Sunday, June 3, 2012
20) Language on The Brink
"I love it!" an emaciated Simon Brink exclaimed, beaming at my suggested title. He next licked off the last morsel of Aisha's splendidly moist chocolate banana cake, and took a sip of tea from Anthony's cup. Love allows for sipping from an other loved one's tea. The title in question was for the new Oz-Afri-Can-Merican dictionary we were creating on the spot. Simon's joint venture. The indelicacies of being coronated, or pottifying, started the conversation over the connotative meanings of words, our verbification in the flux, and the nature of making language suit both form and function. We bowdlerized quantum mechanics, elevated our right to formalize, publish, and promulgate our own dictionary based on the precepts of creating a tipping point, or the 100th monkey syndrome, and given that we sat as heathens in Blackheath, we fantasized about our world. Yes, it was Aisha's delicious cake, but the piece Simon ate was his own. Yes, Simon drank from Anthony's cup, but that was because he sat in Anthony's pottery studio, where Anthony produced ceramics, and all that was why we arrived at creating this title, just last night, as Justin took caring photos, the which we had not done, any of us, the night before (when Pauline too was present) out of respect (as I informed Simon when now asking permission to snap-shot his brother's works) for what Simon once looked like. We had no wish necessarily to document, or 'photogratize' his current state. "The elephant is in the room, I am still here. Talk about it. Take pictures!" Simon says (entirely unaware of my recent essays concerning our bronzed centerpiece). "I want people to feel free!" It is 4:40 a.m., Monday June 4th, as I type. A truly penultimate day. Yesterday morning, with indelible memory, I was awakened by the sound of an owl landing on the tin roof of our Blackheath guest house. Although I just now heard Justin creaking floor boards as silently as he could past the crack of my bedroom door, on his way to and from the loo, it was not he that woke me. It was the vivid dream of my very alive own younger brother, Peter, at our present age retiring with his head on my lap, in the comfy great lounge of a hotel foyer, and my touching his forehead, with great love. My tears now come and make it difficult to write. Actually. Really. I realize how deeply, subconsciously, I love Simon. I love my brother. I love my friends. I love. Subconsciously? No. Overtly. "If you love someone you better tell them, or you better have great timing!" Morrie's voice echoes. Simon and I rose together when he, clearly exhausted, was ready to bid his final farewell. He did it in stages, least he got dizzy. I did it in stages, least my body give my pain too much away. Our timing was a synchronicity. He finally turned to me, told me he loved me, and kissed me full on the lips. The very last person to kiss me on the lips, a few hours earlier this same indelible day, had given me the same thing. Utter love. It was a day to say goodbye, to let people know you loved them, completely, without reservation, freeing them to love others too. Even with Simon's full hug and kiss, I was aware of his cancer. His stomach was bloated like a pregnant bulge, not of the potential of life, but of death. Pregnancy, it struck me, can have many a man and woman-making meanings; the burgeoning end of things; the ballooning of brand new beginnings. Acceptance of it all was either complete, or with reservations. In Simon's case, like the value of the empty space that fills a vessel, he had reached his personal Innersfree, expressed his love, gave us his unconditional affirmation and gratitude, and then indeed left. Peace be with you, and you, and you. Love is forever. See you again, my dearest?