Living, Dying in Three-Quarter Time
“Where the jukebox is blastin, the liquor is flowin
an occasional bottle of wine..that’s cause everyone here is just more than content to be living and dying in three quarter time…”
Jimmy Buffett, Nautical Wheelers
I’ve been afraid to die most of my life. From 19–21, when I was either drunk, stoned, sweating Bethany Gale, or some combo thereof, I was not so much afraid of dying. The rest of the time, I’ve been pretty cowardly when it comes to the great gig in the sky. Well that’s not going to do anymore; I’m fixing to change that.
By trying to remember, each and every day — none of us gets outta this alive. Abe Lincoln, John Bonham, David Bowie, mormor — if death is good enough for them, then damn it, it’ll do just fine for me. Don’t get me wrong, I hope I have a lot of years left, but I have so little control over that part of the equation, relatively speaking.
Know what I do control? Being happy. Treating myself and others kindly. Seeing the world. Writing with one half the purpose my son/dog/life coach-partner, Charleston Wrigley Terrapin Station Musketeer Gaffney, lives with. Not living in fear, for it seems a form of life far worse than death.
That my glorious fucking friends and family, that is living. That is what I intend to do with the final 1–60 years I have on this amazing, maltreated Earth in this warped but very lucky life of mine.
What say we close our eyes (well, finish this paragraph first) for ten seconds and internalize our mortality. Let’s really ask ourselves “if i had six months to live, what would I do? who would I see? where would i go?” those would seem the three most relevant questions to me, anyhow. Wherever this little exercise takes our mind and heart, let’s drink, smoke, eat, sleep, write, screw to that.
Live that life friends; I’ll meet ya halfway. I think mormor would approve this message.