My brother believed it was the constancy of the ordinary that drove the masses to Valium and Freud. The tiresome ritual that compelled some soul to wash and dry the dishes each night at 7:05– just after the drumming of the nightly news had turned his brain to plum pudding. Two children to scrub and bed– A barely significant snoring on the chaise and dreaming of doing evil. He wanted none of it— the ritualistic suicide by everyday life. He did not “push the boundaries”— that tired mantra that would have you strive for ordinary plus. He raged and courted disaster as some might court Sweet Sue– With someone else’s money Someone else’s drugs Someone else’s women. What a splendid mess he made of life. And yet, he died such an ordinary death. Cancer Chemo Morphine Ashes. I read “Do not go gentle” at his wake. An obvious choice— so heartily approved by the attending audience I like to imagine it made him roar with laughter.