Monday, February 21, 2005

The Doctor is Out.

Well it truly is a sad day for me, and many others out there, my friends.

The Godfather of Gonzo, the Jester of Journalism, the man who inspired me to write, to get tattooed, to question authority with gusto, to drive home the heavy handed questions, to attack those bastards in power and make them answer to the flames, to get a degree in journalism, has left this world and entered a new one.

I only hope the devil is ready for him.

Yes, it is sad but true, Hunter S. Thompson has left the scene in a blaze of self-induced glory, the likes we have not seen since, well Kurt Cobain. Of course, it is my speculation that it was not Cobain who Thompson felt akin to. I beleive it was Hemingway who made that violent and terrible impact.

Now, I am not one to condone suicide. I have written about this before. I feel it is gross and terrible. But I have, many times actually, toyed with the idea of doing just what the good Doctor did. Very recently in fact. Suicide, in all it's horror, is a beautiful thought. A way out. A end to the pain that is this life. I believe wholeheartedly that suicide provides the last comfort, the worst option, to those times in which we cannot see the horison because of how deep we are in the water. But it is one of the most selfish acts one could do. It destroys the poeple around you, leaving them to deal with you and all that you left unfinished and left behind. So Once again, let me repeat, I do not condone suicide. It is wrong. But I can see it's value in this society. In fact, there are a good many days where suicide seems the only logical conclusion in the world we live in. Landslides, volcanoes, tsunamis, war, greed and the state of the human condition in the modern day and age are all easily influential on whether we want ot keep moving or not. But it is odd that a man like Thompson, who openly discussed his multiple lives, his aversion to death (but coming so very close) would just up and take his life, just like that. It does not follow in his footsteps. But on the other hand, he was also a man who would not be told how to live. He was his own person right down to the core. Maybe there was that voice that simply told him that he was finished here. That he had better places to be. Better adventures elswhere.
Or maybe it was something very, very different. As we all know from Thompson's writings, he has never spoken much about relationships. He has never been one to speak about about the condition of love. While he was a genius in his own right, and exposed America's worst elements in bright glorious light (and repulsive dark) he never really openly discussed one of the most important aspects of life: love. He casually mentions his relationships in passing, as a side note really, but never, not once, in all of the writings I have read of his, has he mentioned the notions of love. Maybe, just maybe, this one topic, this unspoken element of Thompson's life carried the most weight. Maybe this was what drove one of the most brilliant writers of our lifetime, to load up a shotgun and end his life.

So it is with a grain of deepest sincerity for me to ask simply,

"Why Hunter?"

What would provoke you to do such a horrifically permanent thing? What would cause you to put that heavy bullet into your head?

We may never know. It may be none of our business. However, we can always speculate. We can always ask questions. We can always seek the deeper truth that exists. In fact, I believe it would be a disservice to Hunter if we did not ask what caused this act.

This is purely speculation, but something that I can only feel would be a stong enough motive for hunter to finalize the agreement with Life. Maybe it was Love which was at the root of his death. While I know absolutely nothign of Thompson's life, except through his writings, of which I have read nearly everything, I do one thing about suicide: There is no other force behind it as strong as love. There is no other thing that can build a man up so quickly and destroy him just the same. Love, my friends, is the ultimate emotion. It is the ultimate creator of worlds and the ultimate destroyer.

And so I go to bed now with the hope that this matter will be looked at. Maybe Hunter left a note. Maybe not. Right now, peace be with his family. Let them grieve. Give them all the time they deserve and require. But someday (in the near future, hopefully), they will give us, the soldiers who were led by this crazy brilliant Master some closure. Something. The credits have begun to roll and the movie has not finished. I believe it is his family who holds the key to the question "why" and I wait patiently for their words.

Of course, this might be the reason Thompson did it this way afterall...maybe it was just his time to fly, and he's sipping Rum and smoking a wonderful spliff and chuckling softly at his final prank. No doubt he knew we'll be talking about him until the end of time.

Hunter, may you find the peace in death that you could never find in life. And thank you for all that you have written. Finally, thank you for teaching me that Truth must always be the source for which we exist. Even if that Truth is a bloody dagger held by a double-thumbed fist...

Cazart You Billiant Old Bastard. You will be missed.