Today, September 9th, is the second anniversary of my father's death. I tend not to get personal at Eyewear, but the grief over his loss has shadowed these posts and pages these past two years, in different ways.
Firstly, I turned to this blog as an occasional diversion from the darker truths of existence: beyond poetics, beyond (even!) art, lies mortality. Some may feel another life waits, on some other side. Or not. I feel there are ghostly presences, if not demarcations, and have, at times, seen a dead one walking, if only in dreams (Orbison's tremulous sanctum). Where is my father now? Not here, is the only answer.
I think of him still, often, and he has become - death does this to perspective - both more clear, and yet, less full - sometimes I think I discern a pattern, a shape, a meaning. Then no. As with Milton's wife, one wakes and sees the beloved has fled. I am only writing this because death and loss are universal, not particular - everyone has this line across their life, this crack that opens onto shade.
Whenever I encounter petty struggle in the world - poetry has its share - I try to remember that each person is on their deathbed, at some point; I try to imagine holding their hand, in extremis. Picturing each other, not as we are when rude and robust, but as we shall be, in need, may help.
Meanwhile, I think that the truth of a life neither recedes, nor eventually emerges, in time - the truth was at the flood, the unfolding. My father did die, two years ago, and his time stopped then. From 1939 to 2006, though, he thrives and laughs and struggles in life, as much and more than anyone.
Firstly, I turned to this blog as an occasional diversion from the darker truths of existence: beyond poetics, beyond (even!) art, lies mortality. Some may feel another life waits, on some other side. Or not. I feel there are ghostly presences, if not demarcations, and have, at times, seen a dead one walking, if only in dreams (Orbison's tremulous sanctum). Where is my father now? Not here, is the only answer.
I think of him still, often, and he has become - death does this to perspective - both more clear, and yet, less full - sometimes I think I discern a pattern, a shape, a meaning. Then no. As with Milton's wife, one wakes and sees the beloved has fled. I am only writing this because death and loss are universal, not particular - everyone has this line across their life, this crack that opens onto shade.
Whenever I encounter petty struggle in the world - poetry has its share - I try to remember that each person is on their deathbed, at some point; I try to imagine holding their hand, in extremis. Picturing each other, not as we are when rude and robust, but as we shall be, in need, may help.
Meanwhile, I think that the truth of a life neither recedes, nor eventually emerges, in time - the truth was at the flood, the unfolding. My father did die, two years ago, and his time stopped then. From 1939 to 2006, though, he thrives and laughs and struggles in life, as much and more than anyone.
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