I think the most unresolved integer of my life is, always was, always will be death. Death I do not fear, yet do not feel particularly courageous about either. Death I do not welcome too soon, just at the right time. Death I look forward to and yet am leery of. Death that mystifies me to the point of obsessing on it. To the point of making a myth of it. And a parable, a fable, a fairy tale.

Death: a hypothesis couched in inevitability. An unimagined sweetness, an unknown—the unknown—awareness that cracks my consciousness, seismically at times, rumbling it (me) in the shifting rift between the gold of knowledge and the ordinary rock of being.

Gold I have none, but what I have I give thee, life. The rock of my animal acceptance of my mineral self, one with my human self. Do with the gift—the gift you’ve given me—what you will. When it is exhausted, no longer worth giving or receiving, let it be returned to the mystery out of which it rose. A self-sufficent mystery for whom answers are a nuisance. It much prefers the bliss, not so much of ignorance as of intuition and imagination that have transcended all known parameters of death.

As for what’s unknown about death, that remains the famous unresolved integer that sees to it I’m never quite content with what I know or perceive or feel about it. Something’s always missing from the picture. It’s like a hole in my consciousness I just cant seem to close. That’s you, death. You’re the hole—and you’re what will close it.

Death gallops alongside me . . . I ride to my final battle, the one that will give me a new life whether I win or lose. I will never die, no matter how many times I’m killed. Each death only makes me stronger—and more alive. I am brave; a warrior not just of life but of the eternal.

Do not try to define the eternal; let it remain an instinct, an intuition. As much part of our blood as it is of our intellect. As mysterious and yet immediate as death, whose relationship to the eternal is that of an amanuensis to his muse.

Either eternity encompasses nothingness or my muse has shortchanged me—and death has not so much misinformed as let me figure things out for myself. I guess death wants me to ride my own horse.

Death’s clown, ecstasy’s fool: he plays his part with the intelligence of existential absurdity, wisdom that flies in the face of social normalcy, divinely human craziness that combats political and religious inanity. And the metaphysical emptiness that puts ideology, doctrine, dogma, creeds and all isms in their place—miles below the hilarity of death clown’s antics and ecstasy’s fool’s feet as he dances the laughter of nonexistent gods.