Souvenirs of the Dead
Months ago, I shared on Steemit the sad Story of Mr Crosby, my 90 year old neighbor/friend/sailor. He had passed away, in an old people's home, as my wife @dianarpo and I were on our way to visit him (following a simple procedure). It was unexpected, but he was over 90 and had deteriorated, considerably, in the months since he was moved to the nursing home.
Currently, my wife and I are in the process of fixing up the apartment he rented from us, for nearly a decade. Given his dementia, and that he lived alone, the apartment (like its tenant) had gotten quite neglected over the years and was in need of some attention. In addition to this, the social worker who was meant to collect his personal belongings did not pull through, and Mr Crosby's one existing relative (that we are aware of) asked my wife to go through his things and take what we like. So, after organizing his apartment and clearing it of his presence, we've now brought his personal effects into ours to sift through.
There is a terrible death scene in a remarkable film, Zorba the Greek, that I saw as a child and has remained emblazoned on my mind. In it, the owner of a pension passes away and, within moments of her death, mourners in black descend upon her room/home like scavenging vultures to make off with her possessions, while the deceased lies in bed. It's an ugly portrait of disrespect for the dead and blind greed which was on my mind as we sorted through my neighbor's personal belongings. Not that there was anything of value, mind you, or that we were not invited to do so, but still...
Mr Crosby worked on ships all his long life, traveling the world, and only retired in his late eighties. When they finally let him go at work, just a few years ago, he confessed to me: Whatever am I going to do on land? I never forgot that line, or the rueful way in which he posed it. So, when I came across three framed prints of lighthouses amid crashing waves--which Mr. Crosby had, carefully, packed months before his death, thinking he was heading home--I, immediately, knew what I wanted to keep and remember him with.
There's something heroic about these images and, in the last one, you can see a man standing in the lighthouse (presumably, moments before the waves cover him). Crosby was like that man, and like that solitary lighthouse, too, in my imagination: alone, all his life, braving the elements, on the lookout... And, now, the waves have, finally, claimed him. These evocative images--which I hope to hang up in my room and meditate upon, further--also remind me of a spiritual poem I admire and often return to, by a favorite poet of mine:
I live my life in widening circles
that reach out across the world.
I may not complete this last one
but I give myself to it.
I circle around God, around the primordial tower.
I've been circling for thousands of years
and I still don't know: am I a falcon,
a storm, or a great song?
—Rilke, Book of Hours, I 2
(translation by Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows)
If you like, you can listen to my reading of this poem, on Soundcloud
I appreciate the posts on Mr. Crosby.
Sometimes the paucity of words, of ideas, is so terrible. To say I "enjoy" them would be crass, to say I "like" them would be boorish.
I feel in memorial services, this scarcity of fitting words is why people are at a loss for words, or feel awkward.
Or maybe it's just me. But know that I appreciate these posts, in a way that means I like them and derived enjoyment from them, but not in the ghoulish way, but in the sense I enjoy and like all things that speak to me, even if they are not pleasant.
I also think of it with regards to my grandfather, who has been deteriorating rapidly over the past couple of years. He's 86. He used to run on the shore for 5-10 kilometers every day till his mid-70s, and then go on 10 kilometer hikes till a couple of years ago.
But when you know someone so closely, it's hard to see the shape of things, as you have all the superfluous details.
That is why only stories make me tear up, because by removing all the small details that don't fit the big picture, they allow you to see it, and through it, feel the shape of the stories you're too close to see the enormity of.
And going through someone's belonging is similar. All the details that hide and show the form of the life.
And the life that shows and hides the details.
And I wonder, just a bit, if Mr. Crosby identified with the waves as much as he did with the lighthouse.
Thank you, Guy, for your kind note.
I appreciate the evident care that went into expressing yourself and understand what you say about the insufficiency of words, especially, in regards to death (your remark about enjoying post, but not in the ghoulish way made me smile).
I admire your grandfather's energy, running in his mid-seventies, and can only imagine how difficult it must seeing him reduced, and how he must feel... I've lost both my grandfathers and a grandmother, at this point. This, compounded with the fact that I live away from home/family, has made Mr. Crosby more meaningful for me, a chance to care for an elder and give love.
But, in a strange way, he also offers me a kind of creative catharsis — as you say, "only stories make me tear up" — since he is not family, and I only know of him the stories he's told me (and, given his dementia at the end, I cannot be sure of all those). But, sorting through his belongings, I've been able to construct an even richer story: to witness him as a young man, growing up, and eavesdrop on his passions and adventures.
Typically, there's much poetry in your response, man, All the details that hide and show the form of the life./ And the life that shows and hides the details.
Yes. And, I think you're right about the waves, too. He had a quietly unruly spirit and, like some shy people I know who find release in the company of wild abandon, he probably appreciated those crashing waves for that reason, too.
I've thought often of the "ghoulish enjoyment," my latest public commentary on it was aptly titled "Poetry", it's that I've realized long ago that I long for stories, for media, that can make me sad. And that put me in mind of the fact that it'd be terrible if the same were true of real life events, not even past stories, but things that are happening, to make me happy in that they make me sad.
