excited to be featured alongside the words of Peter Markus, JA Tyler, Catherine Wagner, and Rachel Levy – and bear a huge debt of gratitude to editors Annie Bilancini and Matthew Weinkam for making it so.
The piece is in the spirit of what I perceive Threadcount’s vision to be: a hybrid, a not-quite-one-thing-and-not-quite-the-other. Something entirely new, I hope, and maybe a little depressing but also hopefully funny and readable. Here’s a sample:
- Could we pretend death is really a sort of starting over? Or is that just too much to ask? Could we refrain from imagining one another in our underclothes, in our skin, in our bones, in our foaming muscle and softening fat to feed and fortify the loamy soil we float in? Could we refrain from the cranking of hymns, from the showing of slideshows, from the off-center programs made in Microsoft Word over our lunch breaks, littered with lachrymose sentiment and wrong-aspect-ratio pictures where we look, ashamed, at the camera—suddenly so embarrassed to be alive. Standing in front of the Taj Mahal, or in Times Square, in places teeming with life while we stop what isn’t ours to stop and claim it like a big game hunter in the Nairobi, while we nail down our trophies of space and seize this pretense, this rarified air that we pretend is ours alone. While we understand that we are all just falling through, like Alice down the rabbit hole, and taking snapshots on the way of all the wrong-sized things and places we may find ourselves, oh funny man-shaped spaces, because what else, really, can we be expected to do with this tiny vial of time on earth?
So enjoy reading about my death–about all of our deaths. May they hold off for a good long while.