Regarding My Memorial

  Dear Future Personal Architect,

       A memorial in my name shall be built once my regretful death occurs. Before proceeding with the construction of this great edifice, you must be extremely educated on each aspect, and on each detail of each aspect, of this future landmark. The following instructions, written by yours truly, must be read repeatedly until not only are the words and meanings engraved into the walls of your brain, but it reaches a point where your lover, or whoever sleeps by you at night, wakes you up midway between dusk and dawn by reciting these very lines (the ones you have been chanting incessantly), in her sleep.

       The first order of business is location. It must be located in Kauai, Hawaii, preferably on a vast beach. I really must have you build it to take up a large square portion of land; however, do not mistake this desire to be out of pure wantonness (despite having no other explanation to provide), so you may as well add a stone balustrade to help one across*.

       Now that location and relative size is established, I must proceed to inform you what the actual structure must be. It consists of four parts: the outdoor walkway, the indoor walkway, the secondary outdoor walkway, and finally the large building itself. Before you start forming your little judgements against the plan to have three walkways, hear what reasons I have to give. The first outdoor walkway, consisting of stone and very twisty in path, is the walkway my visitors assume to be the sole walkway, and they will treat it as such by casually strolling by, saving their tears and grief for when they reach the giant arched entrance to a building which contains the second walkway. Here, they will shed their tears, thinking this is the real memorial. The carpet will absorb their tears, while a worker stationed there will wait until they have been fully drained guides them towards the third pathway. It is better they cry then, for I wish no tears to be making the floor slippery at the real monument, where there will be no carpet. Not to mention, the exercise coming from all the walking will release enough endorphins in their systems that they will no longer be moping once they reach my memorial. The third walkway is outdoor, and it is the real walkway, quite straightforward in path, surrounded by eucalyptus trees. It lasts ten seconds to walk across.

      The last part of my memorial is the structure itself. It must resemble the Sydney Opera House, with the only differences being the inside and that it is blue. There will still be a circular stage, 79 feet in diamater, however there will be no seats. On the stage there will be a stereo playing music from my playlist on Spotify titled “Jazzy Jams.” I also desire the ceiling to be made of emerald, 55 feet above the ground. Mind you, I do not feel obliged to explain every detail, for I know your intelligent mind can infer the obvious symbolism that is tied to them.

       Because this letter isn't pretentious enough, I expect a marching band to play in honor of my memory, only pausing their music when it comes time for a solo. Then they will hear me solo silently, with their hands against their hearts and their heads bowed, showing their deep respect.

     This last part, my dear architect friend, must be read only once the memorial has been fully completed:

      24 hours after my memorial is finished, I want you to take a bulldozer, or some dynamite, and destroy it. I mean, really smother it to pieces. If there still happens to be some die-hards who want to take the time to remember me, tell them to pop open a drink of their choice, sit on their lawn back home, listen to jazz, and stare up at the sky. I’ll appreciate it best since that’s what I would’ve done on a sunny day with no responsibilities. 

Wishing you great luck,

Jenna Youness

*This is supposed to be a Kafka reference (Conversation With the Supplicant). Please do not actually
add a stone balustrade.