13 Benefits of Death by Strangulation

Why Being Choked To Death Could Be A Good Way To Go

Strangling - strangersonatrain

  1. It’s a surprise. No more worries Death coming one day. It’s here!
  2. You get human contact during your last seconds alive.
  3. Internet research says death-by-strangulation takes long enough that you’ll have a chance to see your life pass before your eyes in a more thorough way than a shooting death, yet not long enough to be maudlin or, worse, boring.
  4. It will be a good, no, great, story for family and friends for years, and maybe decades, to come.
  5. Your organs will be in fine shape should you opt for donating your cadaver for medical research or instruction.
  6. Your organs will be intact, if you chose to have your parts reused by others after you croak.
  7. While it would be a challenge to do a Selfie at such an event, there’s bound to be time enough for a passerby or even the perpetrator to pop on a smartphone camera for a final video or snap.
  8. It’s a conversation starter.
  9. If you’ve chosen post-mortem casket viewing, the only special prop the mortuary will require will be a top with a high collar.
  10. Your existence and demise will be recorded and kept as part of a police report most likely, thus making you part of history.
  11. You’ll surprise a lot of friends and family who never thought anything like that could happen to someone like you. Whatever, “someone like you,” means.
  12. The strangler will walk around with you, their victim, on their mind every so often. You two are forever linked. Like it or not.
  13. There are so many worse ways to go out… Google it.

Hybrid Love

Lamby smelled glorious. Safe and comfortable. It was 1964 and I was three.

My family and I took the sleeper train from Connecticut on the harbor to the piney forests of Wisconsin. I brought Lamby, my well-worn greyish-yuck-colored stuffed animal.

No longer the spry little white lamb with green eyes and a perfect Lamby (2)blue bow around it’s neck, I’d loved the once-shapely, unmistakable lamb into raggedy lumps of slush-colored fabric that made living easier.

It was when we were bustling to grab all our luggage to get off the train in Wisconsin that I realized Lamby was missing. The porter, identifiable by his cap, white jacket, and white gloves, helped us search. We undressed the fold-down beds, looked in the loo and all around the tiny room but  Lamby was nowhere.

I remember the hard vacancy that felt like pressure in my chest.

Later that afternoon we arrived at my grandmother’s wooden cottage. Inside were a few musty bedrooms, French doors, kitchen, sitting room and dining table, lots of old magazines, games, books, a fireplace, and a porch that looked out on a lake.

Coleman-Lake-2We were the first family of the season to visit, so the air in the place was still dry and stale from being shut down for late autumn and winter. In the sitting room, golden shards of dust sparkled in the afternoon sunlight streaming through through the window. Fairy dust. And on the couch was a two-foot long red stuffed animal fish made of felt with large red scales, each sewn on with a sequin to give it a shimmery, fishy look.

My father came over to me as I stared at the fish holding out a small swatch of grey, mouse-colored fabric.

“Here,” he said, “Here’s what was left in the springs of the sleeper bed,” he said. His tenderness told me he understood this was not enough, but was all we had.

I lifted the piece of cloth to my nose and inhaled. Lamby! My mom sewed the small fragment of Lamby onto the cheek of the felt fish. And I don’t remember who, maybe Mom but maybe my dad, maybe even me, but someone came up with the name Fammy for this new hybrid Fish-Lamb friend of mine. Though Fammy certainly was not Lamby, he carried me and I carried him through the next several years.

 

And With A Name Like Herb

Herb is a neighbor. An old man. Some years ago, he was an Eagle Scout, or whatever a high rank is in the Boy Scouts. He went a long way in that game. He was self-disciplined, well-behaved, and goal- driven, I guess. You can see those same traits in his acorn-gathering technique.Herb Garden

He’s meandering on to somewhere in his seventies, I think. Almost ten years ago, my son went door-to-door in our neighborhood to offer lawn-mowing services in the summer and snow shoveling when the snow came. Herb took him up on it and our family became neighborly acquaintances with him. Herb was old then, and he’s older now. He was stodgy and moralistic then. Now he’s even more so, but the rigidity and stodginess is fading into fogginess.

