My Creativity Is My Tombstone (A Tribute to Cannibalism and Miles Davis)

It’s a good night to be a writer. The moon is waxing and the stars are shining and Miles Davis is playing from beyond the grave just for me. Kind of Blue. Oh baby, what a great record this is. I compose my sentences tonight in accordance to his soul and mine. And how do you like that? I like it just fine. OK.

As a writer of poetry and general lively observation, I have a nasty habit of writing with an awareness of my own mortality. This might be seen as bleakly pretentious by some. Yet I cannot help but think as I write — what if these words that I’m now penning down were my very last? It is a question of ego and self-importance. Wise men and women of my fellow species understand that being remembered isn’t so important in the grand scheme of things. Yet my self-importance persists, like some ragged corner of a sunken gravestone sticking up from ground for others to stub their toes on. Whoops!

I always write my stories and poetry with an understanding that perhaps they will be read only after I am “good and dead”. I won’t say after I’m “passed on”. Passed on is such a silly minded euphemism. Meant for the weak minded whom don’t care to discuss the natural phenomenon of death with the use of practical, direct language. You know it.

Kings, presidents, CEOs and an otherwise various panorama of rich assholes current and throughout all time have spent a lot of time and a lot of money, and a lot of resources and lives on being remembered. They hire wage slave labor for the building of monuments and statues, of well funded foundations and extravagant markers for the sake of preserving their ego for the rest of posterity. You and I know these men were merely crazed fools greedy for self-importance and post-necro security. These men weren’t humble or kind men, and they probably weren’t that important of men either. Not if they had to pay the citizenry money to secure their memories in some organized, fine tribute. I personally refer to this as an Existentially Pathetic Display of Ego Preservation. Dig it.

But let’s get back to me, the writer, your number one guy at this very moment. Anyone who knows me knows I’m certainly no CEO, president, king or otherwise rich asshole. In fact, I’m rather the polar opposite. I’m a working class asshole, meager and rather close to the poverty line, in fact. But to some extent, I am admittedly still self-important. I picture myself as a contemporary peasant, without name or honor, and hungry for base immortality…but I won’t ever pay people to build monuments or institutions in my name. I wouldn’t do that even if I did have the spare cash. No. I just write down my words, man. I write, paint and sing my own songs. And I love the special human beings I’m blessed with every day.

I figure the human brain is the most impressive construct to be created via process of evolution in this currently known version of the universe, so I’d better attempt to utilize it to its greatest extent — and that greatest extent, to me, is creativity. And when I am “good and dead” as they say, what will be left is the material of my most personal thoughts and ideas. I will tell my beautiful girlfriend, my family and friends, don’t buy me an elaborate stone or a marker. Don’t put me in one expensive as hell “cremation receptacle”. Those things are for the death dealers of our race making their millions of dollars. I won’t be a sucker for them, not even in death. So you can just throw my body in a meat grinder and package me up neatly and ship me to some hungry cannibals as soon as you’re able. Cannibals are people too you know — and they deserve fresh meat for their dinners. They can eat my packaged up meat and make unique furniture from my bones. They can take my skull and bleach it clean and put a light bulb inside for a quality lamp. In short, I want to give to the less fortunate, even in death. No boring, plain Jane organ donation for me! And oh me, oh my. I can tell by your expression that you believe I’ve gone loony. Well, I digress. Here’s where all this is leading to. Here’s all I’ve really wanted to say this entire time. The rest has been accessory, an add on, an elaborate explanation.

My creativity IS my tombstone.

There you are and so be it. I’m Kind of Blue, baby. Mahalo! 

Tombstone for Creativity

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