So It Goes...

If you're well read or ever took part in literary criticism, you've probably already guessed what this post is about based on the title, an iconic phrase that was often used by a certain author to describe death, particulary the deaths of Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King.

Kurt Vonnegut has died. I can't even begin to explain my sadness. Yes. I never actually met him, but I've devoured all of his books, most of them multiple times. Through his brambly prose and altar egos like Kilgore Trout, he allowed his readers a view into his incredibly sagacious mind, sharing not only tidbits of his life's story (Slaughterhouse-Five) but also his political and personal views on issues such as war, death, the environment, conspicuous consumerism, and religion. (Anyone else remember The Church of God the Utterly Indifferent?)

He was an irreverent iconoclast who discarded the rules of grammar and accepted verse structures in order to freely transmit his feelings to the page, and a literary activist who used the written word, carefully masked as fiction, to positively influence young minds and spur debate inside and outside the classroom. He was, in my humble view, a true "writer's writer." He was a man who captured the complexities of life in wildly humorous and entertaining tales not for money or recognition but simply because he had something to say. He wanted to share his truth--and he did.

I have to say that this has not been a good week for my favorite authors. Not only has Kurt Vonnegut passed away, but the author who breathed life into Latina fiction and taught me to embrace my style of writing, Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez author of the hugely successful The Dirty Girls Social Club, has announced that she is cancelling Chica Lit Festival 2007 for health reasons. She has struggled with bulimia for some time, but the effects of the disease have finally caught up with her. She has been forced to confront her own mortality, and in some strange way, it brings the issue to the forefront of my mind.

Except, well, I'm not really worried about it. No, I don't want to die. I'd very much like to live to be 100, but this is reality folks. Women on my father's side live into their late 90s, early 100s, but on Mom's side, there's not a lot of good news. Women rarely see 65 in her family. Yeah. Not good. Add to that the following: I'm overweight. I'll probably develop Type II diabetes b/c of family history and my own bad lifestyle choices. I also have two mild, normally unproblematic heart conditions that are only problematic if, you know, I decide to get pregnant when the odds of me having a heart attack, embolism, aortic dissection, etc, skyrocket. Of course, that doesn't stop relatives from refusing to accept that we'll probably have to adopt, but what can you do, right? You don't want people to get their hopes up about pregnancies b/c not only do you have heart conditions, but you also have PCOS, so you tell people, "Hey, we're probably going to adopt." And what do you hear? Something along the lines of, "Oh, don't worry about it. Lose a little weight and your reproductive problems will fix themselves." Sigh. I know. As if my PCOS is really my biggest worry....

Anyways. Where was I? Oh, yes.

We all die. End of story. Truth be told, I'm more frightened by the prospect of loved ones dying--namely Dave, my siblings or friends. Grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles--well--their deaths don't really faze me. No, I'm not some cold, callus bitch. I'm a pragmatist. They're older. They have health conditions. They've lived great lives. If they were to pass away today or tomorrow, people would mourn, but they would also find comfort in the idea that the deceased had lived. You know, experienced life, fell in love, suffered heartbreaks, fell in love again, raised children or grandchildren, laughed, cried, sang, made love--all the important things.

But my siblings, my friends, and Dave--well--I'm not ready for them to go yet. They all have so much to accomplish, so many things to experience, that if they were taken from me, I would be seriously, seriously pissed. That kind of dragging-Polydegmon-out-of-Hades-for-some-serious-ass-kicking pissed. I want everyone that I love to outlive me. It's selfish, I know, but that's what I want. Yes. I know what you're thinking. "If wishes were horses...."

Now that I'm slighlty depressed, I'm going to bury my despair in a pile of Oreos and some Spongebob Squarepants. I'll leave you with the last entry in Vonnegut's final book of essays A Man Without a Country. For time's sake, I'm only using the last few lines of the poem "Requiem."

When the last living thing
Has died on account of us
How poetical it would be
If Earth could say,
In a voice floating up
Perhaps
From the floor
Of the Grand Canyon,
"It is done."
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