Sunday, August 15, 2004

Obits are the Poetry of Death

From the New York Times: A female chef who died earlier this week had her own NYC restaurant in the early Eighties. "That was when her name became forever associated with Roquefort beignets on apple purée."

And in the Chronicle today, the "Flying Cowboy" died, the cowboy having met his wife years ago, when she had just gotten "a job with United in a capacity then know as stewardess."

At this period in your life, what deed will your name become "forever associated with"?

And some time far in the future will they say of the task by which you earn your bread today, "it was then known as honest work and not just farting around"?

Just feeling gnomic.


G Pabst said...

I'm both ashamed and amused to say that I recognized the Nixon/Elvis photo (as it scroll-appeared with dial-up cold molasses rapidity) from the flagstaff ribbons in the background, so well burned into my memory is that hilarious moment.

And in my opinion, you're far too tall to be truly gnomic.

G Pabst said...

And one more thing:

I mourn the demise of "Is this a column I see before me?"

It's reference to the Macbeth murders describes exactly the ambiguous reluctance the writer so often feels when coming up to bat against the coercive-infinitive verb* "to write."

"Just put your fingers on the keys and wait for tiny drops of blood to form on your brow."

* just one of the secret rules of psychological grammer. Like the Southern ambiguous future imperative, "I'm fixin' to get ready to go."