Herb’s house is around the corner from our house on a side-road where every house looks the same except for a different light fixture, a garage that exits the side of the house instead of the front, or a sheltering roof over the front door. 

Mid-November, on my daily walk, I was passing Herb’s, house. The wind was beginning to mention winter. It was cold enough to wear a coat and hat. That day, I found Herb on all fours on his lawn not far from the trunk of his lawn’s single, tall, and verdant-topped oak; one of the gems of his street. He had planted himself in a three-sided patch of clear, leafless lawn, and was doing some kind of work. The rest of his lawn was smattered with crispy fallen leaves. It was easy to see the grass had been recently raked but in the current raining-down-of-leaves phase of Autumn, it was an uphill battle.  Leaves on lawn

 Until Fall had come to a full stop, at our house we abided by the tradition that it was pointless to rake. And once all the leaves were on the ground, we also felt it was pointless to rake as there was simply too much to do. But Herb’s philosophy was diametrically opposed to ours. His triangular work space was impeccable. Bold green. And now being closer, I saw a bucket near him into which, one by one, Herb picked acorns from the ground and pitched them.

“That’s a big job,” I said. I meant to commiserate. To bond with him by empathizing with what seemed like an endless task. Then, like a fire ladder extending itself segment by segment, Herb sat back on his heels, straightened his back, pushed off the ground with a hand, and rose to standing.

“Yeah. They’ll all be gone soon. No more. All gone. Forever.”

“Yeah,” I said, thinking of the coming bare-treed winter. He leaned back a little and turned his face to the lush green canopy atop the long tree trunk.

“Yep. No more acorns. Soon they’ll be all gone.” I figured he meant that it was autumn and he’d soon be caged up inside for the winter to do indoor tasks until it was warm enough to come out and continue on with his tedious, never-ending yard work. I felt my attempt at commiseration a failure and began to question Herb’s cogency.

My feeling is, “Who the fuck am I to tell anyone what to do?” A “naturalist” of sorts in that my philosophy is “Leave it alone.” When there’s a question about whether to cut it or leave it, you’ll find me in the “leave it” camp. Ask me whether you ought to change your hair color? I’ll go with “leave it alone.” I have confidence that Nature has a plan of some kind and the less we mess with it, the better off we’ll be in the short and long run.

A few days after the “All gone” conversation, I passed his house again on my daily walk. The lawn was now completely green. Not a brown, red, or yellow fall leaf marred his precious turf. Although my vision was not acute enough to spot a single acorn, this time, my very observant son happened to be accompanying me. He was staring up. I followed his line of vision into the sky and saw the luscious, bushy green top of the oak. Herb stood on the lawn near the tree. He was looking up as well.

“That’s gonna be gone,” Herb said, “Tonight.” It was a statement. Firm. Knowing. He now considered us.  “Gone,” he muttered. He was calm. Resigned. He was getting his way. He was going to triumph over incorrigible, messy Nature. The majestic crown of the oak would be no more. And as a result, the leaves and most importantly, the maddening acorns, would be banished as well.

A day or two later that November, I set out on a chilly day to take my walk. As I rounded the corner into the side road where Herb lived. I lifted my eyes from their tendency to glue themselves to the ground just in front of my steps. My vision stuttered and stuck. Beheaded. The oak tree. Herb’s statuesque oak tree; was headless. It’s largest branches reached up, but were all of them chopped off mid-forearm. There was nothing but heavy, abrupt branches straining for the sky. Not a leaf, no small branches, nothing to protect the towering creature from the elements. It was bare and headless. Exposed and dying.     

