Today is April the 9th. My Rosemary died on December 9. Time has not helped me heal in any way.

In our last trip to Buenos Aires in September 2019 on the Sunday  market at Plaza Dorrego in the old barrio of San Telmo I told Rosemary, “I can hear Ástor Piazzolla’s Oblivion being played." We walked a few yards and found a harmonica player and a guitarist playing the haunting tune.

Oblivion

Piazzolla named his composition Oblivion (in English) because he knew there was no equivalent in Spanish. Olvido translates as not remembering. Oblivion implies no feeling, thought or memory. To me oblivion is what one faces upon death. There is nothing on that other side.

I now have come to realize, that my only escape from my present melancholy is not going to be the passing of time. Only oblivion will bring relief (even if that relief is not noticed, felt or realized).

Meanwhile as I turn off the light at night and I look at the window side of my bed ( formerly occupied by Rosemary) I know that the view at one time would have been different as her live (or live and asleep) presence would have wonderfully blocked that view. That presence is now a vacancy and that vacancy is as present as if she were there.

Last night I woke up to my Rosemary’s voice, She said either “Papi” (what our daughters call me) or she said “Casi" who was her dear departed male cat. It was obviously a dream but her voice was loud and with good diction but that my waking up prevented me from identifying correctly.

During the day I have the distraction of the menial tasks of vacuuming, taking out the garbage, emptying the kitty litter box, washing the clothes and brushing my teeth. But it is impossible not to note her missing presence.

The worst is the garden. As I prepare the garden for an opening (perhaps because of the cold weather now) in early June to the Vancouver Rose Society, I keep finding hidden plants on the ground or in little pots hidden by big pots. Rosemary bought plants behind my back. She would never tell me about them until they became a beautiful reality.

Working in this garden, more evident now that it is Rosemary’s, is like rifling through what’s left of her underwear drawer. It brings instant tears. My only relief comes with the realization that I have to make this garden as lovely as she would make it.

And there is the relief of my cats Niño and Niña. They cling to me and this adds to my listlessness. I want to do nothing. I have been avoiding to be where I am right now, writing this. I am no writer but it seems like I am suffering from a terrible writer’s block.

I can smile when I look at this photograph illustrating this bitácora (in Spanish a ship’s log which I prefer to the Anglo blog). But it also leaves me with an empty and sad feeling. I wish my own oblivion.

But I may add that when I do turn off the lights in the bedroom and the two cats get on top of me, I know that I am not completely alone. This is comforting.

Can oblivion wait?

John Boorman & Sarah Miles - 1987

 Lacrimosa dies illa

Seven last words

It seems that for Easter it is de rigueur to watch either The Ten Commandments or Ben Hur. This Easter weekend, my first alone since 1967 (when I met and then married my Rosemary), I have chosen to watch nothing.

For me Lent and Easter is all about my youth. On Thursdays in Buenos Aires my mother and grandmother would visit 7 churches on Holy Thursday. On Good Friday I was not allowed to turn on the radio. If I was playing outside on the street with my friends, I would be called in at 3 when my grandmother would read us the Stations of the Cross and Christ’s Last Seven Words.

Because I was around 8 this whole experience was one of ritual. Rito, in Spanish is closer to the idea of a religious ritual and not only to something done for tradition.

I believe that my religious beliefs are something personal and I will not reveal what they might be here.

Good Friday for me is sombre and melancholic as I remember my mother and grandmother. It is about growing up and finding it difficult to understand religious concepts. These became clear to me at the Roman Catholic boarding school in Austin, Texas that I attended in the late 50s. And now, at 78, I find it interesting to investigate (fine essay on the subject in the NY Times) why it was that if Jesus was resurrected in perfection on Easter, he still had the wounds that ultimately interested the doubting St. Thomas.

One does not need to be extremely religious or to believe everything to find that subject of Jesus’s wounds as fascinating.

Easter is for me a moment for reflection and thinking about being re-born. Because my Rosemary died last December 9, my idea of being reborn is more about a preparation to die and to make life for my two daughters and two granddaughters an easy one to deal with. It would seem that for me to be reborn now is to shed possessions.

Anybody who has gotten this far might wonder why it is that I have photographs of film director John Boorman and actress (I am old-fashioned)  Sarah Miles. The reason is that I photographed them in 1987 when they were in town to promote the film Hope and Glory. It is an autobiographical film about Boorman’s childhood in war-time London. This fine film, without chariots or with the sound of Heston’s booming voice, replicates my idea that Easter is about growing up and discovering one’s reason in life and for living it. 

For me in this beautiful 2021 sunny Easter Sunday, I hope that I will make do without the presence of my Rosemary and somehow live life in a way that she would approve.