Las night, in remote Colorado, gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson's ashes were blasted into the inky mountain sky via fireworks. Hunter would have been 68 this year, had he not put a gun to his head six months ago and ended his life. In the interest of fairness, I have never read Thompson although I'm sure he was a fine writer. I make no comment on his work, and his personal life as a heavy drinking, gun waiving druggie deserves none, but this celebration, in light of my reading this morning, seems remarkably sad.
Juxtapose the following:
Psalm 39:4
Show me, Oh Lord, my life's end and the number of my days. le me know how fleeting is my life.
USATODAY.com - Ashes of Hunter S. Thompson blown into sky:
"'He loved explosions,' explained his wife, Anita Thompson.
'We just threw a gallon of Wild Turkey in the back and headed west,' said Kevin Coy of Chester, W.Va.
Johnny Depp told The Associated Press last month. 'All I'm doing is trying to make sure his last wish comes true. I just want to send my pal out the way he wants to go out.'"
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In the interest of giving their friend what they thought he would have wanted, 250 people gathered to drink and shoot fireworks. What the article fails to mention - because it's so obviously true and no one wants to say it - is that at the end of the evening, HST was still quite dead.
These folks certainly deserve their right to grieve or celebrate life in the manner that they choose, but let's not lose sight that it's the explosions we cause while alive that count. Our days have a number, and that number is counting down, not up. Thompson chose to cut his days short - presumably because he was not happy with the content of the days already lived. For all the celebration of his life this weekend, it was a life that he was not entirely pleased with.
So here I am. Drinking my coffee and pondering our life's work. My prayer is that our lives would be characterized by a more long lasting effect than a four inch shell and a thirty second luminescence.
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