I realized while going to bed last night that I didn’t post anything yesterday. A couple days ago, I found out that a friend and a former classmate of mine from Vancouver Film School took his own life last weekend. I’ve never had anyone close to me die before so this was a strange experience for me. He helped me look at a short script I wrote a year ago, which I ultimately directed and produced (Stay) and I was recently thinking about getting his feedback on another script I was working on.
Everything now is weird. It’s been a few days but when I first found out, I felt strange and out of place with everything, like I was glass, wobbling on a table but not quite falling down. I thought about all the times I had with him and how they were all even more special and how we’ll never have those moments or create new ones again.
And I didn’t know what to post because I thought I should post something in memory of him, but I wasn’t inspired to write anything. So just a few minutes ago, I remembered a poem I read back in high school and then in college a few semesters back about a death in someone’s life.
This is dedicated to Jonathan Freedman, who, even though I didn’t know super well, was fantastic in every way.
Stop All the Clocks, Cut Off the Telephone
By W.H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
aaron's random musings 