ODE TO SUICIDE

Surfing the net in an attempt to master the French song
Le Temps d'Amour by Francoise Hardy,
I come across the chanteuse Dalida.
I listen to her rendition of La Mer.
I investigate her life.
For more than 30 years she ruled the French
with her voice and compositions
until she committed suicide at the apogee of her powers.
She wrote: "Life is insufferable. I'm sorry."
She ingested sufficient tranquilizers to embark
on that voyage of no-return a la Marilyn Monroe.
It would be simple and inexpensive with Xanax.
I would hike back into the wilderness
until I found an isolated spot
that only the bears and other wild animals would know.
I would lay out a picnic,
the more food the better to attract hungry beasts.
I would drain a bottle of red, strip to my natural state and overdose.
The animals, assisted by nature, would dispose of my remains.
Nobody would know my destination.
I'd find a place in the Sierras or Rockies.
I would tell everyone that I was going to Hawaii for two weeks.
I would also inform them that I was turning off my cell phone.
I would make arrangements to have letters
sent to my family and friends informing them of my real intention
but never telling them my destination.
I would be like the scurrilous writer Ambrose Bierce
who disappeared into Mexico during the Revolution
without leaving a trace of himself.
He wasn't interested in a final ceremony.
He wanted to die
without the inconveniences
that death engenders.

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