Death Becomes Her

Let me try and resurrect this dead blog... 

Last October, Taylor and I read Frankenstein together. I loved it freshman year in college and now, 20+ years closer to death, I loved it even more. Of course part of the fun of our mini book club is planning the mini dinner party to follow. 

Mary Shelley crafts a chilling tale of brilliant, selfish, maybe wicked Dr. Victor Frankenstein who tries to fill some God-sized britches by attempting to create life. Or rather, he tries to bring an unliving thing—in fact, many unliving things, bolted and stitched together—back to life. Largely using electricity, which was all the exciting hoopla in scientific and social wondering back in the day.

But even if you know next to nothing about this story, you do know it all goes horribly awry. Ironically, his obsession with creating life only creates much, much, more death. Brilliant Dr. Frankenstein-but oh so silly Dr. Frankenstein. How can he not know, with all his education and brilliancy, he is no match for Death? It's always the sure thing! That and taxes so they say. 

ooh gross! ooh yum!

potions aka electrolytes for longevity

I dressed up as very sweet Elizabeth (Victor's wife for a day) who then became very dead. Also very much his fault.

After our Delicioulsy Dead Dining,™️ 🙌, we walked around the neighborhood, enjoying the trick-or-treaters when a statue in a Jason mask jumped out at me and scared the living hell right out of me! What's left after the living hell goes out? Dying..heaven? Anyway, I was filled with more life as my blood pumped fiercely through my racing heart. Taylor was filled with more life too, only via joy and delight as I shrieked. And then we laughed. Thinking you're going to get murdered is funny apparently. What a successful night!

The next morning my friend and I met at a do-it-yourself spa of sorts. There were all sorts of gadgets and gizmos to try: special glasses to undo my eye bags and dark circles. A mask-not unlike Jason’s-to relax the deep lines in my face, and one big vibrating machine to jiggle all my muscles out of their perimenopausal slump. There was so much to do and we needed it all. 

I started telling Amy about how she simply must read Frankenstein someday as I strapped on a chin strap to keep my gobble neck in check. And then I looked at her..well, looked down at her. She was lying on a mat radiating with electricity, just like a corpse and all the parallels between us and Frankenstein blinded me more than the red light shooting in all directions. I AM Frankenstein's monster..AND Frankenstein all in one! Do you know who wears chin straps? Dead people! At least dead people in the 19th century. Do you know what perimenopause is? The atrophying and bitchy road to not being able to create life! The road to the extinctness of me! 

"Marley was dead: to begin with. And wore a chin strap."
Opening line of A Christmas Carol

The fact that our spa day, i.e. resurrection party was 12 hours after my death party delighted me to no end. (Hence this retelling.) Last night I was shaking my head at what a foolish fiend Frankenstein is by trying to create life in something barely strung together.  Meanwhile, I am trying to create life in my own being-- also barely strung together. You might say I'm the bigger villain as doing it to myself seems more self-absorbed. But then you'd take it back, on account of the boring lack of murders and misery in my story. 

We're all the same. We fight the losing battle, but fight we must because the the path to death is not pretty. It's disintigration. It's saggy. It's colorless. And it's creaky and achy and stiff and rigor mortisy. Who wants that for me? 

Jesus does.  No surprise there, we're always butting heads.

For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will find it. Matthew.

I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me... Galations.

One god I worship is surely the god of health. For health reasons. I want to feel well, and move well. And be able to take care of myself. This is good. And also for image reasons. I don't want a gobble neck. Actually, I want a face lift. I like the story that I am a "fresh as a daisy" type of person. Not a “pushing up daisies” type of person. I like the story that I have a pleasant happy-looking face. In a book I'm reading with the kids it keeps referring to lying as telling stories. It was written in the same era as chin straps for coffin people. 

Wanting to look fresh and happy is not bad. But it is less good. I should let some of those wants and needs die some. Maybe stop telling stories. Embrace a little more death. Let Christ live in me a little bigger. I don't think Mother Theresa took too many spa days. And yet, look how long she has lived so far? She's still living! Deitrich Bonhoeffer walked straight into death more than any human can. He has earned the right kind of fame and true glory that will outlive us all. 

Maybe Death can be becoming. 

“Thy Will be Done.” Possibly the rock in Gethsemane where Jesus accepted all death. Ultimate Death➡️ Ultimate Life!