232. Loss.

Long legs striding deliberately

Across the quadrangle

Attracts attention.

His glassy glare shifts

As he paces.

It’s frantic.

Manic.

Desparing.

(Though,
He is known for – Histrionics.)

The strider, Ian Stevenson*.

Black armband shows

It’s grief driving the random path

No purpose, excepting exposing,

His loss?

The world’s loss:

Jimi Hendrix.

Note & Extra:

* Ian was a couple of years older and was considered quite outlandish. His dress sense would probably have been more suited to Carnaby St, London than HIgh Street, Penrith. His green suit drew particular attention. For some reason, that I never knew, his nickname was “Scab”. (Thank you, Merril Worrad,  for further lighting up my memory of Ian.)

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196. There is no title for this memory …

Gaunt, emaciated

Can’t hear, can’t see.

But skin soft, silky as ever

Imagination & drama alive, well.

From his Hospice cot, in his delerium

He abuses a taxi driver.

For weeks his hand gently held, caringly stroked.

As he  talks, yells, laughs,imagines.

He breathes

Then, 21 years ago today …

He stops.

Note:

This memory is from 1991 and is outside the period it is meant to cover (up to my final year at school) but  …

I was last to arrive at St Vincent’s Hospice on this day. Roger, Mum, Stephen & Phil were outside, on a balcony a little way from Peter’s room. I joined them. As we consoled each other someone announcement:

Max, we had a family meeting and decided the last to arrive today has to do a eulogy at the funeral.

We laughed. I did it … you can find it here.

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