MORE THAN MY DEATH IS WORTH - A BLOG FROM BEYOND
Yes, I am Dead, sans body. And yet, voila, here we are, Jack O. Savage – still, and forever, at your service.
At which point one would reverentially genuflect to your good self. Tis how I am, or, rather, was. Still, one knows one may rely upon your extraordinary fancy to envision one sweeping one’s medium-brimmed Tilley flax hat in tasteful mocha from one’s head, and tracing a baroque swirl of cartouches in the swooning air before your very eyes. I digress.
Yes! One of the many advantages to being, as one is, Dead – the ultimate out of body experience, most liberating! One of the many advantages to being Dead is that one needs neither screen nor keyboard to string a swag or two of verse together. I swear to you, being Dead is a dream for one such as I, for whom the daily chore or tap-tap-tapping one’s life away at a keybored was a wolverine nightmare of rabid torments. Have you ever seen a rabid torment foam at the fangs? Not a pretty sight. And you have my assurance on that, if, that is you will take the word of a black-belt snake oil huckster-in-chief. Genuflect, genuflect.
Folks, since I’ve been Dead I’ve been bouncing, never felt better! I get to perform to the best of audiences and, I tweet you not, I have never been more inspired.
You could say I’m in heaven, except of course I’m not. Not that this means I’m kippering gently down with the horned fella in the smoky house either. No, you can forget all that antediluvian superstition. God – and I have met her – is more your bored chief operating officer type.
In truth, I can report to you that life as a Dead person is not dissimilar to Death as a live person. To be honest with you, a great many of the Dead people I’ve met recently are far more alive than many of those allegedly alive. I am sure you know a good few in that latter category. Golf clubs are stuffed with their like. Oh yes, the possession of a body and a full set of titanium golf sticks does not mean that its occupant is actually alive in any meaningful way. No, there is far more to being alive than drawing a lengthy sequence of breaths into a badly designed frame of flesh and bone. The human body is, I have come to learn since I left mine, somewhat akin to one of those concept cars you see at those ridiculous car shows. I mean, hello humanity: global warming, car shows? What’s all that about, people? I assure you the word in the great beyond here is that the organisation i.e. Nature is less than enamoured with how the human concept is working out, or not, actually. The initial trial was for a couple of dozen human beings only, but… Well, there was an accident, a spillage, if you will. And now here we are – some 10 billion walking around concepts. You might argue that this is evidence of said concept’s exceptional versatility and vigour. But you would be wrong. The human concept is merely exceptionally greedy to be, a state which in itself is evidence of no other worth than an exceptional greed to be. Nature, let me tell you, is not amused.
So is Nature God? No, categorically not. Nature is Nature. There is nothing god-like about her whatsoever. She’s quite the tortured poet type, actually. No, God is, I am able to inform you, being as I am absolutely Dead and know about things on this side of the great divide, a shallow human construct – a semantically limited stop-gap explanation in a rather unsatisfactory state of being.
My advice to you, from the metaphysical side of things is to focus more on the notion of primal states. Forget about Ferrari’s and Ray Banns, think outside the limitations of your corporeality. Think Death. Death, you see, has had a terrible press for far too long. Rather than the Grim Reaper, dear old Death is more the Great Liberator. Of course I know you will find it difficult to get your material mind around this, but that is merely because you are trapped within a doomed body and know no better. You fear your own decline and demise. Ha! Tis tragic. See how I am. Do I sound at all down about being Dead. No. Bouncing! I swear to you I’m bouncing.
To start with – sorry about this Liz, I’m sure you’re listening – a certain exceptionally talented lady poet was waiting for me when I finally escaped my rotting body. Yes, dearest Indie Shadwick was here for me when I broke on through to the other side, if I may borrow from Jimbo Morrison. He says, hi by the way. He’s having the very best of Deaths. Same old Jimbo – always on his way to the next whiskey bar somewhere or other. Hey ho, some things never change, fortunately.
Back to Indie.
She’s lost her stammer. Zero stammer. Death has cured her of that, totally. And she is far more relaxed. Is she still multi-polar? Yes, no change there, but she is more, how can I put this, more biddable. Marriage, she tells me, is dissolved by Death and so I am – sorry about this Liz – free and available to her, Indie. She then proceeds to give yours truly a good shellacking over that little misunderstanding over that awful publishing woman. And then, and then…gives me a ten minute super snog. If this is Death, I thinks to myself, bring it on! But of course it was Death and I was up to my neck in it.
Indie it seems had been watching me during the final weeks of my illness and was absolutely determined not to let any other Dead lady get her hands on my personage, metaphysically speaking, of course.
Between you me and the gatepost, she looks drop-dead gorgeous in her new state. You would never think she was atomised by a speeding train. Not a bit of it.
So we get to chatting. We have a bit of catching up to do. That said she seems to know everything I’ve been up to, even stuff that I’ve forgotten.
We are to write again it seems. The opportunities for Dead poets far outstrip those for live poets. People are more elevated in their tastes once Death frees them from all the petty madness of living. You know how it is. All those things you never quite get round to in life. Voila, Death gives you all the time in the universe. Bouncing, I tell you, bouncing.
Now then. There is a point to all this. Indie informs me to inform you that you are to do her a favour. You are to download a copy of a certain Hunter S. Jones entitled September Again because, again Indie is most insistent on this point, there are some verses of mine in there that – for some reason known only to her – she wants you to familiarise yourself with.
Now who am I to gainsay Indie. You know how she can be. I obey. So dearest you, I beseech you to oblige your poet in this small matter and do Indie’s bidding. Fire up your kindle and download September Again this very minute, nay this very nano-second – faster than a frog’s tongue! Else my Death with not be worth living, so to speak.
