Fallen

One of my heroes, David Carradine, has gone the way of all flesh. His loss reverberates like waves from the legendary Kung Fu pebble dropped in a pool.

My greatest sorrow at the moment, though, is not his passing, but the sideways-glancing murmurs about the circumstances of his death. The whispers overshadow and threaten to diminish a lifetime of work, of television and martial arts and drawings and music and film, of fans and friendship and family.

Was it suicide? Did he capitulate in a battle with soul-tearing pain that pushed him beyond despair? Or, more likely, was it something… else? “Kinky.” So much implied and unsaid.

Why does it matter if he sought pleasure, or pain, or inner vision, through physical avenues that are not frequently traveled by others? It was a personal quest. If no one else was harmed, then his private activities, even if they resulted in his unintentional demise, should be irrelevant. His death was an Accident.

“People will laugh,” I have heard said. Will they? I hope that those who would snigger, will instead recognize that all individuals have hidden corners, small secrets and private moments that they fervently wish to keep out of the public eye. I do. You do. We all do.

Rest in peace, Grasshopper. I will never forget what you have taught me.