if I stepped off the sidewalk in front of that Casella recycling truck, would it kill me right away or would it drag me first?
Would a fall from the roof of our apartment building be enough? Probably, especially if I hit headfirst, since heads tend to splat like melons despite our thick skulls.
If I cut my right wrist deep enough to do the deed, would the following cut in my left wrist be shallower due to the injured — and thus presumably made weaker — right? How long does it take to bleed to death? Who would find me?
I bet if I downed my supply of HIV meds all at once, it would stop my heart or stop my kidneys or stop something rather vital to life continuing, I’m just not sure what or whether or not it would be violently, painfully, and inconveniently slow going as it did so.
I fancy myself an artist, so such intermittent thoughts might just be residual morbidity from broad-sweeping creativity. Then again, maybe my output is just residual creativity from broad-sweeping morbidity.
Regardless, I do think about death a lot. But I also think about life; what it means to live. I search for the answer to the ever-elusive — or is it illusive? — why.
Religion seems a dead-end for such contemplation, devaluing life as it does by its shrill upsell of afterlife/post-life products like “Heaven” and “Nirvana”; a canonized carrot vis-a-vis the current stick that is life.
And life can be one shitty stick — or is it shtick? — indeed, allowing for flimflam men of faith.
My spiritual convictions notwithstanding — or is it not with standing? — I try to find a place for myself in the here and now.
I try to be a part of the queer community but feel disconnected from it. I try to be a part of the writing community but feel disconnected from that too. I know I don’t spend enough time working at being connected to either, but much of that is because I spend so much of my time just scraping by that I’m too wiped to be of use; to feel like I could be of use.
Yet at 46, suicide outside of dark thoughts seems unlikely in my future; in a way, life itself is one long suicide, as we are dying as soon as we are born. The older one gets, the closer inevitable death comes, even if we can avoid walking in the street in front of a gun-toting lunatic lawman.
So reading of Robin Williams‘ death at 63, my fist thought, after being stunned, was that he was so old — so close to curtain call already — that it seemed weird he’d go and do a thing like that.
My second was how brilliant of an artist he was, accumulating well-deserved fortune and fame for performances both comedic and serious. Sure his current series got cancelled, but surely his incredible past accomplishments and cross-genre successes should have allowed for final Golden Years even with some tarnishing by Parkinson’s.
Right now, bronze doesn’t appear to be forthcoming in my senior life, let alone gold, and I know how crappy I feel inside about my lack of such metal — or is it mettle? — so my third, and not yet final thought was:
How do you stop being your own worst enemy?