If I have the honour, the privilege, of reaching old age, I do intend to make the most of it.
Right up to the point where I begin to lose cerebral functionality, or fall terminally ill.
If I happen to slip into the spiral of decline, doomed to dwindle away, becoming a frail, trembling, dependent vegetable, I should take it upon myself to go out with a bang.
I’ve decided that in the face of losing who I am, rotting away ever slowly, while I attempt to delude myself into believing that this is the way it should be, that I’m making the most of my mortality, by taking the form of a redundant ghoul (prematurely) and wandering empty shopping malls in my pyjamas, at 8am on a Tuesday, clutching to my goldfish memory, while I swipe my library card instead of my Eftpos and probably soil myself when waiting for some senior citizen discounted fries, at Mc Donald’s; It’s better to leave with my self-respect and dignity intact but most importantly, my mind, my thoughts, which are the very essence of my being.
As a good friend of mine once said; “Life is just a game where the objective is to not shit yourself (incontinence being the exception), as an adult – go to work, don’t shit your pants. Ride the bus, don’t shit your pants. Shopping for food? Don’t shit your pants, etc”
Don’t shit your pants. = Win.
Shit your pants = lose.
In this narrative, it would seem I’m bound to eventually lose the game.
So I’ve conjured up a rather unique concept.
I’ll set up a very large canvas, in some room, hung parallel to the ground, perhaps slightly higher than the average ceiling. Below that I’ll arrange a comfortable chair and some snacks.
I’ll plead my case and say farewell to whatever family has suffered my company through the years and not beat me to this wonderful exit.
I believe I’ll sit my arthritic ass down on that inviting seat, help myself to some potato chips, drink a glass of the finest whiskey I could get my hands on, light one last cigarette and before it burns to the butt, blow my brains out and onto the suspended canvas.
I’ll call it “The final thought”.
Having now successfully made my consciousness tangible, I’ll instruct my descendants to frame it and have it displayed in the dining room, looming above the dinner table because that seems like the appropriate place.
If I raised them well, sometime shortly after its conception and some awkward meals, I’m sure they’ll hawk it off at some flea market, for a pair of roller blades or a retro napkin dispenser.
Which is cool with me.
Because I went out on my own terms, I met death as an equal and as a by-product created visual art with the tedious conversation we had.