A lot of being a writer is knowing how to use words. More precisely, a lot about knowing when to use which words where in order to create the right shape. Sometimes you want to mince words while other times you want to draw them out like saltwater taffy. The control of pen on paper (or keyboard on monitor) doesn’t make it any easier, either. It’s unnatural, so we practice and practice. But then we die, meaning we’ve also got to practice and think about the final words. 

I’m sure you’re familiar with the assorted anecdotes about people dying and their final words, but what I mean to get at is how bad we are at the whole thing. Really, think about it—what would you say? What would it matter? What if no one’s there; what do you say to the void? We’re usually too preoccupied by stuff like Alzheimers or existential terror, so there really isn’t much point, and any gesture we do try to make seems (is?) quite trite and overdone like a caricature.

Final words mark the landscape of our lives. The final word in a ridiculous argument with a sibling. The final word in classroom debate. The final word of the relationship. The final word arguing with parents, spouses, children and cousins. The white sedan that nearly ran you over, the conductor on the platform, and the houseless man who sleeps on cardboard. We wear out final words here and final words there, but mostly we’re just littering and tossing hollow words wherever we please.

The Final Word is an installation art piece made by Illegal Art, and they describe it this way:

There are always things left unsaid. The perfect ending to a conversation with a stranger. A clever comeback in a debate with a colleague at work. A farewell bid to a loved one. Missed opportunities to get in the last word. What do you wish you had said? Now is the time to say it.

I recently had the opportunity to participate in The Final Word while visiting Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I’ve always been a nosey person, though generally covertly, so it felt strange to let loose and not account for any other person’s trepidations. Final words are so personal and intimate; strangers have chosen to give up a window into their insides and strangers have chosen to peer into those windows.

Final words ought to have substance—I think that’s what the creators of the installation wanted—but, alas, many did not. I spent a good amount of time pulling out red-tipped paper cigars, noting the physicality of the honeycomb and how some of the papers got to be at the very edge of the top or bottom of the structure. But so few of them were interesting, though; like eating cardboard when you’re hungry for meaning. Mostly stuff like Bible verses, “I love you”s, “You are enough”s, “Be kind to everyone”s, and so on. Generic Hallmark stuff. Out of the twenty to thirty minutes I spent, these were the only really interesting ones I could find:

This one was my favourite:

To put it bluntly, I was disappointed. Like I’ve said, the idea of “the final word” in the twenty-first century is loose and weak. It seemed that very few people understood the assignment. There’s so much more at stake in the final word—or, at least, I want there to be more at stake. I don’t mean to over-exaggerate the importance of words, but they are important. Stop littering! Stop using hollow cardboard words! Maybe I never quite shook Kerouac’s quote from middle school, but words without weight are useless (and we’d throw them out in semantic embedding or modelling). 

I wrote a final word of mine and tucked the cigar into the honeycomb, joining so many others. I hope someone finds it and understands what it is.



1 Comment

  1. Kadeidra

    Reflecting on that recently.
    Is anything worth saying anymore. Have all the great things been said. What is left? There really is nothing new under the sun.

    “Eating cardboard when hungry for meaning” favorite part.
    Thank you for sharing your words.

    Side note…would love to know what you wrote on your note.

    Reply

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