Hunter S. Thompson shot himself last Saturday night. i was reminded of another great writer, Richard Bratigan, found dead in the woods behind his place, a .45 and an empty whiskey bottle at hand.
Shades of Nick Jones too, my friends; the mad mystic, the creative force not so much driven to destroy itself so as to choose its own ending, its own destiny. Kim and i discussed this once. She told me that she had long-ago determined that she felt she wanted to kill herself in the end; not so much out of a sense of helplessness or depression, but as an act of supreme self-determination. My own suicidal tendancies always ran in a more melancholy vein. In any event, we agreed that we’d rather not live our last days tied to some medical machine or otherwise wasting away.
Over the last few months, i’ve been embracing stranger energies again, letting my life be governed by circumstance. In a great discussion last night with H.E. (my old Rasta friend), we got talking about theology and spirituality. We agreed that the path you take that is greater than the destination or departure point. All endings ought to come just as they naturally do; in the end.
Hunter S. always blurred the line between observer and participant in life’s circus. Perhaps the act of ending his life was the best obituary he could write…