I had a bone from a skull my brother snapped up from the Parisian catacombs. He stole it in good faith. I had it in a little silver container from India, that and a bit of cotton on which the fragment of skull sat. I’m not sure what part of the head the bone came from, but it was shaped a little bit like Bulgaria or somewhere like that. The skull was sort of a light brown meets clay meets tinge of orange and purple, depending on what mood I was in, oh, and depending on what angle and light source I viewed it with/under/in. I should have taken a picture of it. It was about 1 and a half inches long, which is American, and 3.81 cm using the current metric unit of measurement--- most Canadians my age brag about metric measurements yet rarely use it, or even know how to. The skull piece was pretty thin, relative to what I conceive of contrasting ‘not-thinednesses’, so to speak.
I began to think about the human attached to the skull and about his brains, in particular the ideas in his brains, created by the time and lives that surrounded him. I thought it was probably not in his
then best interests to have a missing chunk of his skull way over in the New Country, held as a memento of a trip never travelled by the bearer. I figured even in his death, his living wishes could probably be surmised in some degree to a more fitting end, that is to say, closer to what he would have wanted done with his skull. From that I concluded his head must return to the Earth as soon as I could. I leashed up Newton and went to Millcreek on a particularly calm, summer day and walked to a bed of rocks exposed on the ever-changing creek bed. I found a rock I liked, which is very easy for me to do, and placed the skull fragment into the emptiness of which the now uprooted rock created. The rock, it went into the silver tin atop the cotton. I closed the tin, and bent over the skull on the creek bed.
Momentarily, I felt pleased at the notion of doing a man from a different time and place a favour. Then my mind wandered and I imagined I did him a greater disservice because he probably believed in the Rapture and a big chunk of his head would be lost somewhere in Alberta come that glorious, sickening day in a place that never existed in his time and he wouldn’t get it back. “Whose got my Golden Arm,” ghost-stories would be replaced by sad Christian French men on a holy mission to be once again anatomically whole. Again another thought entered my mind, what if some kid finds a chunk of this skull and somehow, no matter how preposterous the notion is, he takes it to his dad who is an anthropologist-type and he instantly recognizes it as being human, well surely this scholar would bring it to the police and the police would start a full-blown investigation into what they would believe to be a murder, and they would keep the skull locked up in the stations evidence room even further removed from the cadaver’s once living wishes. Finally I decided to stop all further conjecture and continue my walk. Hopefully I did right in the scheme of burial rights and personal requests, even if the time separating the completion is massive and the fulfillment details only shoddily assumed. R.I.P. bone, yep, R.I.P., man.
I had a bone from a skull my brother snapped up from the Parisian catacombs. He stole it in good faith. I had it in a little silver container from India, that and a bit of cotton on which the fragment of skull sat. I’m not sure what part of the head the bone came from, but it was shaped a little bit like Bulgaria or somewhere like that. The skull was sort of a light brown meets clay meets tinge of orange and purple, depending on what mood I was in, oh, and depending on what angle and light source I viewed it with/under/in. I should have taken a picture of it. It was about 1 and a half inches long, which is American, and 3.81 cm using the current metric unit of measurement--- most Canadians my age brag about metric measurements yet rarely use it, or even know how to. The skull piece was pretty thin, relative to what I conceive of contrasting ‘not-thinednesses’, so to speak.