Goolwafind New Directory S Site

Goolwafind is the latest directory site to make use of the DirectoryS WordPress theme. This classy theme is an ideal directory skin for creating image galleries for site listings. Residents of, and visitors to, the South Australian town of Goolwa will benefit from this new information source. Only in its infancy but already a good looking and information rich site, Goolwafind, will easily fill a valuable niche.

Tourists will appreciate being able to find featured locations for recreation and entertainment in this south coast holiday destination. Accommodation options are listed, along with art galleries, museums, parks and local businesses. With so many holiday makers now accessing information on their smart phones and devices the Goolwafind site will serve both visitors and providers.

Goolwa has a number of well attended major events on its calendar, including the wooden boat festival and Goolwa regatta. The Goolwa Wharf is a feature of the town, offering a paddle steamer service, boutique brewery, historical steam train station, restaurants, winery and art gallery. The Goolwa Wharf markets are held every first and third Sundays of the month. The markets offer arts and crafts, plants and flowers, antiques, gourmet foods, fashions, and much more.

Goolwa is a favourite long weekend and school holiday destination for residents of Adelaide; South Australia’s capital city. The Murray River, Australia’s major river, never quite meets the coast here at Goolwa; finishing in Lake Alexandrina. The town has the river on one side and the Southern Ocean on the other, making it a favourite with those who enjoy water sports. Fishing is big in Goolwa, and the Hindmarsh Island Bridge takes anglers over to the island and its marina and many fishing spots.

Surfing is popular in Goolwa and Middleton, with major breaks creating consistent swells throughout the year. The area is home to a number of surf shops and surfing schools. Sailing is big on the lake and river, with a number of sailing clubs featuring regular competitions. Surf skis and power boats recreate on the river, making this a wonderful family attraction.

The natural birdlife in Goolwa is stunning with giant pelicans and graceful Ibis wheeling across the skies. Flocks of birds fly in patterns over the river, as they scan the waters for schools of fish. A cycleway along side the Murray River allow walkers, skaters and cyclists to enjoy the visual feast as they make their way into and outer of town. Numerous parks with public facilities line the foreshore attracting picnicers, kid’s birthday parties and canoodling couples.

Goolwafind can point you in the right direction to find your heart’s desire.

US Open Golf 2015

Boy, what a surprise when I turned on the first round of the 2015 US open golf championship to see a revolutionary new vista. Where were the boring old, up and down, tree lined fairways? Where were the chemically induced ultra green coloured greens? What I was seeing did not look like golf US style. This looked like a mix of staged motor cross and Open links golf brought together in a new kind of golfing space. I immediately thought to myself – new fans are going to love this. The USGA are to be applauded for their ground breaking vision.

Golf has a pronounced tendency to look back for signs of its way forward and as much as I love tradition, you can only eat so many of your children. Chambers Bay seems to offer golf in the twenty first century something new, beyond what the uninitiated fan, always fails to see. The big problem for TV is that golf looks so bloody easy. The ball doesn’t move, it just sits there, waiting, like some sort of victim. Nobody passes the ball to another player. You just need to move the ball from one sector of the course to another; no pressure, it looks easy. The experienced hacker would ask the question, “but have you tried to do just that?” It is, as we golfers know, much harder than you think.

This, however, is not an article about the difficulties of golf, deserved as that may be. Golf is very difficult to play well and that is why its extremely talented exponents are paid exceedingly well.  Television viewers need to see how challenging golf really is and three dimensional digital viewing is in its infancy. Whether it be golf skins games played in minefields? Or something akin to this, golf needs to man up, and perhaps Chambers Bay is the start of this. Golf, in my opinion, could do with shedding some of its more banal past.

Golfers, if they are earning seven figure salaries, could do with some more obvious challenges. Chambers Bay, as I mentioned, looks a bit like a motor cross track. Jason Day getting vertigo playing this unique course says something about its challenges. Carved out of an old quarry, this links course is something else, and obviously a real test for pro golfers. The pressure of this experience was the undoing of many top golfers, it was too hot in the kitchen for some.  Bring on more such interesting courses to the USGA roster, I say. Go new golf!

Epicurus

Epicurus is at his core a materialist, in the sense that physical sensation defines our lives, according to his philosophy. Fear of death is widely prescribed as humankind’s most prevalent fear and Epicurus in his “Letter to Menoeceus” sets out to debunk it. This essay will investigate the fundamental Epicurean argument pertaining to humanity’s attitude toward death and examine its ethical purpose in relation to how we should live our lives.

