Many if not most may think this is morbid but I think it’s interesting for some reason and also having to do with love. I was sitting here looking around before I wrote the Rotting Home post and I had a random thought cross my mind. If I were to die tonight, what would people think when they came in my home? What would my home tell them about me?
As it turns out, it would not tell them much. Everything in this house (belonging to me) is absolutely discardable other than my pictures. The house is not very clean; I’m an old lady so really you could just cart me away and there would be nothing remarkable about it. I am just the kind of person you would have had to know.
As soon as I thought that, I realized this was true of most people. You have to know them to know how incredibly important their life was. The people they touched.
I feel okay about this because I understand it. There are people who die; if you were to go into their house, you’d want to preserve things. You’d want to own them. The things have value. But I turned out like, Henry.
When Henry died (Death and Lemonade), I was responsible for cleaning out his house. While it was a horrible job and a tremendous amount of work, he was like me. Everything he had belonged in the dump. His legacy was his writing. His pictures were pretty spectacular and I am here because of him as well.
That’s my grandfather’s picture. Would you not have liked to have known that man? Well you’d never know it from his stuff, okay?
We’re desert philosophers really, though I do have a red gun.
If you were to die, what would what you left say about you?