We have lost Maurice Sendak. He was 83 and suffering complications from a stroke. 83 year old men suffering complications from stokes do die at an alarming rate, and so Mr. Sendak’s death is not a shocking surprise.
His family and friends no doubt made arrangements which respectfully handle both his remains and his affairs. I would have dressed his corpse in graying fuzzy one piece pajamas with fraying ears lopsidedly sewn to their hood. His remains would be placed ontop a tall and precariously stacked pile of logs and brambles. As the pyre burnt after-images into the retina of night throngs would queue up for a chance to howl at its intense heat . This is one more reason why I am not asked for my opinion on what takes place in polite company.
“Where the Wild Things Are” was published before I could read, and so it was first read to me. It has been a blueprint for my life up until they ‘made it into a movie’ (2009) and I could no longer read it without wondering how they conjured the movie’s ‘plot’ from its pages.
Though it has been almost two decades since Mr. Sendak published a book that captured and refused to free my attention I am a bit foggy eyed about thinking of him only in his passing.
I think I will take a small boat out onto the great salt lake, and far from shore I will pull a copy of “where the wild things are” from the safety of a gallon zip-lock bag. Before I am done I will imagine -at least three times- that the rocky islands of the lake are inhabited by more than flies and bird droppings.