Epicurus wishes to free humanity from an all pervasive mental pain caused by “anxiety about the meaning of death”.[1] It is the fact that humanity experiences life through the senses which allows Epicurus to formulate his proposition that death is the cessation of sensation and therefore should hold no fear for us. To exist is to sense, to experience life with our five senses, conversely to be dead is not to exist and be entirely without sensation. Expounding upon this premise, Epicurus tells us that this certainty provides an immediate pleasure by removing our unnatural and unnecessary desire for immortality. This knowledge can bring us into the moment of living and out of the painfully worrying state of pre-empting our inevitable death.

Epicurus wants us all to, habitually remind ourselves, that the state of death is nothing to be feared, so that we can truly live in the simple pleasure of being alive, and live in the moment more. The conversion to this belief in the Epicurean conception of death is no small matter and Epicurus repeatedly stresses that practice is required in his “fundamentals of the good life”.[2] The ethical purpose of this freedom from the fear of death is to replace anxiety in individuals with happiness. Epicureanism is viewed today as a ‘consequentialist’ philosophy, meaning that the resultant pleasure generated defines its moral good.[3] A consequence of happier, less worried, people inhabiting the world may result in less evil being committed. Pleasure will beget pleasure whereas unhappiness can often provoke acts of retribution, and/or mindless rage. Epicurus lays the groundwork for an acceptance of life’s sensory experiences free from an unnatural worry about something unknowable. His belief in Democritus’ ‘atomism’ and his study of natural science has led him to this belief in the meaninglessness of death; it is the cornerstone of his whole approach to pleasure being the primary human value.[4]

Is the achievement of personal pleasure enough, however, in our lives? What about our loved ones, our partners and children? Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics includes a conception of happiness, Eudaimonia, which has the individual cultivating moral virtues, arête.[5] How we act towards others and whether it is morally appropriate to the situation, or relationship, is essential according to this philosophy; is Epicureanism lacking this perspective? Epicurus answers this important question in his “Letter to Menoeceus” when he stresses that it is “good judgement” which is the most important aspect of his philosophy.[6] The Epicurean life cannot be lived without an adherence to sensibility, nobility and justice:

“Can you think of anyone more moral than the person who has devout beliefs about the gods, who is consistently without fears about death, and who has pondered man’s natural end?”[7]

Epicurus continually returns to this theme of facing one’s mortality and I contend that he sees it as a mark of humanity’s courage and maturity. By not shying away from the fact of death and by not being enslaved by the fear of it, we can act virtuously toward one another. This is important to Epicurus because he values friendship so highly and sees it providing “personal security” during our lives.[8] This then leads me to ask whether this ‘personal security’ could be better translated as ‘emotional security’ in today’s parlance? Epicurus is addressing the importance of loved ones and our relationship to them, after all, through his esteemed endorsement of friendship.

Friends and loved ones are highly valued by Epicurus but are not to be confused with the core responsibility underpinning one’s life – the self. This is why his philosophy focuses on our mortality, desires, pleasures and pains; Epicurus does not put the cart before the horse by shifting the focus to the other. Epicurus’s philosophy of the simple good of pleasure is criticised by those who propose that our lives are inextricably linked to others and that this must be primarily reflected in any manual for living. Stoicism puts the ‘life of virtue’ at the very heart of its philosophical approach to life and suggests we show indifference toward both pleasure and pain. Stoicism developed by Zeno of Citium in the third century BC and popularised in Rome by Seneca, Cicero and Marcus Aurelius, very much emphasised duty to others.[9] This aspect of the Stoic philosophy was embraced by the early Christian culture and can be seen in the writings of Saint Paul and Augustine.[10] My argument with this Christian standpoint has always been that if everyone is focused on the other’s happiness, and not their own, then no one is at home to truly receive whatever Christian charity comes their way, and then this concept becomes ridiculous.

Another, apparent, failure of the Epicurean philosophy, when comparing it to the tenets of both Aristotelian and Stoic philosophies is its encouragement for individuals to cloister away from the hubs of power and influence within their communities. For Aristotle happiness is found in being one’s best and he saw politics as the epitome of the good life; and for the Stoic it is their duty to perform so. Epicurus prescribed a quieter life with a small group of friends, thus avoiding the competitive struggle of the political life where often much evil is committed through ambition and corruption. Epicurus diagnosed this evil as the result of greed and the misuse of power, all things classified by Epicurus as unnatural and unnecessary to happiness.

