I started pondering this post last night when I was having one of those bouts of “I can’t find a comfortable position to sleep because no matter which position I take I am uncomfortable (or is it the meds that I started taking that a related med caused insomnia years ago?)”. You should check out the original post, but the gist of it was that Belladonna received an email notification of death that was a short, terse, three lines. Not a very encouraging way to leave this plane.
I’d written some off-the-cuff comment that was supposed to not be taken too terribly seriously for all of its likely truth. I haven’t harped on it too much around here, but I am one of those strange folks who has accepted my inevitable death (“Nobody get outta here alive.” — Jim Morrison) and I’m very comfortable with the fact that the persona I call “me” will eventually be no longer around for other personas that recognize this persona as “me”. Death doesn’t scare me. I’m more afraid of how I’ll kick the bucket than the end itself.
Part of it is a spiritual thing, sure. Another part is a sense of relief that I can move on to whatever else waits for us on the other side, be it some kind of reverie, transmutation, nothingness, peace or what have you. I’m not particularly tied to one afterlife or another, but I suspect there will be a period of rest between now and the next thing unless you are a believer of Hell, in which case you get to suffer some more. At least I’ll be in good company if that’s where I end up.
But I was laying in wakefulness, trying to grok life, the universe and everything (I mean, if you can’t sleep, you might as well consider the whole game you’ve been playing) and I thought of that post again. What I’d basically said was that the email would be be a mockery: “Dude died. Self-proclaimed ‘writer’. Cantankerous SOB.” And it is probably closer to the truth than I admitted at the time I zipped it off. Not that it bothers me too much. I’m not turned on by legacy or any such thing. It might have bothered me more ten years ago (and, secret, it did), but I’ve wised up, suckers (thanks PWEI).
But I thought about it and, in doing so, decided to give myself a little bit more credit:
Michael D. (aka “Michael Raven” and “Mick Logan”, writing and musical pseudonyms, respectively) gave up the ghost [I love this phrase, so it must be used] on a cold a dreary, rainy day that suited his overall mood most of the time. He was fond of repeating the Jesus and Mary Chain/Garbage lyric “I’m only happy when it rains” whenever the situation called for it, which is often, so we can assume he died happy.
He loved listening to and playing music, but got stuck in the 80s post-punk (against his admitted desires) and, like with his writing, actively tried to ignore conventions when he worked with either art form. Michael was a little too much into philosophy for his own good, but his favorites areas were absurdism, existentialism and taoism. He was a lazy Zen practitioner and probably never got around to achieving satori. Were he still with us, he’d probably shrug at this.
No one was every quite sure what religion he belonged to, least of all his family, but we’re laying him to rest in the manner he prescribed on multiple occasions to honor his wishes. His body has been given over to the care of a human composting facility in respect to his wishes after a medical team has verified that there are no usable organs remaining. Once he is composted, he will be donated to a Japanese garden, in which he also has requested he be used as compost for a sakura tree to be planted using his remains. The cherry tree is to signify the impermanence of life, per his request. If a Japanese garden cannot be found, he asks that his composted remains be added to a reforesting project.
He didn’t have many friends in later years, but that happens when one assumes the mantle of “hermit”. He asked that a Kurt Vonnegut quote be used at the end of this announcement.
“So it goes…”
Go ahead and give your own below, if you are so inclined. I’d be interested in seeing what someone might say about themselves.