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Michael Crane |
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Postcards from the End of the World |
© 2001 by Michael Crane and gangan books australia |
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Funeral Dear pretty perfect Priscilla with the enormous beehive, I didn’t know Paul that well. He was an actor and theatre producer and there were so many people at his funeral it was like an opening night for one of his plays. There were two different generations of people there standing outside the funeral parlour as the coffin was carried into a grey limousine. Elvis Presley was singing “American trilogy” over the loudspeaker and I saw a couple of people smiling at Paul’s final joke. Paul had jumped onto the rails of an oncoming train. I had never looked down into an open grave before and I dropped flowers petal down into the dark pit. I felt guilty that I was probably there more for my own experience of having never been to a funeral rather than to mourn Paul. A fleck of dust flew into my eyes and brought a tear which I tried to wipe away. One of his aunts saw me and grabbed my elbow and said that I must have really loved Paul. She walked away before I could reply and I guess my silent lie was my gift for Paul. I heard he had written a thirty page suicide letter and that he had many dangerous addictions. I never read the letter and would have been too critical anyway. I’ve never liked long speeches. Really Paul, Elvis singing “American” as your coffin left the building that grey winters morning said more to me than any letter could have. Happiness
is a warm gun
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