dimanche, novembre 22, 2009

This is the darkness, this is the flood


November 22


After a couple of sunny days, a rainstorm came over the land last night. It's rainy and windy. The sadness of the lonely sky in grievance ads to the heavy atmosphere of this day, the darkest in the cycle of the year.


JFK's assasination was 1963.
Therefore, he is now dead as many years as he was alive: 46 years.  Approaching this age myself, I get aware on how young this really is. Or, how fast time passes and how short our lives are.


I still remember the day when I was a little child and some guy came at our door to sell JFK memorabilia. My Grandma who usually never bought something at the door, took a memorial coin. all while talking to the seller, she wept. I id not understand a thing and - well -  had kind of hard feelings against JFK, because he made my Grandma cry.
In the eighties, a first wave of critical, yet anti-JFK journalism emerged. As the unhappy, angsty teen I was back then,  I liked to see "myths deconstructed".  However, the whole subject didn't interest me enough to get deeper involved.
In the early nineties, some of the deconstructed myths were deconstructed themselves and the world started to find the balance between canonizing JFK and portraying him as Satan.



I saw my first JFK assasination documentary on TV and felt slightly sorry for him.  In the late nineties, I added some of the subject to my comics. Only a bit. Still, it wasn't real interest.
It was at the End of 2000, when JFK entered into my life with a powerful step, not to say with all presidential authority. I spare you the details, because they are deeply spiritual and personal, but it surley changed my life in a fundamental way and still does. His influence goes far beyond my artistic work. I learned a lot from him.
Getting trough the Passionszeit and living this day under the painful assignment of his death is a price a pay gladly for all the gifts I receive  from him.




There is  a verse of the Cohen Song "Gipsy Wife" in my head;


"Too early for the rainbow,
too early for the dove,
these are the final days,
this is he darkness, this is the flood"


This is the way I feel on November 22.
The grief over John Kennedys assasination is one of the things that don't get better with time passing, but worse. It seems to me that this very particular moment - the final shot in his head -  created a peculiar singularity: The point in time and space when his life was suspended. Like a phonograph needle stuck in a record, different from that only in the way that what's repeated eternally, is silence.
This sudden suspension stays as it is, with all its horror and can't be altered by any means. The more time goes by, the more this aspect seems to enter in the foreground. For one, it's the pain of loosing his trail, as we grow older ourselves, our memory fading away as collective Remembering does.  All this while for JFK, it makes no difference if he is dead since two minutes or a century ago. It stopped to make a difference the  second he lost consciousness, the needle being stuck at this one moment, leaving his last cognitions for ever suspended in time and space.
A least, this is the perception we have, when looking at the singularity from outside.


Only the living of spiritual experiences that are as deep as they are utterly subjective and therefore hard to comminicate, can revise the awe of said singularity. By taking a leap beyond the point where the needle is stuck, we are able to see and hear the grooves that were never played yet. 
This leap is hard to accomplish, therefore I am grateful for every time I could do it, with the help of JFK.

Despite all of its duskiness, the verse out of the Cohen song above promises that "rainbow" and "dove" will come. To me, they will come on December 2, the observance of the celtic Godess Rhiannon, the day when I commemorate my bond with JFK, a day of light, love and joy, the beginning of advent for Yule.

A phrase out from a song of Jacques Brel also seems to fit: The cryptic "Quand les fils de novembre nous reviennent en mai". (When the sons of November will come back to us in May) It is out of "Mon plat pays" where he poetically describes his native land, flemish Belgium. Indeed, also for JFK we commemorate his departing in November and his birth (coming)  in May.

The fact that JFK's Life and its dates seem so much tied to the more universal rhythm of nature and the ever repeating Wheel  of seasons, growing, blooming and dying, ads a lot of Solace to everyone who, like me, is bound to this rhythm.
I don't know if it is true, but I once heard that a people in India restarted its Chronology after the assasination of a beloved leader. An interesting way to alter the singularity of Horror  by means of constructing a continuity after the moment of suspension, involving both, the living and the departed being.
So I am adding to the countless chronologies around the world my personal one.

Have a good start into the year 47!

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