When I was in Lawrence last week, my friend TJ and I had a beer-soaked conversation we’ve had before. We revisit it often, just as we did this time, out of an obvious need for comfort. Of all that we share, there is one chunk of our personalities that we rarely find in anyone else. That is, that we both desperately hope to die violently. And with dignity.
A pre-requisite for a dignified death is a grand and fabulous life. Baby mice never die with dignity. Without the dignity part, I suppose my end-wishes wouldn’t be all that difficult to satisfy. But dignity is a quiet, intangible, and fleeting quality. You only notice its presence in the aftermath of the action. It is the con-trail of something Good and Worthy. Paired with violence, it’s an odd and dizzying thought. A vapor.
It’s hard to talk about. Death is a touchy subject. We all have had someone we love die. And even though we all have to die, nobody really likes to talk about it. But TJ and I agree that it isn’t fair to call us insensitive or ‘morbid’ simply because we’re dreamers.
We agree that a lion would be nice. A shark even, with the added horror of the Deep. Being devoured somehow seems to be the perfect combination of shock-filled sensory experience and dignity (what with the fight, and the Nature of it all). TJ isn’t as wild about the idea of an automobile accident, but I find the speed of it to be a rather sexy way to go, if less dignified. Dying in any way for the War on Terror would be a decidedly disappointing closing act. Hopefully by the time I’m ready to go, an elected president of ours will have said publicly “We can’t fight an emotion, I’m sorry…who wants health care?” Speaking of which, a hospital or a nursing home are among the most disappointing places to die of all. I never want to die half-knowing my wife or half-knowing that my own children know perfectly well that I don’t know who they are.
Waterfalls, tornados, bears, city busses, whaling expeditions, climbing accidents, rocks, slam-dunk contests, shipwrecks, inner-city fire fights. These are all attractive options.
Of course, now and then, I bring up these secret wishes to a mature adult. Such as my mother, who most recently reminded me of a startling development. I amsort of “growing up.” I’m beginning to think about the future, and as our president knows, I am mindful that I may one day be trying to put food on my family. It is in these thoughts—thoughts of adulthood and responsibility, where wings take dream—that I find my life-long hopes for a violent end-game quite flummoxed. But I refuse to let the ever-symbolic gray hair (that will appear atop my temple in approximately six to nine years) stand in the way of my fantasy. From now on, I’m going to be more mindful of both aspects of my future, the practical and the dubiously wild.
From this day forward, I will purposefully look for a place to one day plant my seed, so that a pride of human lions can one day carry on, the valiant keepers of my precious line. And in the meantime, I will talk crazy talk with my ridiculous friend TJ and look neither way before crossing the street.