Dormitory of the Dead

There was a time I would not countenance this. 'Ashes to ashes' is good and well. But, let them be scattered to the four corners. What cannot be brought to memory, is well left to eternity.

So many once-people rest here, with nary a visitor. Nary a soft word, nor tender touch on the sandstone. Chiselled words erased by the passage of time, if they were there to begin with. Perhaps an unmarked grave. I walk the row, weaving my still warm body through the dormitory.

Time out

Will lay low a bit for a couple of days with pre-loaded one liners.

Taboo

In her exhibition at the Museum of Contemporary Art, Annie Liebovitz contronts the taboo of death head on, and with a clear eye. She stares death in the face twice: once with Susan Sontag; and, again training her lens on her dying and dead father. I was accepted into a three week (three day) photography course for seniors at the MCA, and our first session was a tour of the AL exhibition with two experienced guides. The most emotion and discussion arose whilst viewing this category of image.


Some of my classmates were confronted, some were disgusted, some were outraged, and yet others wounded personally. Some could not look and walked off to look at the shots of Kidman or Jagger, instead.


My father is not dead, but he is into that final straight. In three months he will be 90 - if he makes it. Today he mostly slept through my visit. He took a few mouthfuls of a ripe plum. Ate one piece of Cadbury's Dairy Milk. Took the tiniest sip of lemon Solo through a straw. But mostly he slept as I stroked his forehead, or rubbed his hand. His eyes fluttered to see who it was. Let's hope he is stronger on Monday when I next visit. This is selfish of me, for I know he does not want to be stronger.