I’d just like to go
It’s far to late to be writing this and some part of me will likely regret taking this time to sit here in front of the computer when the alarm rings in the morning, but I feel the need to write these thoughts down now, even if it isn’t a fitting tribute.
Frank McCourt died over the weekend and upon finally reading about it tonight, it’s absolutely floored me.
I’m having a hard time capturing my thoughts, so I have McCourt’s quote on writing to lean on:
There was only one Muhammad Ali in the ring and other people tried to imitate him, but it didn’t work. Don’t try to write. Just scribble, scribble, scribble. If it demands it, it will be born. It will come
I met McCourt briefly at a book reading at Dalhousie two or three years ago. I can barely recall it, although he read from Teacher Man and later I got my copy of the book signed. I remember the twinkle in his eye and the fact that as a man well in his 70s, he had a boyish look to him.
Without a doubt, one of my favourite authors and likely the reason for my continuing attraction to biographies. His writing has helped shape my own. Captured elsewhere on this blog is his thoughts on writer’s block, which I really should have mounted somewhere. It’s almost fitting that I spent most of tonight reading.
I don’t have a pint of Guinness to raise, nor do I have any Irish Whiskey. Somehow the bottle of scotch above the fridge doesn’t seem fitting or appropriate. But the next time I have a pint of the black stuff, I’ll have another reason to raise it high.
I wouldn’t like to be incapacitated, or handicapped, or die of a slow disease. I don’t want to be beholden to anyone or have anyone wiping my mouth if I’m drooling. I’d just like to go. I don’t want funeral services or memorials. Let them scatter my ashes over the Shannon and pollute the river.