Lawrence on Death

I have been thinking about D.H. Lawrence and a scene from Women In Love. I'll go look for it. I may be mixing it up in my mind with Sons and Lovers.

The only window was death. One could look out on to the great dark sky of death with elation, as one had looked out of the classroom window as a child, and seen perfect freedom in the outside. Now one was not a child, and one knew that the soul was a prisoner within this sordid vast edifice of life, and there was no escape, save in death.

Found it. It's Women In Love, Chapter 24. It's about the death of Gerald's father.

THOMAS CRICH died slowly, terribly slowly. It seemed impossible to everybody that the thread of life could be drawn out so thin, and yet not break. The sick man lay unutterably weak and spent, kept alive by morphia and by drinks, which he sipped slowly. He was only half conscious -- a thin strand of consciousness linking the darkness of death with the light of day. Yet his will was unbroken, he was integral, complete. Only he must have perfect stillness about him.

No one writes better about grief and sex than Lawrence. After his father dies, Gerard is so disraught, he walks through muddy fields and graveyards in the middle of the night to find Gudrun, his new love. He walks, as if in a trance, right into her parents' house, right up the stairs, right into her bedroom for the first time. Shocking for post WW1 English literature. Death, the mud, the misery of it all leading to a passionate coupling -- well, just read it. Lawrence was amazing.

'But why did you come to me?' she persisted.

`Because -- it has to be so. If there weren't you in the world, then I shouldn't be in the world, either.'

She stood looking at him, with large, wide, wondering, stricken eyes. His eyes were looking steadily into hers all the time, and he seemed fixed in an odd supernatural steadfastness. She sighed. She was lost now. She had no choice.

`Won't you take off your boots,' she said. `They must be wet.'

He dropped his cap on a chair, unbuttoned his overcoat, lifting up his chin to unfasten the throat buttons. His short, keen hair was ruffled. He was so beautifully blond, like wheat. He pulled off his overcoat.

Quickly he pulled off his jacket, pulled loose his black tie, and was unfastening his studs, which were headed each with a pearl. She listened, watching, hoping no one would hear the starched linen crackle. It seemed to snap like pistol shots.

He had come for vindication. She let him hold her in his arms, clasp her close against him. He found in her an infinite relief. Into her he poured all his pent-up darkness and corrosive death, and he was whole again. It was wonderful, marvellous, it was a miracle. This was the everrecurrent miracle of his life, at the knowledge of which he was lost in an ecstasy of relief and wonder. And she, subject, received him as a vessel filled with his bitter potion of death. She had no power at this crisis to resist. The terrible frictional violence of death filled her, and she received it in an ecstasy of subjection, in throes of acute, violent sensation.

Golby on Me

Mike Golby writes so wonderfully well and I am officially going public — I confess that I sneak over to his site on a near-daily basis to slurp up his great stuff and I'm a lazy shit not to have listed him on my blogroll until now. He's mixed me up with Jennifer Balderama, which is interesting, because it was actually Jen's writing that gave me "permission" so to speak, to write about my Dad's illness. Without her courage (and numerous kicks-in-the-butt by David Weinberger), I would never have done it. I know this will be the most shocking confession you'll read here, but I'm actually a rather shy introspective person. Go figure. So, don't worry about it Mike, even I mix myself up with Jen sometimes.

Gillmor on Microsoft

Really appreciate Dan Gillmor's stuff this week from Washington on the Microsoft anti-trust trial. The word "anti-trust" as a term takes on new meaning when he writes:

Someday, unless Microsoft changes its ways -- there's still time -- it will be brought down from a combination of its own arrogance, law enforcement and pure market forces. Then it will learn, too late, that it has no friends. Temporary allies, yes. But no friends. And that will be Microsoft's own fault.

No friends. And no one trusts them. Anyone who gets in bed with Microsoft should expect to catch a lethal sexually transmitted disease and not survive their evening of pleasure. Intuit is the lucky prom queen who staggered out with a dress in tatters, but with her life.

Perhaps there is a glimmer of hope in this new FREE-FALL environment where highly respected, long-established, extremely powerful institutions are suddenly imploding at record speed and dropping like flies — think Roman Catholic Church, Enron, Anderson.

It's a slippery slope when no one trusts you and your reputation is one of economic domestic violence. If someone (Apple, Linux, Palm/Handspring) can wake us from our WINDOWS WORKS hallucination and slip something into our hands that actually DOES WORK, something reliable, robust, simple, and elegant, maybe we can change the game.

Dave Winer is especially great on this subject and the death of Hailstorm here.

