Being dead is not all down-side. There is a certain amount of goodness to be found in the fact of being already dead.
I know some of this morbid thinking comes about simply because I am facing my own mortality and lingering about in bed most of the time in pain and waiting for a heart-attack or a stroke to put the fireworks into the finale. It is not because I desperately need to get out and drive for Uber to make all the pennies I can for taxes and medical bills and can’t yet do so because of arthritis and diabetes and fear of fainting behind the wheel. I can live with that. It is about preparing and facing the final curtain with as much grace as a fool can.
Of course, the greatest boon that death grants is that it brings an end to suffering. My joints will no longer be on fire and blazing with pain (assuming there isn’t a Hell capable of delivering torments beyond what we get a heaping helping of during life.) I will not have to worry about medical bills and hospital bill collectors any longer. Not that the same can be said of my loved ones. But I myself will no longer have the capacity to think and worry about paying for my many sins of poor health and being sick. In fact, I will be spared a number of things that eat at me while I am alive.
I will not have to watch any more Adam Sandler movies.
I will not have to consider anything that is said on Fox News (unless, of course, Hell is real and they have cable TV there… Because, well, what else would be on?)
And no more of this guy! But I need to check on that no Hell thing. And if there is one, and he is headed there soon for all eternity, I might have to figure out some spiritual hack to get into Heaven.
If there is a Hell, though, it will be like Mark Twain once alluded to. The weather will suck, but the most interesting company to keep will all be there.
And it is a proven fact that writers and other artists make more money after they are dead than they did while they are alive. Think of how much money Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, J.R.R. Tolkien, and John Steinbeck have made selling books since they passed away. Edgar Allen Poe died a pauper like me, but his books continue to be sold and made into movies. And then there’s Maurice Hampton Greenblatt. You never heard of him, right? That is because he never wrote and published anything. (Although it also might have something to do with the fact that he is not a real person, and I made him up for this essay.)
Being dead will be like having written the final chapter in your last book about living life. You will close the book and simply be done… once and for all time. There is a certain satisfaction to be had if your life story has, at the very least, been an interesting story. And there is the whole becoming-a-ghost-writer thing to think about. People will still be able to read my words after I am dead. And who knows? The story may continue. There is a lady who writes classical music for dead composers. She has Schubert and Liszt and Beethoven whispering in her ear. Maybe I can find some goofy kid somewhere to start whispering my stories to.
Terminal Thoughts
This is not an essay about what I am thinking while sitting in an airport terminal. This is about the end of things. Not just my own personal end, which via heart attack or stroke may happen at any moment. But the ends of hope and dreams, of birds and bees, and possibly life on earth.
On his last hunt, Eric bagged two illegal immigrants and a lion. He would’ve bagged the girl too, but his dad the President reminded him that Judy Garland is a white girl and he doesn’t have a current hunting license for that.
Now, I just eliminated 75% of Trumpkins with that last joke, mainly because they didn’t understand, but also because they feel insulted by it. Whenever I say anything about how the current government policies have impacted my health, wealth, and happiness they tell me I am a snowflake and they insult me further because I hurt their feelings. 25% will keep reading to find ammunition to use in hate memes on Facebook and rage tweets on Twitter. After that last Facebook kerfluffle, I am tempted to disengage from social media. They are not buying my books because of it. They are only getting madder and madder at me and hating me more and more for being a goddam liberal. Though, when asked, they still assure me they would never unfriend me.
Relationships with people I have always known and cared about are one of the things threatened with imminent demise. The domination of politics and government by the Republican Party is the reason why.I
I myself don’t have to worry too much about the demise of prosperity. I am already bankrupt and planning for a future life living in a cardboard box. But as Trumpian economics continue to work on world markets, everyone else will soon be joining me in suburban-yard farming and eating insects for protein. Tariffs and trade wars are already destabilizing the world’s economy. Stocks are beginning to fall. Of course, the consequences won’t fall on us like a ton of bricks until after enough Republicans win re-election in 2018 to protect Cinnamon Hitler from the crimes he committed to become President.
Of course, the biggest coming demise that I wish to lament in this post will basically take care of all other things. The demise of all life on earth will pretty much take care of anyone’s need to lament about anything. As the world becomes hotter and hotter, and the oceans turn to acid and rise to swallow Miami, and the planet becomes more of a twin to Venus, the Koch Brothers and others who profit from polluting will be laughing about it. They will either be safely dead of old age or ensconced in gilded survival bunkers. They may even have another planet to live on already.
Okay, as I hyperbolize and carry on about doom and gloom, I need to remind you that I am a pessimist. I always plan for the worst so that I can only be pleasantly surprised. And it really can’t get worse than what I am planning for here. But that is not to say there is no hope. All of these problems have solutions. But I don’t anticipate they will be solved under present conditions.
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