Not So Happy Hunting Ground

So I feel like a real asshole.
After a quick moment of remorse on learning of Hunter's demise, I asked myself what would Hunter do and then proceeded to broadcast the news on all channels. What I didn't do was my research which would have unearthed the fact that Hunter had not only died, he had died of a "self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head."

Now, to indulge in a further (furthur) excercise in bad taste, let me just say that if you have to go (and we all have to go) and you happen to be the King of Weird and a Notorious Gun-Freak, maybe a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head isn't so bad. Even in death, the legend continues.

Suicide. Last resort of cowards? Not bloody likely. When a man like Thompson pulls the trigger, you may question it, you may wonder why (and I have a feeling that Thompson's final tale will remain untold, an eternal mystery that will be forgotten by most in fifteen minutes) but you don't doubt his courage.

I am a great depressive - paralyzed by life, saddened by death, scared. That is not to say that I am not sometimes happy - sometimes very happy - but I no longer deny that there is a subtle disease that lingers in the corners, waiting for my guard to drop. Lately my guard has been dropped, and the disease has feasted. I let it, because one thing is much like the other, it whispers.

Suicide remains outside the pale of options. Perhaps it is only because when measured on the relative misery scale of humanity, I am blessed beyond measure (was it God or luck? Should I kneel beside my bed at night and thank Jesus I'm American? Couldn't do that. I'm Jewish.) and I know it.

On the other hand, I remain human and I do not believe in Heaven. I cannot bring myself to doubt the troubling hypothesis that while the soul might exist, it remains mortal. Twenty-two with an eternity ahead, but I know that one day that eternity will come to an end. I am less scared of dying tomorrow than I am of dying in fifty years. Dying tomorrow would take me by surprise.

The fear of death and age can only be conquered through suicide, the last resort of heroes. But you need not worry about me. I'm no hero.

Happy Hunting Ground

Hunter has died.
It's strange. The death of my drug-heroes have been relayed to be my Internet now for the past three years. Kesey died three years ago. (Four? I think it was closer to three.) I believe he had just been published in Rolling Stone, writing about the New War (as CNN was still calling it) looking a lot like the old. I was up late, roaming the back-alleys of the Web, when I got a breaking news email all about it.

Now I roam blogs, and that's where I heard about this.
Free at last.

Thought I should mention it. The man himself, Poet Laureate of the Weird.

Behind Your Face

In what way can the dead be said to exist? I drove past my uncle's tree, like I sometimes do. It's better than a gravestone but it doesn't really cut it. God, you Bad Cop, I'd blame you if I believed. I believe in God like I believe in Hamlet - a good story, one that might even be able to change the world, but lacking something essential. Gertrude is getting married on Sunday. We're all entitled to happiness, I guess.

I've begun to consider the possible ramifications of being alone forever. It seems like no way to go through life - I suppose the question, the true question, is whether we believe in fate or choices when it comes to other people - though of course, this (like everything) is not about other people. It is about me. Even so, life might still be inevitable. Death surely is.

Take a moment and locate your place in the world, your actual real place. You might be surprised to realize that it is behind your face.