The End?

Death. Yeah that’s a topic few want to touch on, at least not the in “polite” company. As you all probably know by now, me and "polite" aren’t exactly on regular speaking terms. 

Given the myriad surgeries and procedures I’ve lived through over the past six years (and my no-end-in-sight recovery efforts), considering the ugly, barbarous hell state that trump, his puppet masters and worshippers have ushered in, seeing as the Masters of War (well, hello Putin, Hamas, Netanyahu, Rapid Support Forces (RSF), etc.) I'm not so much afraid of death anymore. That is, I don’t fear a quiet, natural, non-violent exit from this world. Mind you, I'm not inviting it over for punch and cookies either.

I don’t have even one small enigmatic gem to impart here. I’m just tired of all the endless struggles. Maybe it’s my age and shitty health talking.

My next great adventure, aged 90, is going to be dying. There’s either nothing or something. If there’s nothing there’s nothing, that’s it. If there’s something I can’t think of a greater adventure than finding out what it is. I happen to think there is something because of the experiences I’ve had, because of experiences other people have had. Very powerful ones.
~ Jane Goodall

I don’t necessarily think there’s anything on the other side of the River Styx. I'll find out after the boat docks, eh?

Dying happens to everyone, even stars. Even the stuff between the stars. But if you believe in yourself and achieve your goals, you can die so hard that no one will ever forget you, and that’s almost as good as not dying at all. Well, it isn’t, really, it isn’t at all, and believing and achieving is just something sportscasters say, but what are you gonna do, not die? Try it. I’ll wait.
~ Catherynne M. Valente, Space Opera 

It is fine to say ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’ It is admirable. But it no longer applies when you’re eighty. When you are eighty, whatever doesn’t kill you just ushers you through the next door, and the next door and the next, and all of these doors lock behind you.
~ Richard Osman

I was thinking about an old Captain Beefheart song the other day (yes, I’m fully aware that, like me, all Captain Beefheart songs are old) and thought I must call Tom, who turned me on to the Captain, tomorrow. Problem. Okay, that should be “problems”—plural.
A) I’m deaf now so won’t be ringing anyone up.
B) Tom died of cancer five and a half years ago.

Last night I was reading something (I forget what now) that made me laugh. My first thought was I’ll tell Daddy about this on my next visit—he’ll enjoy it. We’ll have a good chuckle together. Problem. Daddy died three years ago.

I’ve been having a lot of dreams featuring The Amazing Bob lately. Nothing deep, no earth shattering or uplifting epiphanies—the dreams are merely scenes from some sort of journey or quest. TAB’s been gone for eight years.

You know how you sometimes have the most exhausting day and you can't wait to get home and fall into bed and sleep for hours? I feel that way about life. There are people out there who read books about vampires and they crave immortality, but sometimes I'm so thankful that at the end of it all, we get to sleep forever. No more pain. No more exhaustion. Death is the reward for having lived.
~ Krystal Sutherland, Our Chemical Hearts

I wonder what, if any dreams, were playing in TAB, Kevin, Tom, Holly, Sean, Felicity and Daddy’s heads as they slept, drifting closer and closer to Charon’s ferry.

And now this song is playing in my head—Grand Funk Railroad’s I’m Your Captain (Closer to Home).