Herbs Tree

A crazy fuckin’ Schenectadian boy scout weirdo had gone batshit on a harmless, photo-synthesizing, shade-giving, oxygen-promoting, visually-refreshing, squirrel-and-other-rodent-feeding tree. A thriving beauty of a tree. A tree who’d done no harm. Had, in fact, done the reverse of harm. Had done what it was supposed to do: grown up to the sun, offered leaves for shade, and seeds to feed and grow more of its own kind. And in return, it had been decapitated and banished, unable to work or live a normal life forever more.

I don’t like Herb anymore.

Blue Jay Comes To

Blue Jay comes to the big feeder and bosses everybody around.

But he is afraid of Woodpecker.Blue Jay

 

How do I know?

He’s more jittery around the black and white striped fellow. And it takes more bluster to get Woodpecker off the big feeder, whereas, the little guys frighten easily at the least flutter or squawk. In an attempt to get Woodpecker to shove off, Blue Jay flaps and caws. The feeder swings crazily like boat on a stormy sea.

From my desk, I call at him, “Stop that. Go away!” Three times I admonish.

Blue Jay flies to a nearby branch to spy on his enemy. And to try to shut me down, he tilts his head and directs his left eye at me, the source of rebuke. I speak more kindly to him now, from my seat inside by the window. I remind him of the other, smaller feeder. Tell him he doesn’t have to share. Tell him he can have his very own feeder.

He flies deeper into hiding in the tree’s leafy middle where I am unable to see him.

I imagine he is feeling chastised, and so, irritated with me. I figure he thinks I just didn’t understand his importance and why he, not Woodpecker, should have the feeder Woodpecker was hogging. By rights, shouldn’t Blue Jay have the bigger feeder?

Tufted Titmouse suddenly lands on the roof of the second, smaller feeder, now unafraid of Blue Jay hanging back in the tree. And then Squirrel takes small squirrel-sized leaps in slow, careful, motion. He looks around nervously after each jump, as he heads to the base of the feeder where a carpet of sunflower seeds awaits. Evidence of many feeder squabbles. Seed spillage is the day’s main course for many visitors.

And then comes Blue Jay. Which I like to imagine is because I told him so.

He flies to the smaller feeder and I feel gratified.

Woodpecker continues tapping at a spot on the big feeder, heedless of nearby activity.

And suddenly a whoosh, another whoosh, and three of Blue Jay’s relatives join him at the smaller feeder. All goes well. And before too long, those in attendance disband.

Minutes later, Blue Jay alights on the east side of the larger feeder. It rocks gently and Woodpecker, already there, stops pecking. Focused and unmoving, he eyes Blue Jay briefly. Woodpecker then turns back to his work to extract seeds from the feeder.

The two are on either side of the large feeder but Blue Jay doesn’t make his usual, noisy squawk. Rather, he sits there silently glaring at his black and white striped nemesis. Woodpecker stops now and returns the glare with indifferent curiosity.

They are still for thirteen, then fifteen, seconds.
And then sudden movement when they both begin tapping their beaks into the feeder with vigor. There seems to be some kind of resolution. An unspoken agreement to disagree. Maybe.

Solo Journey

You may have mistaken him for Mr. Magoo. You know… small, white-skinned, white-haired. Bent forward the tiniest bit. As if gravity is pulling him along.

Don’t be fooled. That’s not Mr. Magoo. Nothing like him. It’s Leo McIlroy. Father of my very good frieLEO 150x189-3413673nd, Anne. Grandfather of Seth, widower of Ginger. And definitely not remotely related to bumbling Mr. Magoo. Leo is old now, but strong. He still has his hair, and I’ve never seen him bumble.

As strong as he is, I think he is going to die soon. Very soon. Maybe even today.

He’s on his back in bed and has been for some weeks now. From vital and active, to hospital, to recovery home, to his own bed in his own home. Family and a few friends surround him. To accompany him tenderly toward his next adventure.

Since I’ve known him, Leo’s been lively and upbeat, offering kind and loving words to all. He smiles easily and hugs even more easily. Soft, sweet, enveloping hugs. He is sincere to his depths. And jolly to those same depths.

