Sir Gawaine has departed us…
Do we judge him for choosing freedom?
What do you mean death is not all about us?
What on Earth? I am not mean to myself feel sad, or I am being mean to not only feel sadness?
What in Heaven’s name do you mean it’s all about the deceased?
Whatever hierarchy can go to Hell that decreed that it is only all about blood family?
What legions of friends would not stand faithful and salute, praising his name?
He’s just up there laughing at the brilliance of The Master Plan.
He’s just in Heaven dancing with the angels, disproving the Myth of their celibacy.
He is loving life swirling with the seduction at the sorry state of our limited belief.
He is not living in sin to explore the innocent streams of sunlit forests with The Great Hoofed God Pan.
In his earthly existence he masqueraded The Good Book, proffering giant pythons in temptation to Eve by Adam with squeals of delight.
From his Heavenly throne, with a glint in his eye, he is agape and giggling at how he sold us the value of our hand-me-downs, of dusty artefacts, of Art Deco and Antiques.
He had respect for culture and all of Creation.
He had no compassion for conformity, making us the comedian of our own conservative and conformist characters.
Yet we judge him for choosing freedom.
He is where he always was, tinkering with toy soldiers, titillating fair maidens rescued by his bold sword, tampering with models of various modes of transport, transported to various worlds which we call fantasy.
Yet, it’s a tell-tale fact that we give these fantastical world‘s names like Amphibia and limited nomenclature like Serpents.
Yet we judge him for choosing freedom.
However, we were schooled in the first flights of The Wright Brothers, and we were fabled in the Knights Of The Round Table.
However, in the hedonistic world of surfing and skateboarding, you come down to land really hard in the real world.
You get hurt surfing right onto the rocks at Harde Klip Bay.
You get hurt skateboarding hard road surfaces in the rocky heights above Hermanus.
You get hurt helping out the lowly on the streets of life in the gang lands of Hawston.
Yet we judge him for choosing freedom.
Sir Gawaine came down hard in the dusty trenches fighting war between borders of mankind.
He witnessed his favourite soldier, head blown apart red into the African sky blue.
Back in our civilised society talk of death is taboo.
What do I tell my two toddler twins that with my huge loss their daddy is sad?
What tolerance and great patience do I expect from my love when at a minuscule thing I get mad?
Through non-sensical polite consideration for others, and this senseless taboo of no talking, we do unto others as we would have them do unto you.
Dearly beloved we are gathered here today together to witness as we each struggle in our solitude, and each suffer in silence.
We have farcical funerals, where the big boys don’t cry.
With forced attendance and obligatory bigotry black uniforms to remind us to mourn. We watch our clocks for when it is polite to leave. We forget we are wasting our lives as we are standing in the queue quarrelling at Saint Peters Gate, jostling for superior position further from The Gates of Hell.
As opposed to welcoming the whoosh of emotion that death is final. We watch the exit door for fear of being tainted with grief. We aim at escape lest we are trapped for eternity talking with some old Aunt who remembers his first word.
We focus on escape from sorrow, from contemplation, from questioning.
As opposed to welcoming the wailing of the women in tribes of old. Crying heard echoing through the hills and through the crags and over the mountains.
Crying to release us through the cracks in the dungeon of our hearts. Dying traditions which the ancients embodied as part of their living.
The heartbeat of the Earth which feeds us each breath. Embodied and in our bodies, cool feet in the stream coming from down the Clear Mountain, Helderberg, running water, murmering around rocks, down to rest at Reservoir Road.
Born a Fire-Horse. Not ashes to ashes. Not dust to dust.
His life of abundance.
A life of choice.
Not sure about you my dearest friends,
I am sure we each hurt with our loss.
Feel free to talk with his near family.
Feel free to talk with us near or far, our dear friends.
I believe we shalt not judge him… for choosing freedom.
Sir Gawaine
Written by:
Geoffrey Wright
2022/05/09
Stoke Newington, London, United Kingdom
Talking on death and departure…
as Knights of The Round Table,
with Olivia and Michelle, at Gawaine’s wedding, on top of Table Mountain
Dedicated to Gawaine Ziman
Rest In Peace
Gawaine Monger Ziman
22 July 1966 – 05 May 2022