Whilst the
rest of the song is not particularly appropriate, the opening line is apt,
especially as it is from one of John F's favourite periods of Zappa.
The passing
of time is strange, and its impact on grief doubly so.
I've lost
count of the days I've thought John's death on May 1st last year has only just
happened; yet simultaneously have lost count of the days I've thought it has
been so long since I last spoke with him.
Whilst most
of the time now I don't get far into the sentence "I must email John
about..." before remembering, and just making up his response in my head,
it does catch me unawares occasionally still. And there have been many things
I've been sad not to share with him this last 365 days.
The premiere
of 200 Motels in London is one of the most bittersweet, as he was
supposed to be in the seat next to me, laughing along at the total freak out
that the performance was. But other events - some milestones, some
insignificant - resonate too:
· changing jobs without being able
to share some of challenge and joy of getting out of one organisation and into
another
· the serious illness and death of
other loved ones
· the craziness of UK politics and
politicians
· the utter craziness of US
politics and politicians
· the fucked up utter craziness of
US gun laws amidst dispiritingly familiar and, as a result, often shamefully un-shocking
massacres
· the fucking piece of shit fucked
up coverage of Fox on any of the above three points
· that rare recording when Frank
Zappa joined Pink Floyd on stage for a performance of Interstellar Overdrive
· eating in restaurants he loved
· cooking dishes he loved
· losing the fucking piece of shit
plot with the latest iTunes upgrade that resulted in losing access to some
treasured (dodgy) downloads now hard to find
· discussing whether or not Breaking
Bad lived up to its Sopranos comparisons
· the royal family touring
Australia (hysterical)
· a Jon Stewart sketch
· any number of medical conditions
and medications of friends and family
· etc
And I have
often found myself having internal conversations with my John voice (many of us
carry one) about the nature of bereavement and loss.
I know the
sense and magnitude of the loss I feel at John being dead (I initially wrote
"John not being here" but changed it - he wasn't a man for cloudy
euphemisms). And I can't really comprehend the scale of the loss of others who
had different relationships with him: friends over decades, his family, and, particularly
today, his Kenneth. Kenneth's strength in acknowledging, facing and dealing
with his grief whilst feeling it, hating it, even sometimes drawing comfort
from it's visceral reminders, has been immense. To cling on to a perilous
narrow outcrop of "this will pass" as the waves of bereavement and
loss crash tsunami-like when unexpected, again, and again, and again, is
incredibly powerful. And I know John would have been so proud of him.
One of the
absolute FPOS about this last year has been other deaths that have hit. I’ve experienced the death of Barbara-Anne’s dad, my father in law, Tommy (whose ability, even
in final stages of secondary cancers, to respond straight-faced to a “How are you feeling?”
question with a light “Aye, fine!” would have made John laugh). Others in John’s circle have had painful family bereavements. A
good friend of mine’s mother died recently. Each of
these other deaths not only carried their own grief and sadness, but managed a
grim harmonic resonance with the grief of John’s
death.
I'm not a
big one for anniversaries. (I like to think my generally internally-focused reflective
thinking is something John "got" and perhaps recognised.) But I
intend playing my “John” playlist on repeat all day on May 1st (yes, I've
set up my new office so I can listen to my music without disturbing others and
yet enhancing my environment – he would have approved) and
will do my best to “FPOS” at every opportunity I can.
And I’ll raise a glass of something in the evening – maybe a pretentiously described wine (John thought
sommeliers were charlatans) or perhaps tequila on ice with lime – in memory of a good man.