And Why I Love Men

I wrote the meanest, silliest thing below about men. I'm so sorry. Please ignore. Of course, I'm just terribly sad, mad, glad about my dad. I've always wondered why all those "emotion words" rhyme in English. Also they have that "ahhhh" sound, like stick out your tongue and say "ahhh".

Anyway, here's why I love men. They are brave. They are constantly called upon to be brave. It doesn't seem fair. They are expected to do things like kill bugs on the wall of summer cottages. They are expected to have flares in the trunks of their cars. They are expected to be strong and hold other people when they cry. They are expected to do such hard things. They are expected to get jobs and make money. Women want them to be more emotional, or SO WE SAY, but hate it when they are overly emotional. They are damned if they do and damned if they don't. Especially these days.

Been thinking a lot about all the kind things my dad did for me -- moving me in and out of dorms, apartments, jobs. Helping me buy cars. So many things and he was just a man, that's all.

I love the way they get up in the morning and shave -- how unpleasant that must be. I love the way they sweat and how it smells. I love the way they look in a tie, a nice leash you can grab and bring them up close fast when you get the urge to kiss them. I like the way you'll see a guy on the street and his tie catches the wind and flaps in his face with a little slap. I like their big hands and big feet, makes you feel safe.

I like their crazy projects -- they do a lot of projects these men. I like the way they read the paper. I love the ones who still carry cloth hankerchiefs. I like sitting next to one in a meeting, peeking at the hair on the back of his hand, then on his wrist, then on his forearm, his sleeve rolled up and then trying to imagine how hairy he is under all those clothes. I love the bald ones too, especially them, they are fearless. I love the way men get up in front of a room and make some super boring Powerpoint slides actually slightly interesting. I like the way their hair sticks straight up sometimes. I like the way they get all moony and sloppy over watching Little League on a summer evening. I like the way they drive off with the family early on a holiday weekend in a stationwagon for some silly historic trip to Sturbridge Village. I like the way they let their kids hang all over them like they are a climbing structure in the playground. I like the way they worry about their families. I like the way cherish their old ratty tee-shirts. I love men.

Broken Cup

I have to face it. I am really just so sad today. I've been racing about trying to ignore it, but SORRY, CHARLIE, it doesn't work that way.

My heart is shattered. A broken cup on the floor. I have to fix it before anyone finds out how broken it is. I am squatting on the floor like a little girl in a little blue dress with patent leather Mary Jane shoes on, white anklets, and I have a messy pot of glue, and I am trying to glue together a million shattered pieces of this broken cup and then the tears well up flooding me and I have to admit I can't fix this cup. Cup, what happened to you? Dad, where did you go?

Community Chest or Chance?

Been reading Clay Shirky on community and reading others, like Tom Matrullo's, thoughtful responses to his interesting essay. I can't help thinking about a technology conference I attended in 1998 where a room of about 100 internet luminaries (all men) and five of us women (all women) were discussing ecommerce and shopping. After about 25 boring and infuriating minutes of the conversation where the men went on and on about shopping, and consistently ignored or belittled anything the women had to say on the subject, three of us women sought refuge in the ladies room.

None of us knew one another, but there was instant community. Behind closed doors, we exchanged glances, no words. I rolled my eyes into the back of my head, to say THESE MEN SURE KNOW A LOT ABOUT SHOPPING -- READ: ZERO. None of us spoke, but there was instant communication. We all started to laugh, the laugh said NOTICE THEY DIDN'T HONOR OR RESPECT ONE WOMAN'S OPINION ON SHOPPING, DURING THE WHOLE DISCUSSION. We shook our heads, saying wordlessly WHY BOTHER?! Lipstick applied, we returned to the "conversation."

I've rarely seen any man participate equally in a community. I've seen men jockey for position to lead a community. I've seen men get off on creating an audience and coercing that audience into "sharing" and lauding to his brilliant opinion. I've seen men use a community to compete for the attention and resources of its members to improve his status. I've seen many men use ad hominem arguments to undermine and destroy their fellow "community" members. If a community is defined by the notion that putting the needs of all its members first and individuals second is fundamental, the premise that men know anything at all about communities is questionable.

Surely you've witnessed the way women, often complete strangers, gather at a party in the kitchen or in the backyard and make instant alliances bridging age, class, political leanings. That's community. The only man I've ever heard speak or write on this subject with any insight is John Perry Barlow -- graced with three daughters, an ex-wife and a few zillion girlfriends -- he has a solid understanding of the community of women and considers us lethally subversive. I take it back, two other men write about this iceberg subject in an insightful way ... Michael Moore and Tom Peters.

