A friend of mine had the idea to kick gravestones. It was night and we were 16 and looking for something vaguely forbidden and we didn’t have weed. We didn’t know an older kid with a fake ID. Kicking gravestones was the next logical step. We denied the existence of God as we did it. We said “Death is the end! Heaven is a tired farce!”
My friend became bored with this soon. He does not know that I continue the practice years later. I tell myself that the nobility and solemnity of the graveyard is more of a disrespect to the humor of life than my kicking is. My kicking might even knock some of that loose. I imagine arguing with priests and eulogizers, cautioning them against this cordoning off of happy memory to a gated community of underground bodies. The bodies themselves get up out of their coffins and move around. They go out for coffee down there, they’re all caffeine freaks. They do all kinds of vile drugs and have lots of sex, which I hate to relay because it may be upsetting to some. But experience free of consequence is such a fantasy, and how can we shame them for indulging? Some of the bodies still organize and attend religious services, if you can believe it.
I tell myself it’s the nobility and solemnity that prolong my practice, but I am not convinced. Maybe it’s frustration with the inevitable that makes me violent. On Saturdays I linger on the outskirts of funerals, wait ‘til the last of the mourners have said their goodbyes, then do a flying drop-kick to the crest of the headstone. One day I hope to punch a mausoleum. I’m working up to it.