This essay has explained the Epicurean position on the material reality of life and that death is meaningless to each one of us once we are dead. The pleasure that acceptance of this scientific fact can engender within us can free us from unnecessary fear and unhappiness. As John Lennon, perhaps an Epicurean, said so eloquently when he sang, “Imagine there’s no heaven…no hell below us…Imagine all the people living for today”, this knowledge promotes a responsibility for living virtuously in the here and now.[11] Criticisms of Epicureanism in relation to our actions towards others have been addressed in light of comparisons to other contemporaneous philosophies and their later offshoots. I conclude in agreement with Epicurus’s pronouncement that our own death “means nothing to us” and that we should courageously get on with the act of living well.[12]

 

 

 

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

 

Cooper, David. E, (ed), Ethics: The Classic Readings, Oxford, Blackwell Publishers, 1998.

Lennon, John, “Imagine”, London, Apple Records, 1971, http://www.metrolyrics.com/imagine-lyrics-john-lennon.html

Plant, Ian, Myth In The Ancient World, Sydney, Palgrave Macmillan, 2012.

Sinnerbrink, Robert. Lecture on Epicurean Ethics, Macquarie University, PHI110, Week 2.

Sinnerbrink, Robert. Lecture on Stoic Ethics, Macquarie University, PHI110, Week 3.

Sinnerbrink, Robert. Lecture on Aristotle’s Ethics, Macquarie University, PHI110, Week 4.

Spencer, Joseph, “Free from All Men: Stoic Influence in the Writing of Saint Paul”, Provo UT, Brigham Young University, 2006. P.24-41. philosophy.stanford.edu/apps/stanfordphilosophy/files/wysiwyg_images/Spencer.pdf

[1] Epicurus, “Letter to Menoeceus” in Cooper, David. E, (ed), Ethics: The Classic Readings, (Oxford, Blackwell Publishers, 1998), p. 54.

[2] Epicurus, “Letter to Menoeceus”, p. 49.

[3] David Cooper, (ed) Ethics: The Classic Readings, (Oxford, Blackwell Publishers, 1998) p. 47.

[4] Robert Sinnerbrink, Lecture on Epicurean Ethics, Macquarie University, Week 2.

[5] Robert Sinnerbrink, Lecture on Aristotle’s Ethics, Macquarie University, PHI110, Week 4.

 

[6] Epicurus, “Letter to Menoeceus”, p .52.

[7] Epicurus, “Letter to Menoeceus”, p. 52.

[8] Epicurus, “Letter to Menoeceus”, p. 56.

[9] Robert Sinnerbrink, Lecture on Stoic Ethics, Macquarie University, PHI110, Week 3.

 

[10] Joseph Spencer, “Free from All Men: Stoic Influence in the Writing of Saint Paul”, (Provo UT, Brigham Young University, 2006.), p.20-31.

[11] John Lennon, “Imagine”, (London, Apple Records, 1971),http://www.metrolyrics.com/imagine-lyrics-john-lennon.html

 

[12] Epicurus, “Letter to Menoeceus”, p .50.

I’m Feeling Love Again

I’ve walked in no man’s land and I’ve talked to the sand.

I’ve seen the road out of here and it’s full of fear.

I’ve gambled hearts away and ambled far through the day.

I know the way out of here, out of here, my dear.

 

Losing love becomes a habit, telling lies on the run.

Somebody to someone, second chances are undone.

Black dog barking in the distance.

White woman wags the tail.

Where is my resistance?

Hearts are setting sail.

 

I’m feeling healed again, I’m feeling loved again.

I got a river running through my soul.

It’s washed away the pain and fear of tomorrow.

It’s telling me that I love you.

 

I’m feeling healed again, I’m feeling loved again.

I got this river running through my soul.

It’s washed away the pain and fear of tomorrow.

It’s telling me that I love you.

 

Warm eyes and wet kisses, someone else’s missus.

Wide smiles and weak resistance.

Come and get these loving kisses.

Embrace the flesh and feel delicious.

All God’s creatures aint malicious.

Where’s the dirt in doing what feels good?

Where’s the grace in saying no, go away?

Welcome arms a rare instance.

Loving you I pray, loving you I pray.