I do think of my grandparents' future. I think neither of them will last long once the other goes, and it is probably not too long before the first of them does. They are my only remaining grandparents, having known 5 of my grandparents in my life.
Speaking of stories, in Israel in junior high grade we all do a "Roots" work, where we trace our family's history, the stories of our ancestors. Younger siblings tend to rely on their older siblings' material, but as the eldest son, and on one side the eldest grandchild, I got to interview my grandparents on both sides, hear the stories of their youth, and of their parents, and the communities they hailed from, in Europe, and in the British Palestine.
Stories. We walk in their wake, and leave more in ours.
Sometimes, you need distance to connect, yes.
I wonder why that would be so... Catharsis is one thing but, once we experience real tragedy in life, we do not long for more sadness (unless, of course, one is clinically depressed...)
Wishing you more happy stories, and the appetite to enjoy them, even seek them out.
I wonder if "catharsis" fits when it is someone else's tragedy you are enjoying.
I think it's related to my reduced emotional spectrum, especially in the past, where I'd be able to feel deep grief, and joy over things, but not happiness or sadness. And that I cherished the feeling of sadness media could give me, because nothing else could. And you know, we're all junkies for feeling, until we feel too much.
And I nurtured those choking moments, and over time, I widened my emotional spectrum again. Tearing up, feeling sadness, they came easier over time. But since I think a big goal and role of art is to make us feel, then something that can make me feel so strongly I tear up or shed tears? That's something I appreciate, and look out for.
But no, I'm not looking for those feelings outside of media :D
As for happy stories, thank you for the wish. I think it's easier to do happy stories? I feel it's much harder to do sad stories that actually hit home rather than feel fake, to me.
Well it’s not healthy, to say the least, to enjoy another’s tragedy...
But, I think I know what you mean about reduced emotional spectrum.
My advice (if you’re looking for it, by laying such intimacies bare) is to think less of yourself, and more of others.
Because, if we are really open and involved in the life of others - if we can imagine their suffering - we are less likely to be self-absorbed/indulgent.
I mean, one could be griping about their lack of sleep, for example, to someone with a hole in their heart (literally or metaphorically). Yet, because they are always speaking to themselves, outloud, they are not available to overhear another.
Be well, Guy, and try (if at all possible) not to monitor yourself too closely & scratch every passing itch, when there are gaping wounds out there in our world.
I circle around God, around the primordial tower.
I've been circling for thousands of years
and I still don't know: am I a falcon,
a storm, or a great song?
So sorry for the loss of your friend. He must have lived an amazing life. He was lucky to have friends in you and your wife.
There is an oddness with material things and some people. My grandparents are approaching 90 and getting their 'things' isn't even on my radar but they worry about who will get what. We attach value to ourselves sometimes with things and yet as the lovely verse you shared suggests ... we are more like a bird, a stirring and beautiful tune spread across space ... you can't hold any of those things in your hands.
A beautiful and thoughtful write this morning, Yahia. I am left with a good feeling:)
Thank you, for this, my friend:
May your spirit continue to soar
_/|\_Namaste, Yahia:)
It is odd what happens, psychologically at least, to peoples' personal effects after they pass. Immediately shouldering the burden of their memory in a way that would seem inconceivable when they were mere possessions. Even simple things, without the majesty and symbolism of the photographs in your post.
In my day job as a second-hand-bookseller I often see huge boxes of books come in as donations - all old, brown, and leather bound - which it quickly becomes clear, without even having to ask, are remnants from the life of one recently deceased. It's incredible, and often immensely sad, how much of an insight you can get into someone you've never met from their book collection. Sometimes even the odd photograph slips in, and you have to remind yourself you never really knew them...
Thanks for this post, Yahia :)
Poor humans... we cling to the tangible, confronted with the ineffable.
Books, of course, are a catalogue of our longings, our unwritten autobiographies.
Thank you, LW, for your ❤️
My sympahies for the passing of Mr Crosby.
I hope this song brings you comfort. My family was Navy, this is the song for sailors who have passed.
Grand of you to share, thank you, for your compassion 🙏🏼
This is off topic from the main point of your post but man, I hated Zorba the Greek. My dad loves the movie and made me watch it because he said it was inspirational. The whole island is in economic ruin, Then Basil shows up to open the mine because he was a failure at life back in England. Because of his and Zorba's incompetence, they fail at everything and basically destroy anything they touch. At the end the whole town is out of work again and several people are dead as a direct result of Zorba and Basil's actions.
Then at the end we're all supposed to be happy because the white guy lerned how to laugh. WTF?
Sorry for your loss. This blog had a lot of depth, emotion, and was very well written. I look forward to reading more of your stuff.
You have a point there, my friend. I suppose I wasn't aware of such things when I watched the film, as a child. Thank you, for your kind words and I hope my words might continue to keep you good company.
_/|\_I am sorry you have lost Mr Crosby.
Those pictures are hauntingly beautiful.
Thank you, he was a good man & lived a full life. May his soul Rest In Peace 🕊
ow ita heart tuching story,,just unbileveble