Errands, Details, Phonecalls, Shoes

Endless list of stuff to do before the funeral tomorrow. I bought new black shoes, dropped off my son's pants at the tailor to be hemmed, returned a zillion kind phone calls, went by the church to check on when the flower arrangements could be delivered, haircuts for me and my son, made sure my husband's suit is ready. All a blur to keep you from the matter at hand. When we slow down by Saturday, we'll be sad. Had the oddest thought today, since this is my dad's funeral somehow my mom should be here. He was there for her funeral, only seemed fair. Your mind gets a little off kilter in these post-death days..

At the cleaners, I asked the tailor, an older Italian lady, if we could get my 6-year old's pants hemmed and cleaned by tomorrow, she said no. Then I said calmly, "well, it's for a funeral and I need them by tomorrow, so if you can't do it, it's okay, I'll just check on another tailor." I tried to take the pants back from her and she snatches them away from me. "Funeral?! We do it." She would not let go of them.

I said, "thank you, great, see you tomorrow." and left. In the car, I suddenly realized that she thought I was BURYING a six-year-old boy in those pants. I shuddered and called them back to explain it was my dad who had died and these were his grandson's pants. She was relieved. I couldn't imagine her spending her day sewing the pants of a boy who had died — how's that for sad.

BTW, we're not burying anyone, we're cremating my dad. I came across this amazing poem today while reading something completely unrelated.

Cremation

It nearly cancels my fear of death,
my dearest said,
When I think of cremation. To rot in
the earth
Is a loathsome end, but to roar up in
flame — besides I am used to it.
I have flamed with love or fury so
often in my life
No wonder my body is tired, no
wonder it is dying.
We had great joy of my body.
Scatter the ashes.

— Robinson Jeffers

When My Dad Wakes Up Today

When my dad wakes up today, the first thing he will notice is that he is dead. But he'll take that in his stride, because my mom will be cooking bacon downstairs and getting the coffee ready and these divine smells will keep him from worrying too much about it. He will dance a jig as he jumps out of bed, to realize he's got his young healthy body back. He'll pant with excitement to find a Life Magazine on his nightstand. It will be 1948 and he will be 30 and he'll be in Youngstown, Ohio long before they had a zip code of 44444.

He'll dance a "ain't I cute" happy dance in the mirror to look at his strong, lanky, 6'4" body all dressed up in a perfectly well-worn pair of red plaid flannel pj's, size XL, his boyish dark brown hair thick and devilish. He'll marvel at his graceful dancing feet, like a baby in a crib discovering his own new toes, ready to do their entrancing steps. He'll fly downstairs to grab my mom for an impromptu kitchen Lindy, cranking the post-war Big Band music on the kitchen radio and arching her backwards into a ballroom swoon, safe in his steady, strong arms.

She will say with a sexy sneer, "What the hell's gotten into you?" And if the frying pan weren't full of hot, greasy bacon, crisping up perfectly -- even she can't burn the bacon in heaven -- she would take the pan and give him a whack on the butt with it, but instead a swipe with the spatula will have to do. He will yank her by the apron strings reeling her towards him, into a big hug and kiss. She'll finally just give in and let him mess up her pretty make-up. But then back to business, she'll push him away. "Get out of here," she'll warn with a phony sternness. "Go get the kids."

He'll stop dead in his tracks to realize he even HAS kids. She'll point out the kitchen window to the yard -- a green heaven of wavy, windy, grass and flowers, daffodils blooming, bending down to bow to him, on a perfect spring morning. Jean and Bill will be 10 and 8 and mucking about in a mud puddle with sticks and leaves, fascinated with the tiny boat they've built. My dad will choke up to see this, but my mom will have none of this early morning lollygagging, pushing him out the door.

The screen door will slam with a happy familiar whack, and my dad won't miss that often ignored sound of home. Look at him grin. He will relish it, but not for long, because he'll nearly fall over his old retriever dog, who will shoot from stage left to see if he can upend this happy man. The dog's got the paper in his mouth, and every damned story is good news, one better than the next, but he'll have no time to marvel at it. He'll run to his kids and scoop them up, squeeze them so hard they'll whine, "Dad!" They'll roll on the grass in a mock wrestling match, the two of them unable to keep a good man down.