Night and day, night and day.

 

Losing love becomes a habit, telling lies on the run.

Somebody to someone, second chances are undone.

Black dog barking in the distance.

White woman wags the tail.

Where is my resistance?

Hearts are setting sail.

 

I’m feeling healed again, I’m feeling loved again.

I got a river running through my soul.

It’s washed away the pain and fear of tomorrow.

It’s telling me that I love you.

 

I’m feeling healed again, I’m feeling loved again.

I got this river running through my soul.

It’s washed away the pain and fear of tomorrow.

It’s telling me that I love you.

 

Golfer: The Hands of Time

This story was inspired by a true incident told to me about a relative. A great uncle who had been a local golf professional, now retired and suffering from Alzheimer’s Disease, was regularly picked up by police whilst lost and out walking, sometimes late at night. This old chap would give the police putting lessons back at the station, whilst awaiting collection by a family member. The issues of ageing and the game of golf’s broad appeal are presented entwined within this short narrative.

Robert Hamilton is a writer, student of history, and a keen golfer. He is currently working on a collection of short stories, inspired by sport, but also dealing with what it means to be alive; to be titled She’ll Be Right Sport. He lives in hope of breaking 80.

THE HANDS OF TIME

By Robert Hamilton

Constable Davis sitting in the front passenger seat noticed the man first. He pointed him out to his partner, Senior Constable Vickery, who was driving the police car. The man was striding down the footpath, which ran adjacent to Stirling Highway. It was not the gait of the man, which drew the attention of Constable Gary Davis, but the fact that he was wearing what clearly looked like pyjamas and that it was nearly three am. The highway and surrounding streets were deserted; Perth was a quiet city after midnight mid week. The police car drew level with the walking man, and Davis could see that he was an older Caucasian white male, winding down his window he hailed the man to stop.

The figure in the blue and white striped pyjamas turned his head and faced the policeman who was leaning his head out of the window. The old man, although bent over a bit, was well over six feet tall and broad chested. His arms hung down by his sides and he looked like a man who had made his living with his hands. His feet were bare, white, hairy, toe nails thick and yellow; there were traces of blood beneath them.

“Excuse me Sir, everything alright? Can we help you with anything? Pretty late to be out and about.”

The old fella was clearly confused. His gaze took in the flashing lights atop the blue and white patrol car, the uniformed occupants of the vehicle, and the sound of the police radio with its staccato blasts of disembodied voices. As his eyes flickered back and forth from face to face, to empty highway left and right, and back to the idling police car time seemed to slow down, stop and start, blinking like the flashing lights.

“Can you give us your name Mister? Where are you going to tonight in such a hurry?”

The pyjama clad man made move to walk away and Constable Davis clicked open his door, and rose out of his seat to prevent the old chap from doing so.

“Steady on old fella. What’s your name? Are you alright mate, can we give you a lift somewhere?”

The words hung in the air seemingly going nowhere. The man squinted his eyes in an effort to concentrate on something fleeting. All these words directed at him and too many shiny surfaces reflecting pieces of light. Where was he going? He knew he had to get somewhere quickly but for the life of him couldn’t remember where.

Gary Davis turned to his partner, Ethan Vickery, and said, “I think that we better take him back to the station, I don’t reckon this old chap knows what’s going on.”

“Yeah Okay Gary I will call it in and let them know we are heading back.”

“Okay Dad we are going to give you a ride back to somewhere nice and warm. Maybe get you a cup of tea or something to warm you up.”

Constable Davis gently steered the pyjama clad man through the now open rear door of the police car and onto the empty seat. A frightened look on the big fella’s face and a raising of his arms caused Constable Davis to increase his hold on the man. The man suddenly spoke for the first time.

“I don’t know who you chaps are but I am really alright…. aah…I really think that I can manage on my own thanks.”

“Well let’s start with your name then Grandad. Can you tell us your name?”

They were back at the station and the old chap, still in his blue and white pyjamas, was nursing a cup of tea, seated at the desk of Senior Constable Vickery. His eyes were red and the large grey skinned bags under them spoke of the late hour, especially under the harsh fluorescent station lights. Nobody looked particularly well under their examining force. Davis thought the bloke must be at least seventy five by the looks of the deeply etched lines on his neck and face. Still had a full head of grey tinged blackish hair though and those arms were well muscled despite the advanced years. His hands were something else again. Davis nudged his partner indicating the old chap’s hands and Vickery acknowledged the tremendous size of the old bloke’s hands. Big hairy mitts with enormous swollen knuckles on each prodigious digit.

