Farewell to a wonderful human being

Sometimes words do not come easy to me. Today is one of those days.

As long as dementia does not overtake me, I will not forget today's birthday of mine. Because at 3.00 am (12:00 in Canberra), a service was held for Sue.

Arundhati Roy once wrote about the ‘god of small things’. Sue had an eye for ‘small things’ – in her garden, out and about in her beloved Canberra, close to ‘her’ kangaroos, etc. ...

An admirable woman, intelligent, humorous, warm-hearted, down-to-earth, not a chatterbox.
A woman who would listen to people in need and try to show desperate seekers a way ... Out of the Shadows into the Light.

Glad and thankful I once stumbled’ across her on my friend Andrew's blog, I shall remember Sue as a wonderful human being.

... And I like the idea of her revelling among flowers, cats, kangaroos, and smiling at us. ;-)

A Birthday Blues

So much four years after to Route 66 I would have liked cheerfully to welcome him to "Club 70", today.
But alas! Andrew, my friend, has died.
In 2008 stumbling upon eachother in the blogosphere, Don QuiScottie (not Don Quijote) and Seanso (not Sancho Panza) became friends (not only) on their diverse "windmillish" quests to impress his Dulcinea / Margaret. ;-)

Ha! And what fun it would be if they were both still alive, Claude Prescott and Andrew Scott, now that the new Pope is a Prescott ;-)))
Deep believer Claude here, bantering Andrew and me there.

Together with Jams, my very special friend I consider(ed) us a four-leaf clover.

It's like Andrew wrote to me as a dedication in one of his books in 2017:

Sic!!
I might (soon) end blogging,
but before moving to my last dwelling six feet under
I do thank for such wonderful friends.

And thus, at least for now, I do end with Andrew's poem  for me:

Thank you, my friend.
Whilst you might be celebrating with Claude and Jams tonight, accompanied by a pint of Guinness and a wee dram of Talisker, I shall be smiling a lot, whilst revisiting certain comment sections.
Sláinte!

Today ten years ago

Today ten years ago, "out of the blue" my friend Jams died, seven days before his 50th birthday.
I am still sad. And grateful.

Thanks for being, Jams.

In memoriam Claude

Claude, February 2020

A MAN MUST FACE HIMSELF
 
I hung two sealskins on my wall....
 
Some people say
'Oh! the poor dear things!'
with pity in their hearts,
while chewing bloody steak
and cuddling in fur coats.
 
And I think of **
Jonahsie
magnificently himself: a Man,
hunter by destiny
spearing the seals,
with no guilt in his soul,
no pity in his heart,
but beaming pride
that his day-work was done:
the best for his kin---
and that's all he could do...
 
And I think of
Kakee, his wife,
cleaning, stretching, smoothing, sewing the skins
with a skill
as old as the Woman called Eve,
and bringing me the gift
with beaming pride:
the best for a friend---
and that's all she could give...
 
And I wonder why
we worry about who eats whom
when Life is a cycle?
We all prey, and we grow
feeding on each other.
 
A seal
a breathing tomato
an egg that could be born
a drink of pure water
a flower for a vase
some grass to walk upon
the warmth of the sun, of a smile, of a body
a poem for a soul
and stars to fill a dream.
 
I hung two sealskins on my wall...
 
A Man must face himself
and accept it!
 
Claude Prévost Gamble
 (June 1970)


** And I think of Claude who died today two years ago.
Thanks for all. De tout coeur!

Claude during a storm on Moose River,
whilst working as a nurse
at an Indian hospital;
James Bay, Winter 1955

The Moonlight is speechless ...

... and so am I, almost, on the first anniversary of Claude's death, which is why I let her speak.
She sent me this poem in December 2018.



THE MOONLIGHT IS SPEECHLESS...
 
She worked hard at being able
to think THINK instead of PENSER
to write a flawless letter to England as well as to France
to add Shelley to Lamartine
to exude Gallic charm mixed with British romanticism
 
she studied books and dictionaries
she travelled far and she lived everywhere
she met dignitaries and the people next door
she reached French and English fluency
in her dreams, tears and laughter
 
and when she wore this two-colour dress with elegance
she discovered
that the heart has no language, no culture of its own
 
The moonlight is speechless...
stars in one's eyes mean more than "Je t'aime, beloved"
and two clasped hands across a table
across a warm sea of silence
can tear down
better than a thousand well-chosen words
the tower of babel
one erects every day in one's soul.
 
CPG     (1970)

Thank you for everyting, Claude. De tout coeur.

Claude

Re-reading lots of our correspondence, for the past three days I have been crying, smiling, laughing, tears bedewing my cheeks. Even now words don't come easy to me.

Claude is dead.

Almost I am not surprised that our last conversation on this blog was about what we shall be leaving when we die.

