In a couple of months, I hope to move officially on DEATH ROW. Will I be asked from above if I have some preference I will say that I would like to join the bandwagon on the 26th of March, 2018 and nail thus, the 80 years’ time mark. Being a gambler numbers mean a lot to me especially those concomitantly positive and negative. Do not the years signify both addition and deduction? That, only if you are a naïve optimist. In reality, life is only a matter of deduction! Somebody or something is gnawing from your infinitely small expanse, every moment, a huge chunk!
Even if I do not want to be particularly nasty or highly impolite I am compelled to say – please do not think of you as different. We are all of us on the death row included the unborn and the unbaptized… The only thing that differentiate us are statistics. Older people are dying first; at least nowadays…Hundred years ago infants were heading the row, during the wars young male adults are shinning. In peacetime like now women, minorities, overdose consumers, gangs’ fighters and good believers’ activists provide a nice slice too. But there is no need to push; the mill grinds its grains unalterably.
I feel that it is time to get concrete, because as strange as it may appear people did somersaults all over world and time to avoid considering the issue, the concept, the occurrence, the inevitability. Some it invented an oversexed paradise (72 virgins by customer? that is really a rare commodity), others were graciously floating above the ground in company of hallowed martyrs, a fine intellectual group indulged into a subtle fusion with a major deity (God so and so) or with the World Spirit, a large mass, a giant lump are ferociously eager for another RUN and the rest float in a state of hopeful, unarticulated, stupor. Few cynical anarchists or devout politically corrects will leave their bodies to science or to agriculture, after having signed some fat life insurance. That is called life insurance…
I wouldn’t mind enrolling in any of the companies nor in all of them shouldn’t I have before the nose, eyes, mind (?) a disturbing sequence of ugly faces. They belong to American convicted killers who patiently expect, some for dozen of years, you can imagine the torment, some kind of execution. O.J. Simpson isn’t among them. He was not convicted and he is beautiful. He had wonderful lawyers, a great jury and displayed a fine innocent game. I admired him. But me, I am among them. You will probably recognize me easily. Sure, I was too much of a coward to be a criminal in spite of having some hot reasons.
So, why me? And, why there? What do I have in common with all these psychopaths? Am I an epigone of Vernon H. patronizing
all kind of humanitarian causes especially when they have to do with offenders? I never cared for anything else than victims. But it is with the sentenced offenders that I share the most precious ore – that of being AWARE of being on the Death Row. There is nevertheless a huge difference. They, the unnamed, are forced to get through that kind of, let’s call it, treatment while me from an early age, I accepted and absolutely recognized DEATH as the major life determinant and SIGNIFIER. Under the shadow of demise and the inevitability of departure which were reducing the life expanse to a miserable joke, I decided to STAY happy and have fun. I knew sadness and adversity here and there but with my strong nature, the thirst for amusement, infantile carelessness and especially, lack of memory I beat them down. Then I swore to get out of it, LIFE of cause, if possible and in time, without cackling, whimpering, crawling, drooling, forgetting my name, forgiving my enemies, losing my urine, ruining my stand, displaying drains and catheters, ending homeless or wearing a bitter grin.
So, for the moment I am in a mediocre to medium condition so to say (and that if I abstain to remark a sequence of squeaks and crackles and even cracks and thumps) but I fancy to get better. Hope is more addictive than crack. Then I plan to move soon again into some giant meditation sessions; some major trips around the world, including Paraguay (does anybody go there?); give a first great impulse into Japanese language learning for which I am mentally gunning myself, during the last decade and go into artistic expression full speed. That last, not because I have something particular to say. Does anybody have? We are in a time of formal experiment, but play, homo ludens and exercise are beneficial to both humans and apes. Also, I intend to continue the permanent refurbishing of my living space. I should persist in filling cracks, tiles fitting, walls painting, furniture improving and installation updating. I hate pigsties of both young and old.
Concomitantly I should get ready for the FINAL STRIKE (sorry, it is not a very sensitive term in the context) by acquiring a bottle or two of a great brut Champaign– Mumm, Heidsieck, Veuve Clicquot, the top and an exclusive cigar, of hundred bucks apiece. I didn’t smoke for a decade, but I fancy to get one from that famous Caribbean place. Their heroic political message, Che superstar, (together with peerless athletic achievements) excited and thrilled the good people around the world still today. Thanks to them we can sneer those filthy rich, Asian fat-asses who irresponsibly flood the world with objects which people buy without really need them, like the Sam Sung What? And what occurs nowadays? The socialist bastion of Jose Marti and Fidel C. is invaded by hordes of sex tourists in search of discount Marxist intercourse much under Thailand’s prices! And we all
know who is guilty about that! Follow my lips: the president Obama and the white geriatric Cuban establishment are those who opened wide the gates to luxury and capitalist debauchery. Should Fidel C. open the eyes and see this trade of female flesh he may have a stroke!
It is sad, it is heartbreaking, but what could I do and what do I care? Thinking twice I don’t. To pay the annual subscription to the TERMINATORS should be my only concern. Also the yearly contribution will be deducted from the final account. Like for the old Dacian people, my fictional ancestors, my farewell should be cool and funny and bring me into nothingness with style. It could be preceded by a gross Laurel and Hardy. After, some Baroque music for accompaniment would be fine; nothing better than a couple of Bach’s fugues. As the most optimistic of the pessimists let’s hope that the PRINCIPAL will support me thoroughly and not throw on me a Schumacher… I think that Pascal thought of that already…Tomorrow will be another day.