“Eric!”

The two policemen broke off their examination of their guest’s phalanges, snapping out of their momentary reverie to process this proffered data. Vickery the more senior of the two policemen was first to respond.

“Okay Eric and do you have a last name?”

The elderly figure smiled at the two coppers and basked for a few seconds in the joyous certainty of remembering his own first name. His gaze then took in an old black and white photograph, framed and hanging on the wall of the station. The image depicted Claremont Railway station sometime near its opening, late in the nineteenth century. He remembered being a boy when things looked like that, the horse drawn carts and the early motor cars. The sound of the steam trains and the smell of horse shit.

“Eric. Eric can you remember your surname, your family name?”

Continued in Golfer: The Hands of Time

©Robert Hamilton

Naming Shadows

He liked the painting hanging on the wall, especially its strength. The bold lines etched upon the face were unambiguous. The clear creases bespoke of firmness. The size and shape of the head was harmoniously proportionate. The jaw line was the epitome of masculine but the lips sensuously full. He saw some of his father’s face in this canvas and also a likeness to an uncle on his mother’s side. The tri colours emerging from the torso: scarlet, green and gold – had, for him, biblical connotations, like some Luciferion manifestation gleaming against a black background. The whiteness of the skull like visage had echoes of some comic book super hero, or villain, from his childhood reading.

It was a painting of a Roman death mask, which was why the eyes were eyeless empty sockets; white portals into an interior expanse of unreadable blankness. His children had found it creepy. He supposed that others would also judge it to be disquieting. His brother had made reference to the fact of his recent milestone birthday, just passed, and that, perhaps, the striking image of a death mask was psychologically linked to thoughts about his own mortality. He had painted the Roman death masks because of the facial detail captured in plaster, which had inspired him to pick up his brushes after almost a year of inactivity. The copious lines on the faces of these ancient sentinels told the story of their lives, or rather, showed the impact events had had upon them. The Romans wore their lives like badges of honour, every wrinkle, and every line, was a mark of experience crying out, “I lived, I survived, I made my presence felt!”

They wiped their arses with sea sponges soaked in vinegar. He imagined how old arse holes filled with piles would react to the astringent sting. That could put lines on your face. They lived hard lives close to the ground; a race of farmers who became unbeatable soldiers marching in scarlet and always keeping time. They lived on porridge most of the time, which may have kept the piles at bay. Death was notoriously prevalent and like the seasonal slaughter of farmyard animals it was only a matter of time. It was hard not to admire this civilisation, from a safe distance of course. They wore medallions carved in the likeness of erect phalluses, even women and children. They worshipped fertility, the potency of the seed and its deliverer. Mars, the god of war, with sword and spear stood tall amongst them.

His Roman death mask painting captured some of that spirit, he thought to himself. It depicted an angry fucker staring out from history, daring anyone, or thing, to mock him. He hadn’t given him a name, though the Romans were very big on names; nomenclature – the systematic naming of things. They often had three names or nomens. The first, and least important, was the praenomen – something like Gaius or Marcus; there was only a limited number of these to choose from, so many had the same first name. The second name was called the nomen and this was the clan, or gens, you belonged to. A third name was the cognomen, which indicated the branch of the clan you belonged to. It was very important for them to address each other correctly at the appropriate occasion. He had called his painting “Roman Death Mask 1”, a much more functionally modern nomen.

 ©Robert Hamilton

ANZAC Day

Are We Celebrating War?

Every year, as the ANZAC ceremonies come around again and seem to exponentially grow in stature and public awareness, I ask myself, is the message we are sending our children the right one? Celebrity status to the young is accepted generally without much analysis and the glorious stories of these young men who unwittingly sacrificed their lives may be generating the wrong signals. As a father of two young children I am hopeful that my own abhorrence of war, and more importantly its causes, are still paramount in the minds of my children, and in the greater community. Are we focusing on the resultant individual consequences of great wars to the detriment of understanding and condemning the reasons why we find ourselves at war with, other members of the human race?

