Thursday, June 23, 2005


The way I want to die is this. I want to choose the moment. I want to go to the beach at Long Beach off Pennsylvania Avenue, the "No Togs" rocks between Dalkey and Killiney, Lake Michigan from Duck Lake State Park or the Pacific on that one day a year when its warm off San Francisco, and I want to walk in to about balls high, just when the cold tightens the scrotum as Joyce put it, and the cool rushes through the body, and then do an easy surface dive into the shallow water and start to swim. And swim and swim and swim the way I did as a kid, with only forgetting as a destination, and go way out onto the easy waves offshore. The sun will be brilliant overhead, the moon will be full, it will be blindingly hot, it will be a soft warm night with the Milky Way lighting the world like a theatre marquee. When I am so tired that I can not swim anymore - this could be a couple of miles but there was a time when I could do ten with ease and maybe that skill would return for this parting shot – I will drop into my favorite position on this planet, the dead man's float, and lie there surrounded by the silence of God's sea, and let myself stop breathing.
© 2005 by Ira Socol________________________________


Adriana Bliss said...

I'm both frightened by and sympathetic to the silence you paint here.

Brenda said...

And so what if the transmigration-of-souls theorists, the life-after-life bunch, the reincarnationists are right and if you blow a life then you have to come back to a worse one, and if you blow that by suiciding out, a worse one, until you can make it all the way through a paltry but precious life?

Paul said...

What if you blow your next incanation by worring about all that stuff? :-)