"Appeared" at Omnium in June 2008 as "Curieuse au Canada", over the years a friendship developed

Not that we would not have had this and that verbal skirmish, but very soon we agreed to that we disagreed to this and that, and focused on what we like best: (Good) literature, poetry, music and ...

... the fun we had f.e. on the occasional "poetry slams" here or at "The Poor Mouth"!

When once she told me her age I thought she was kidding.
And when she told me about her life: What a woman! What courage!

- - -

After I had told her a bit about Irish literature she wrote:

"Now I would like German Literature. I know so little. Unless I have read translations without noticing the country. I doubt it. 
 
Then maybe you could tell me some English, French, American favourites? Just would like to see if we meet somewhere among books. 
 
Of course, I read the Russians ( Who doesn't?) Also Faust, Peer Gynt, Don Quichotte, The Prophet, The Rubayyat.  Studied Greek and Latin and did some translations.
 
Inevitably I read a lot Canadians (French and English), not necessarily all good. But I feel it's a bit of a duty to know what one's country produces. 
 
We have about a ten-year-program in front of us. Just want to make sure you will not drop me in 3-4 weeks :)))))

I love you, Sir Jeating.

- - -

When I had told her that I am German and Sean Jeating's just my heteronym, she wanted to know more about German literature, and let me know:
Of course I have read some Germans. I couldn't name them instantly, not because I forgot them. It's only that when a book speaks to one's heart, it has no nationality.
Since my student years, I have met few people who read "without borders". I knew, when I discovered your blog, that you were universal.
I read all Hermann Hesse, more than once. Then Remarque, Zweig. Some Brecht, Kant and Schopenhauer. ...

- - -

Dreams.

When very young, I claimed to be a writer and a musician. I became a nurse and loved it. It gave me much to write about. I also never let go of music. But lifepain took over, killed much of my ambitions. I write...I need it like air and water. Sometimes I share it. Mostly it's in boxes. Now and again I read a page, or two...I say to myself, "Claude, it's very good!". Then I put it aside.

Music.
The Music Claude never put aside. Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Abado, Bernstein, Argerich, Gulda ... Hvorostovsky ... Casals, Paco de Lucía; Fado or Flamenco, etc., etc., etc. ...
To please Claude's ears and her heart I tried to find Saturday Night Music. And by trying I learned a bit about music.

Poetry.
We shared some poetry, encouraged eachother. She was good.

I think Claude does like me finally to share this with you: 

There lie my dreams and deep pain.
The detritus of my past
In its destitute beauty.
No recall. No tears. Adieu!

cpg

I love you, Claude. De tout cœur!
Sean

Thanks for being, Jams

Words of sorrow and solace (from strangers) – however deep from the bottom of one's heart they may come – often, if not mostly, do sound shallow (for those who 'lost' a beloved one).

That is why I do rather wish that soon the moment may come when the memory of this and that episode, of a glance, a touch, a certain little gesture or quirk will conjure a smile on the lips of those who love [sic! present tense] him dearly ...  so that they may gain new strength ... for life.

I am glad that amongst many tears I shed during the past week, while re-reading this and that I found myself smiling, chuckling and sometimes even laughing. 

'The Poor Mouth' and 'Omnium', both blog names reminiscence of and homage to Flann O'Brien, met in 2007, and since we ... but I don't want to bore you.

To cut it short: Jams – I never called him Shaun – became a friend; intelligent, witty, generous, multi-talented and blessed with an honesty that would let him call a spade a spade whenever he'd feel the wish and the necessity.


I do like thinking of my friend Jams having a pint of plain with Flann O'Brien [and perhaps a second with Father Jack whilst Ted (not Father Ted, obviously) is reciting an episode of 'The Master and Margarita']; discussing with Sergeant Pluck the advantages and disadvantages of becoming a bicycle, whilst feeding Mimi with cheese; taking phantastic photos while strolling around in his new surroundings without feeling any pain in his knees, let alone longing for Garra rufa to nibble skin of his feet; organising a weekly poetry contest the winner of which will be rewarded with a bicycle-esque looking William Topaz McGonagall-statue and ... ah ... oh well ... enjoying his new alltemporaries with what he uses to call drivel, and now and then sending love to his not-wife Shirl, a smile to his Mum and Dad, a twinkle of his eyes to Tim, Li, Elahe and amongst others ... well ... to you and to me.

Today (March 29, 2013), seven days after he died, is Jams's 50th birthday.

All I know is that Jams O'Donnell Esq. will always be part of Omnium.

Thanks for being, Jams. Sláinte .

PS: To give but one example of the fun we often had, follow the link to Rich Poetry at The Poor Mouth's and from there to The Tayside Tragedian on the Bard and 73 comments.

Enjoy!