I think I know how I would like to die.
I would like my right hand, the outer three fingers of my left hand, eyes, liver, and (ahem) unmentionables to be put on a mountaintop, there to be fed to birds.
But the rest of me, saving only the heart, I would have burned on a funeral pyre.
The ashes shall be divided in half.
The first part shall be spread over the waters of the Pacific, o'er which stout Balboa stared with eagle eyes.
The second part shall be used as fertilizer for a newly planted tree, in the grounds of the former mansion house of Desart Court in County Kilkenny, Ireland.
But my heart shall be put into a jade urn, within a copper box, within a wooden casket. This I would have buried in a Los Angeles cemetery, under the name of Taran Sanders.
And, should some rich fool ever build the original design of the President's House in DC, perhaps on a hill in San Francisco... an event I fear I shall never live to see...
I would humbly hope to have my wooden casket to be exhumed, and placed over one of the mantels in the basement kitchen below the Entrance Hall. Over the other mantel, I would like to have my father's and mothers' hearts, set respectively in a crystal urn and a golden, within a single silver box.
But this is a dream of ivory, not of horn; it shall never be, unless I should be ravished by the Goddess.