Probably the worst thing about dying is losing control of your PR—and no, my little chocolate-glazed Krispy Kremes, that’s not Puerto Rico, that’s public relations. Saturday was Russell’s memorial service at the Quaker meetinghouse. In that tradition there’s no ritual; rather, people stand up and take turns sharing things about the life that has ended. Everyone who spoke (except, notably, his husband) seemed to feel as if Russell was perfect. This was not surprising: I, as well, think he was perfect.

What truly struck me, probably for the first time, was how many Russells there are. There is the one who’s now gone, the original model, but there’s also one for each and every person in that crowded room, and those holographic Russells are very much living. When people say that the dead live on in our memories, this is what they mean, but it happens when we’re alive, too. There are a hundred Davids out there right now. You all have your own version. Even when I’m right there, you don’t interact with me but rather this hologram of who you think I am. The problem is, when I die, those holograms will undergo a transformation unlike any I can achieve on the physical plane. They’ll get smarter and kinder and better looking; the rough edges will be sanded away, and I will appear smoother and more glamorously lit.

The freshly dead are everyone’s best friend, but those polished icons eventually get put on a shelf somewhere, filed away in memories that are less frequently accessed.

I’m afraid of that, of being forgotten, but I’m more afraid of never being truly known in the first place.

This web log doesn’t address that. This is only public relations. When I’m gone, everything will be open to interpretation. I just hope the interpretations aren’t too generous. I’m doing the best I can do, but please don't forget I’m only ((shudder)) human.