As a historian I spend a considerable amount of time analysing past conflicts between nation states and I am amazed at the general ignorance amongst the population about the political causes of the wars Australia has been involved in over its short history. ANZAC day, in my opinion, is an opportunity for all of us to spend some time thinking about these conflicts and the factors that contributed to their emergence. In some way this new found reverence for the fallen participants in Gallipoli, in particular, reminds me of what used to be far more keenly felt about the Christian religious festivals, which also reflects a similar ignorance of the actual historical details by the general population. Many people say they find the study of history boring and or a waste of time but it is an understanding of our past actions and policies, which will save us from repeating horrendous mistakes costing the lives of millions.

Some would say that the commemoration of ANZAC day is precisely about an awareness of our history as a nation, but to me its focus is sentimental and iconic. ANZAC day is creating symbols of nationhood, the sacrificial soldier on the altar of freedom, but isn’t the question why we were fighting in the first place equally deserving of gross public recognition? Why do we send the very youngest men into battle? It is a historical and universal social policy practiced by ancient to modern civilisations to commit young men into the violent service of their state’s militaries. Young men seek glory and fame. Young men act first and ask questions later. Young men are more likely to obey their commanders over their own consciences, than older and possibly wiser men or women. History is littered with nations and kingdoms that have spent the lives of their young men, often cheaply, in search of conquest.

The ANZACS and Australian soldiers in WWII were, we are told, defending our country rather than in search of conquest. Australia in the First World War was tied culturally to mother Britain and it was expected that we would send troops to support Britain’s involvement in this highly dubious, in my opinion, global war. WWI was the catastrophic crowning glory of the Princes of Europe, the egos of Kaisers, Czars and Kings combined with new technologies to fertilise the battlefields with an entire generation of young men’s blood and bones. The resultant victory of the Allies led to the onerous Treaty of Versailles, which impinged greatly on Germany’s future; creating Hitler and WWII. A rather brief surmising of events but true enough in essence; look at how the US handled post war Germany and Japan after their WWII defeats to see how useful the lessons of history are.

Australian soldiers in more recent conflicts are now acting, with other soldiers from developed nations, as more like global policemen in places like Iraq and Afghanistan, supposedly engaging and defeating the forces of tyrants and terrorists. The world is a complex place and the reasons for war are multiple, actions can be both right and wrong, can achieve good and bad outcomes; just look at Iraq. The media coverage of the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq has been micromanaged by the military to avoid the antiwar reaction engendered by the very visual conflict in Vietnam. Countries like Australia, Britain and the US are controlling what their citizens are allowed to see on their television and computer screens when it comes to military actions. Orwell’s 1984 is merely set a few decades early when we consider today’s public presentation of war and the controlled perceptions these governments wish to oversee.

We seem unflinching in our fictional reimaginings of the horrors of Gallipoli on our viewing screens, but it is easy to empathise with the affects of atrocities committed a hundred years ago upon distant relatives or strangers. Real war doesn’t currently touch the majority of Australians, as we are turned away from confronting its direct images by government policy, and only a minority of us have a connection to it through family or friend, or have experienced it ourselves. The Australian identity is linked to that of the iconic ANZACS by the fact of their almost universal presentation as Anglo-Saxon Aussies. The real effects of war upon refugees from Iraq, Afghanistan and Sri Lanka make little impact on the hearts of Australians, despite the fact that these have just happened or are maybe still happening right now. Our great public sadness is reserved for the ghosts of men and women who died up to a hundred years ago. We are authorised to feel greatly for these mainly white ancestors but actively encouraged to despise and be indifferent to the suffering of men, women and children who are clearly not Australian and thus not deserving of our sympathy. Real war is happening in Africa and the Middle East right now, people being killed and blown up, slaughter and rape everywhere. It is interesting how we rationalise and fit these realities into our ethical positions on what deserves our attention and empathy. Lest we forget.

©Robert Hamilton

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I Went to the Funeral of a Young Man

I went to the funeral of a young man,

And saw pictures of him smiling.

He looked fresh and very well.

I remembered things about him,

Episodes from days gone by.

I watched feelings draped over friends and family,

Now tugging at life’s certainties;

Unpicking threads and seams.

I heard songs and sounds once familiar,

Now, a strange soundtrack to sadness.

I went to the funeral of a young man,

Held hands with a litany of grievers,

And shook with an arrhythmic palsy of spasms.

Threatening to undo me, then and there.

I heard the eulogy in real time,

Perched on my third row pew.

I listened out for more adventures,

But that book was finally closed.

I went to the funeral of a young man,

Now, permanently indisposed.