Jack O. Savage *bows*
At which point one would reverentially genuflect to your good self. Tis how I am, or, rather, was. Still, one knows one may rely upon your extraordinary fancy to envision one sweeping one’s medium-brimmed Tilley flax hat in tasteful mocha from one’s head, and tracing a baroque swirl of cartouches in the swooning air before your very eyes. I digress.
Yes! One of the many advantages to being, as one is, Dead – the ultimate out of body experience, most liberating! One of the many advantages to being Dead is that one needs neither screen nor keyboard to string a swag or two of verse together. I swear to you, being Dead is a dream for one such as I, for whom the daily chore or tap-tap-tapping one’s life away at a keybored was a wolverine nightmare of rabid torments. Have you ever seen a rabid torment foam at the fangs? Not a pretty sight. And you have my assurance on that, if, that is you will take the word of a black-belt snake oil huckster-in-chief. Genuflect, genuflect.
Folks, since I’ve been Dead I’ve been bouncing, never felt better! I get to perform to the best of audiences and, I tweet you not, I have never been more inspired.
You could say I’m in heaven, except of course I’m not. Not that this means I’m kippering gently down with the horned fella in the smoky house either. No, you can forget all that antediluvian superstition. God – and I have met her – is more your bored chief operating officer type.
In truth, I can report to you that life as a Dead person is not dissimilar to Death as a live person. To be honest with you, a great many of the Dead people I’ve met recently are far more alive than many of those allegedly alive. I am sure you know a good few in that latter category. Golf clubs are stuffed with their like. Oh yes, the possession of a body and a full set of titanium golf sticks does not mean that its occupant is actually alive in any meaningful way. No, there is far more to being alive than drawing a lengthy sequence of breaths into a badly designed frame of flesh and bone. The human body is, I have come to learn since I left mine, somewhat akin to one of those concept cars you see at those ridiculous car shows. I mean, hello humanity: global warming, car shows? What’s all that about, people? I assure you the word in the great beyond here is that the organisation i.e. Nature is less than enamoured with how the human concept is working out, or not, actually. The initial trial was for a couple of dozen human beings only, but… Well, there was an accident, a spillage, if you will. And now here we are – some 10 billion walking around concepts. You might argue that this is evidence of said concept’s exceptional versatility and vigour. But you would be wrong. The human concept is merely exceptionally greedy to be, a state which in itself is evidence of no other worth than an exceptional greed to be. Nature, let me tell you, is not amused.
So is Nature God? No, categorically not. Nature is Nature. There is nothing god-like about her whatsoever. She’s quite the tortured poet type, actually. No, God is, I am able to inform you, being as I am absolutely Dead and know about things on this side of the great divide, a shallow human construct – a semantically limited stop-gap explanation in a rather unsatisfactory state of being.
My advice to you, from the metaphysical side of things is to focus more on the notion of primal states. Forget about Ferrari’s and Ray Banns, think outside the limitations of your corporeality. Think Death. Death, you see, has had a terrible press for far too long. Rather than the Grim Reaper, dear old Death is more the Great Liberator. Of course I know you will find it difficult to get your material mind around this, but that is merely because you are trapped within a doomed body and know no better. You fear your own decline and demise. Ha! Tis tragic. See how I am. Do I sound at all down about being Dead. No. Bouncing! I swear to you I’m bouncing.
To start with – sorry about this Liz, I’m sure you’re listening – a certain exceptionally talented lady poet was waiting for me when I finally escaped my rotting body. Yes, dearest Indie Shadwick was here for me when I broke on through to the other side, if I may borrow from Jimbo Morrison. He says, hi by the way. He’s having the very best of Deaths. Same old Jimbo – always on his way to the next whiskey bar somewhere or other. Hey ho, some things never change, fortunately.
Back to Indie.
She’s lost her stammer. Zero stammer. Death has cured her of that, totally. And she is far more relaxed. Is she still multi-polar? Yes, no change there, but she is more, how can I put this, more biddable. Marriage, she tells me, is dissolved by Death and so I am – sorry about this Liz – free and available to her, Indie. She then proceeds to give yours truly a good shellacking over that little misunderstanding over that awful publishing woman. And then, and then…gives me a ten minute super snog. If this is Death, I thinks to myself, bring it on! But of course it was Death and I was up to my neck in it.
Indie it seems had been watching me during the final weeks of my illness and was absolutely determined not to let any other Dead lady get her hands on my personage, metaphysically speaking, of course.
Between you me and the gatepost, she looks drop-dead gorgeous in her new state. You would never think she was atomised by a speeding train. Not a bit of it.
So we get to chatting. We have a bit of catching up to do. That said she seems to know everything I’ve been up to, even stuff that I’ve forgotten.
We are to write again it seems. The opportunities for Dead poets far outstrip those for live poets. People are more elevated in their tastes once Death frees them from all the petty madness of living. You know how it is. All those things you never quite get round to in life. Voila, Death gives you all the time in the universe. Bouncing, I tell you, bouncing.
Now then. There is a point to all this. Indie informs me to inform you that you are to do her a favour. You are to download a copy of a certain Hunter S. Jones entitled September Again because, again Indie is most insistent on this point, there are some verses of mine in there that – for some reason known only to her – she wants you to familiarise yourself with.
Now who am I to gainsay Indie. You know how she can be. I obey. So dearest you, I beseech you to oblige your poet in this small matter and do Indie’s bidding. Fire up your kindle and download September Again this very minute, nay this very nano-second – faster than a frog’s tongue! Else my Death with not be worth living, so to speak.
Jack O. Savage *bows*
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