23 May 2013

Here Comes Death


Photo courtesy Ricardo Blue
With one exception my thirties were death free, which is a big deal considering my life up until 30. I once made a memorial on a theatre wall to all my friends and loved ones who had passed. I wanted to invoke their support in my performance, which was about meeting death and deciding, then, what my life had been about. And that was really all about trying to affirm now, while I am still alive, what I really want my life to be about. My dead friends joined me there and the room was full.

The dead still play a huge role in my life. Recently I had  a visit from a friend while I was meditating, my friend John who was the exception in my thirties. He instructed me to harness my fire and find out where it is needed most. That's so like him too, just exactly like the times we would go to lunch and he would inquire greedily about my life, my loves, my works and offer silly and sage advice about all of it. He knew I'd play Hamlet some day and there is no doubt in my mind that when I do he'll be there on opening night.


Photo courtesy Ricardo Blue
My father lurks on the perimeter staring longingly through the windows, but too afraid to come near. Which is well and good. He interfered enough when he was alive. I smell my grandmother, usually when I am cooking. My friend Robert who killed himself so many years ago lives in the leaves, I see him most clearly around November. He's usually engaged in some sort of mayhem which I used to find funny. My friend Gemma joins me for coffee occasionally and Chris pops in when there's 80's music playing. Leo, Anne, Sarah, Grandpa, Forrest. There is breath and the touch of a hand on my arm and echoes of words and laughter and complaints floating on the wind of my memory, often haunting the edge of my consciousness, but always somewhere nearby, always out of the corner of my eye or just out of hearing.

Here comes death again. A familiar and completely common and uncharacteristic face in the crowd. It's been a while, can't say it's good to see you though.

Death is not insidious. Death is a non-participant. 

Death is patient. Death is indifferent to suffering. 

Death might just as soon have me but is likely here for my Mother. Waiting. For some reason, just waiting.

In the meantime my Mother slips into terrifying hallucinations in which she's hanging by her shirt on 2 nails situated in a cardboard box on the other side of a wall and she can't get down and she can't figure out where she is or how to get back or even where to get back to.

Photo courtesy Ricardo Blue


Death is the only cure for this life and I'm currently engaged in a staring contest with it. Get on with it or get out, fucker.



The photos in this blog entry were borrowed from Ricardo Blue. Please check out this talented guy's work and please also: All rights are reserved. 




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