When he drags them in the house, my mom will see two kids covered in mud, and her husband up to the usual malarkey. "March," she'll order, pointing towards the bathroom. Dad will supervise the soap and make the thing bubble, splash and spill all over the bathroom, making a bigger mess than either kid could muster, much to their delight. They'll be in giggles and my mom will hear them playing. She'll serve up the fried eggs, over-easy, just right and the perfectly crispy bacon, the A&P coffee will be dark and rich, she's pouring it now. She'll take her apron off slowly, hang it on the hook, sit at the table primly, a shapely wise and wonderful brunette, suppressing a grin as she hears them horsing around. And with a yell, she'll begin a new day, "Get in here you ruffians!"

They'll come flying in a pandemonium of boyish, girlish crewcut and braids, grins from ear to ear, trying not to laugh. But where's my dad? Obviously planning an entrance, the kids can barely control their giggles. My dad will turn the corner now, all eyes on him suddenly. He's still his pj's but now sports a porkpie hat, and has a beard of bubbles, "Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!" he sings out. The kids run to swipe the bubbles off his chin.

"Cut that out. Get over here and eat your breakfast," Mom gives Dad her best scowl, makes her "no-foolishness" face. They sit down to breakfast, she passes my dad the biscuits. He deftly applies butter and honey. "Katie, my girl," he says, with a smile that can never stop, "I've died and gone to heaven."

There's Been a Death in the Opposite House

My dad, Bill Suitt, passed away today about 6:55am. I was lucky to be there and he went very peacefully. This has always been one of my favorite poems by Dickinson. Feel free to blog me a poem like the great one Steve Himmer left for me at OnePotMeal.com . Thanks to all for the kind words.

There's Been a Death in the Opposite House
by Emily Dickinson


There's been a death in the opposite house
As lately as today.
I know it by the numb look
Such houses have alway.

The neighbours rustle in and out,
The doctor drives away.
A window opens like a pod,
Abrupt, mechanically;

Somebody flings a mattress out, -
The children hurry by;
They wonder if It died on that, -
I used to when a boy.

The minister goes stiffly in
As if the house were his,
And he owned all the mourners now,
And little boys besides;

And then the milliner, and the man
Of the appalling trade,
To take the measure of the house.
There'll be that dark parade

Of tassels and of coaches soon;
It's easy as a sign, -
The intuition of the news
In just a country town.

And So We Pray

"Grant him an entrance into the land of light and joy."

--The Book of Common Prayer

Top Ten Reasons To Witness Your Dad's Demise

[My dad has been gravely ill for four months. My family and I have been through a roller coaster of ups and downs, as his health has improved, only to crash again and again. I've spent a lot of time in nursing homes, hospitals, ambulances. I can't help but think God's got some reason for showing me these dark and sometimes bright moments. I like God. He's a good guy, really. So, here's my attempt to see the good in these bad times.]

1. It lets you say a long, slow "I love you" and "good-bye."

2. It reminds you that it really is "ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

3. It lets you see tons of sick people and that makes you hit the gym big time.

4. It gives you a kick in the pants to make a will and especially a "living will".

5. It gives you a grip on what the hell matters and what doesn't.

6. If you're an entrepreneur/se, you realize the aging population and it's not-yet-invented but desperately needed products will be a goldmine of opportunity.

7. You get to see your own genetic "wheel of fortune" played out.

8. Sure helps you think of your retirement savings in a brand new way.

9. Makes you brush and floss your teeth and pray you'll have some at 80.

10. Opens your heart to all the dreadful shit everyone else in the world is going through.

Take A Little Time Today

Don't get crazy about losing an hour today. Take some time to do nothing. Drink some coffee. Sit around. Read the paper.

I travelled a lot in 1998 - 2000 and I always tried to stop and take some time in the airport to drink something at Starbucks and buy a City Mug. I have mugs from a lot of cities. But check these out — they're making GIANT CITY MUGS now. Love this giant San Francisco mug.

Once when my marriage was not going so well, I joked to my sister that if we ever got divorced, I'd take my son and my city mugs. I'd leave the rest.

Clock of the Longer Now

We change the clocks today and how have so many clocks sprouted in my house without my noticing!? There's the microwave clock which I changed in such grogginess, I think I set the cooking timer for 5 hours or so. There's my Dunesbury clock on top of my computer monitor, it has sea green rubber square edges, a gift from a dear friend when we went to Starbucks in Santa Monica shopping once. There's my Casio wrist watch — an analogue/digital combo — the clock face set to EST Boston and the digital set to London time. My Sprint cell phone took care of its own clock, still amazes me how that works. And, of course, there's the software clock, Bill Gates not letting any of us forget the daylight savings time switch. Off to calibrate my clepsydra!