The Death of Bronson?

Over the past few months, Your Charles has pondered his mortality. We all know the epic artist on roaring display in these pages is surebet eternal, but the man himself, now a ripened 28, has surpassed the corporal limits of incumbent immortals James D, Kurt, Jim, Jimi, and Janis, so he now wonders if he will join them by combusting in some freakshow CNN.com worthy accident, thereby leaving the embers of his work to conflagrate with his newsworthy death, and all these words will become fashionable, revolutionary, vital in memoriam.

Why, you may ponder, does Charles think his litany of genius will soon end? Very simple, his life lacks supreme purpose. The compounding nature of successive days teaching rich apathetic kids, answering to the phony expectations of a perpetually absent boss, all while living below even his meager means, has corrupted his sense of original place in the world. Instead, Your Charles feels a patsi in an unjust grind, reaping no real rewards.

Granted, he views his present jobstyle as common amongst the ordinary man that willfully succumbs to it. That man with safe marriage, and new mortgage must swallow whatever cruel job situation befits his monetary responsibilities and builds upon his new domestic predilection for sheds of tools, retirement funds, and newborn babies. Once fully settled into that boring job, the wild spirit gives way to the responsible family man and rationalized values replace rocking impulses, which drives the man's life firmly into frustration and predictability. Yes, there are benefits to ordinary man's life (stability and companionship for two), but if it comes at the cost of enduring a soulsuck job and surrendering freewill to fate, Your Charles decided long ago to not go that gentle.

And now that Your Charles has felt himself slip into the ordinary man realm via this shit job and accompanying stunted lifestyle, without the requisite components (wife, rock fatigue, hometown) to convince himself that a stupid job is a means to an end (or a means to a mortgage. i.e.), he finds himself in a stupid vertigo, where his new netherworld is neither rocking nor stable, but rather wan and meaningless. So therefore he thinks he is expendable. His life isn't tending towards any absolute - static nor electric - and that realization makes him more wary on the roads for buses skipping red lights.

However, such depressing inevitability will not be found here anymore. Your Charles's latest foray into teaching the gov't abandoned kids of NOLA has restored his sense of purpose as a fulltime rocker. This return to form has given him back invincibility. So while Janis and Kurt and everyone had their life moment flicker and extinguesh before rebursting into history, your Charles will see his transcendance while he is still here on earth.

So, Your Charles's myth will not be truncated, full of bittersweetness and caution, but instead Your Charles will be a lifeblood embodiment of his self-made celestial lore - a living legend, if you will. So, my Bronson faithful, do not fret about compiling posthumous tomes of pale letters and prescient kumbayaas a la John Kennedy Toole or Bradley Nowell, for Your Charles is Your Charles and the rest is beautifully undiscovered.