Day Four: Conspiracy Theories

The phone rings in a dream.

Drove with my grandparents to Manchester. 45 minute drive. My grandma took a plane to North Carolina to witness my cousin's graduation. I haven't seen him since I was eight. Guess it's staying that way.

We took the Prius and the truck so that we could fill them up with donated food from the Manchester food bank. I was allowed to grab a handful of stuff for my own devices. I mostly got old, expired 35mm film which I hear is a godsend to develop for experimental photographers (read: me).

I also got a disposable camera, some weird dyes, mints that taste like chlorine, rechargable batteries, shoe polish. A CD by the band Seven Mary Three, that reached their peak in 1996. Their new CD sucks. In fact, I bet they all do.

An entire case of weird energy pills I will be experimenting with.

I got a bit more than a $150 worth of stuff. My grandpa got about $1977 estimated worth of food and toiletries, but he had to pay $232. The money was tithe money tho, because the church funds the pantry.

My uncle employees a man named Miro, a dude from Bulgaria who taught me how to wait tables. Just going over the basics. A crash course. He was really thorough and realistic, teaching me how to raise the check.

As I waited in Scott's office, I noticed his tropical fish. Sad little things. Slaves with low levels of consciousness. No emotions. Swim. These are animals as wallpaper. As nothing more than decoration. Because how much affection can you afford to a mindless animal like that? Not that you should set them free, not that I care. It makes no difference. The point is, they exist for the purpose of observation. Just an observation.

Tried some schizophotography. Nothing I really loved.

I like my flickr pro account so much. Totally worth the $25 I paid for it. I see it as more of a photo diary than a collection. Each picture is worth more than a 1000 words to me. You'd probably get a better idea of what was happening to me in New England if you followed the uploads, which you can, here. You may already know that.

The security here is very lax. No one locks anything up. Not even their front door. My grandpa leaves his keys in the car. It would be incredibly easy to commit a crime here. It might be possible to get away with it, I don't know. People here notice things more and they are more likely to tattle.

If five others and I went around burgling people, in broad daylight, we'd create a strange wave of paranoia that would turn this town completely upside down. Once they lock those doors up, once they fear, this town will never be safe again.

One day it will happen. I'm just wondering when.

Perhaps the people here are too trusting. In other areas of living, a little cynicism could go a long way.

I went to a boring little awards ceremony and drew sketches with my cousins. My cousins got many achievements in school, but I was just happy with what I drew. Spent the rest of the evening playing video games with Matthew.

Drove home in the darkness and spoke softly with it. I'm here again, in this sunless abyss and this time I'm not to blame.

Mateo Falcone

Today is September 11th, may we never forget. To reflect on the tragedy of life, I took a walk through a graveyard, something I have never done before. As I walked, I took a few pictures, read the headstones, and looked around for anyone who may get mad at me for being there. I only saw one other person the whole trip. She didn't bother me. The cemetery was quiet, relaxing and refreshing.

Around the point when I meandered into the "Veteran's Section" I started to feel sick with stupidity.

I often joke around with the concept of death, but this was no laughing matter. I looked all around me, at all the bright, fake, plastic flowers and thought to myself, "what is this? Some kind of garden party?". I could not stop thinking, "six feet below me is a box of wasted meat".

Perhaps I am too cynical. Ha, perhaps. But maybe I just see through the triviality of it all. Why all this pretending and ritual?
I read a headstone from 1859 that said "Gone, but not forgotten". I seriously doubt anyone remembers this person, because anyone who would is buried a few feet from him.
This really doesn't make sense to put blocks of stone over fertilizer. The body should not be buried, it should be recycled. For one reason only: the body DOES NOT matter. It's the soul, the heart, the mind. Those are the essential portions of a human being. If those don't last forever, than good riddance to the person who misused their potential.

The greatest example of this is Jesus Christ. If he really was the Messiah, and the body really mattered, he could have lived on Earth forever, instead of "going to prepare a house for you". But he didn't. Because it doesn't matter. His spirit lives on in us. His wisdom is passed down. His heart is practiced. . . sometimes.

Essentially death doesn't even matter anymore. It used to, 2000 years ago. And that's how old and stupid and primitive funerals and burying people and all that shit is.

Let me be clear: I don't think death itself is trivial. Just how you handle it afterward. And the only reason death is even slightly important is because it is consequentially irreversible. There's nothing to fear about it and never a solid, good reason to commit murder. Not even in self defense. I believe if you kill someone in self defense, it's the same as stealing to keep from starving. Excusable, justified maybe, but still not right.

There is nothing very poetic or majestic about the graves I saw today. Nothing honorable or memorable. From what I read, the most important thing any of those people did in their lifetimes was exist and die. They didn't write books or save children or do anything great.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they did. But then their legacy would not be found in the graveyard anyway. So then it's redundant and trivial.

The most majestic thing I saw in the graveyard today was a falcon. I've never seen one before. They are incredible, vicious birds of prey. My heart skipped a beat when it flew down in front of me. I knew it was only in the graveyard to hunt the mice that lived here. The ones that dug deep underground and ate the worms in the soil. The worms and maggots that burrowed through the soft wood and velvet cushion, deep into the cold, grey flesh of that meat.

Even in a place filled with death and serenity, there is life and chaos and war.

My point of this is: DON'T BURY ME. I do not want to become another stone in a sea of stones. First, donate my organs to someone who will need them, then cremate me or sell my body to science. The point of this blog is: You should do the same. Let go of ancient empty rituals and forget about being remembered. If you can't do that through your influence, you can't do it through the ground.