Year: 2023

I never met John-23@flash.com. Well in the flesh at least. We had known each other for ten years. He congratulated me on my first kids birth. He comforted me through the divorce. We even published his poetry together.

I  never did get to shake his hand.

We had an odd friendship, but I always new that the the two of us could talk. Any time I needed him, I would turn on the screen and he would be there. He practically lived in the net, but who doesn't these days.

John-23@flash.com died a few days ago. I just received the e-mail about his funeral. Even after his death, he is still teaching me things about life.

The funeral was going to be held outside of  San Francisco, in as small suburb called Colma. I had heard about this place on the DVD. It was like John to find the weirdest place in America to be buried. Apparently it is one of the state's largest necropolises, a city that is entirely dependant on human mortality and the funeral industry.... except for the gambling. Colma's secondary source of income comes from a city-run casino. What will be next, paying a fee for visitation rights? John was always the comedian... but to be honest, I didn't find it funny. The city was disturbing. I drove through street after street of endless headstones and mausoleums. The hilly terrain made it difficult to see beyond the horizon of the sea of graves. The streets were unlit, and pretty much barren. The bay's fog didn't help me much either.

Funerals are never a happy occasion, but I was downright depressed. The city didn't help.

I followed the directions on the e-mailed invitation. I could see my goal in the distance. Like a giant glowing billboard was the Archive. I had heard about it, but had never had the inclination to go and visit. DEAD as it is called was very controversial, I remember, and cost the state 5 times more than  expected, but it was one of the few buildings that stood after the last big quake. Being structured with cabling and not touching the ground had saved it. I couldn't see the building as I approached it, just the large glowing screens. The road took a sharp left and started to descend into the earth, right under the first screen. What the hell was going on?

I was underground, submerged below the cemetery. The thought of buried bodies above me was quite disturbing, until I looked up. Above my head where glass tubes. The tubes were about 3'x5' and hung 6 feet down below the ceiling. The only light to this garage was coming from these stalactites. I felt like I was in some hidden crystal cavern with the array of lights bouncing of the the different colored cars. I didn't know what was going on, but it was a bit more comforting than any garage in the city. If there were buried bodies above me, then at least they didn't have stone markers as head stones. Instead they had some kind of glass marker, a light to even the darkness of a parking garage. I giggled at the silliness.

I followed the winding path away from the car. A few other people where there but I didn't know them. I wanted to be alone anyway. The path out of the parking area was through what I can only call a cavern, a rift through the earth. On one side was a water fall and the other was the garage. Overhead was a bridge. I had never been here before but the path was quite clear. Only one way out of the canyon and to the cemetery grounds....

Dear God! What the fuck.....

I now knew why it was so controversial. The chapel, if that is what it was, was almost indescribable. It could have been a giant alien space craft or was it a gutted insect. The bridge shot inside like a tongue. The cabling was its cocoon. Giant metal fingers held the main building in its palm. An array of lights flicked like candles within its green frosted glass. If the Architects of the gothic cathedrals had access to steel and wire, this is what they would have built.  I was toyed with and played with every step I took to this point tell the monster's structure stood in my face. I wanted to turn around and go back... but John-23@flash.com wanted me here. He had brought me on this strange journey for some reason. I still wanted to know why.  

I took the ramp to what I assumed was the main chapel. It was very thin and narrow. It  wound up and circled in on itself several times. This was not a place for people afraid of heights. It was not a place meant to fell comfort or to feel be pleasant, if this was a place at all... for a moment I had my doubts. This was a path for one person to walk singly; to think.

The ramp stopped at a small door, not what one would expect to enter this chapel. It was small and personal. It opened into a curved hall. It was a place where people were starting to gather. Most seemed to know each other... a few like me were still in shock, I was wondering whether the reaction was to John's death or the place he wished to memorialize himself. After a few moments the doors at the end of the wall opened. We funneled into the chapel itself. Overhead were exposed trusses, sound bats, and curious electronic lights. The seating was a very traditional pew layout, angled slightly to face each other. No mater where you sat in this room, you were forced to face another person. At the far end of the room was a small podium. The ceremony was not of any formal religious denomination and was conducted by John's brother. Behind him was a large glass wall. I could see the bridge beyond. I could see the screens that I had driven under. I hadn't realized it, but the building spiraled around on itself, almost becoming a circle.

 I will not describe the service in depth. That is not the point that John was making. There was sadness at his leaving us. He knew there would be. He was saying something different by choosing this place.

The funeral continued through the glass wall and down onto the bride. The bridge must have been a thousand feet long. It was thin, no more than 4 people could walk abreast across it. The bridge was suspended by cabling on only one side. Thin cabling. Very thin, with no structure underneath the bridge...50 feet up in the air. I didn't want to cross it. If scaring me was the intent of the Architect than he had accomplished his goal. Bridges are not fun places to be in an Earthquake.

For one reason or another I was not the only one afraid of the final procession. Others clung to the railing. Saddened and emotionally played with.... I started to turn around and go back the way I had come. I sat at the top of the stairs and watched as the others went by. In the distance I saw the screens glow.

What was this place? What had made such a place exist? I thought this was an archive. A place to store data. Data to loved ones. Data for the future. A historical record of peoples lives kept in little chips. I never knew that this was going to be some sick pilgrimage. Some psychological journey that I had to be forced to take because of a dead friend. I sat and stared at the collage on the screens. The colors flowed over them in an incomprehensible pattern. At a few moments I could make out faces. Apparently they were controlled or triggered by the stored data being accessed. The amount of access controlled the movement. Giant monuments to replace the flowers. And then I saw it...

John had been a poet, and painter. He had sent me one of his paintings one year for my birthday. It still hangs over the desk in my office. When ever I am frustrated I stare at it. The colors and forms help me think.... and there it was, on on the screen. It was only there for a few seconds. Only I could have recognized it. I was the only one who ever truly understood it, he said once. Across the length of the bridge  was something I didn't understand yet. He had wanted me here and I was going to go through with it. My hand was clasped tightly along the rail as I walked across the bridge.

The final leg of the journey ended at the screens. The ramps down were wrapped around and between them. The scale was not human. Each screen must have been 30 feet tall. I felt I was missing something, until I walked between two glass panels. The reflect light bounced from one to the other. Each panel moved and glowed as though I was walking through stained glass; as if a rainbow had melted and I was inside it. The lights were nothing more than stored images at the archive, yet it moved and inspired me.

I finally realized that all of the mental manipulation and playing this place had done with me was to share something. The entire process was a very symbolic gesture. On one end of the bridge was the traditional, almost frightening, part of death. On the opposite was something different; something alive. I felt extreme satisfaction in knowing that some where in the lines of code were the things John felt treasured to him. He wanted to share them with the world.

True death only happens when people forget. This place is like the Egyptian pyramids, a shot at immortality. John's ideas and memories will be reflected and shared in this sacred place. Sacred because that is what he wanted  to share with his loved ones. I was forced to take part of a ritual. I still call up his Web site at the achieve to look at that picture. I have the real one in my office, but to know that it lights up a dark cemetery a thousand miles away is much more comforting, better than dead flowers to make something feel alive.