Leo is not a thin man. But he’s also not a fat man. I met him when he was already “old,” when  tummies start to let go of what’s not important. Like being svelte. Leo is not svelte in body, but his mind and their offspring thoughts certainly are.

Dictionary.com defines svelte as, “slender and elegant,” which is exactly what I mean. No extra fat or fluff in his conversation. No added sugar or salt. His words just don’t need it. They are sweet and salty enough on their own, with just the right amount of seasoning.

“I don’t want this to get morose,” he told me when I brought up his impending death, his upcoming absence, and how much I would miss him. I have always felt honored he treated me with such respect and love.

Leo has been a good man. That is clear to me by his attitude about the journey he is about to embark on. He is relaxed and accepting. His acceptance of what’s next is palpable.

I wanted to be near him before he left. For myself, mainly. For him, too. And a little bit for my dear friend Anne who may be aboard her own rollercoaster ride as her father gives in and he lets go. But mainly I wanted to be with Leo at this time because, like holding a newborn whose joy and freshness rub off an anyone wanting a taste, I want his loving acceptance to rub off on me.

He is ready to say good-bye now. The shaky, delicate touch of his papery fingers doesn’t tell the whole story anymore. His spirit is big and wide and open. Bold and robust and excited about what’s coming next. I can feel it in the hugs he is still able and so willing to give. And in his warm and easy acceptance of my caresses.

Despite his now-labored, rattling breaths, Leo is ready for the conductor’s final whistle as the train starts to grind away from the station. All visitors, and lovers, and onlookers stand watching. Left behind on the platform where he had been just moments ago. We wave “So long, Dear One!” Some of us weep. Some stay quiet and solemn. And still others grin widely. The rules are the rules. No visitors on this train, Friends. This is a solo journey.

And then, he is gone.

Enough Violence

I don’t feel able. Not at the moment.

I don’t feel able to write. To eat. To do anything. To move from this couch. Even to smile.

It took the wind out of my sails to look at the number of Twitter “Followers” I have.

95

As if my value as a living being can be defined by my number of “Followers,” the tidiness of my home, size of my bank account, or the shape of my ass. And it strikes me that if I am feeling defined by those numbers and categories, then I must be defining you by those things, too.

Comparison.

J.Krishnamurti asked, “Isn’t comparison a form of violence?”

It kills you. It just kills you. Or me, anyway. It kills me. Crushes me. Crushes my ideas of being or doing something great. Or even something good. Or even just doing.

Yes, I say. Yes. Most definitely. Comparison is violence. Against the self and against others. It cuts. Burns. Obliterates. It decimates, with it’s judgment.

Whose is better? Who has more? Who’s been doing it longer? Who was paid more?

I feel lost in blankness. And it follows me.

Not good enough. Not fast enough. Not young enough. Not beautiful enough. Not tidy enough. Not clever enough.

Just plain not enough.

Not enough.

I have typed it eight times now. Enough. And now nine. It looks strange. “Enough.” The word has mutated in my vision to become a meaningless sequence of characters. Six shapes arranged just so. Making a word I have used many times in my thoughts, and aloud, to describe myself. And to describe others.

E — N — O — U — G — H

Could it be that the lack of meaning that happens when we say, write, or type a word over and over and over reflects the lack of meaning a word can actually and truly convey about someone? About me? Or you?

Really.

How can someone be not “enough”?
Enough for whom? Enough for what? And who determines enoughness?

Just as the word “enough,” repeated so many times becomes a muddy alphabetic mixup, so the concept of “enough,” becomes a meaningless mashup of comparison. Of violence. Against myself. And against others.

If I am here, and I am here, typing this, thinking this, then what about me is not enough?

And if you are here, breathing, seeing, reading, then what about you could possibly be not enough.

I say, I am enough. I say you are enough. We are enough.

Enough said.