A tribute to one of the best storytellers I have ever known, One who turned his pain into an eloquent masterpiece: Frank McCourt
Frank McCourt introduced me to a world of misery and great brutality; a world where the lines between survival and cruelty were utterly blurred; where love exceeded fragility and dignity withered in the face of poverty.
His heart-wrenching memoir “ Angela’s Ashes” was a great tribute not only to his mother, whose existence was the pillar of his childhood, but also to the human experience as a whole. It transported me to a different time and space, to the lanes of limerick where Frank’s carton-made shoes soaked wet from rain and dirt, where his bloody scraped knees weren’t as numb as his heart; and where his loss and grief for his dead siblings didn’t even measure up to the moment he saw his beloved mother beg for money, swallowing every bit of dignity if not throwing it away.
He drew them, his family. He drew them out of words and yet, you could find them sitting right next to you, breathing into your neck, sneaking up behind you every now and then. His father, the drunken loser, who despite all his faults and flaws, made you want to weep. His mother, whose grief and sorrow slowly awakened her inner beasts. His brother, Malachy, the free-spirited Malachy, whose jokes concealed a bitter tragedy as black as the soles of his feet.
Frank’s memoir wasn’t his only tribute to the world. His teaching skills were beyond Grammar and punctuations; and beyond any method that had ever been used. He took off his shoes and walked in his student’s instead, saw through their eyes, and thought with their minds. His brutal honesty and black humor, is what kept him going on and on, walking on edges, and hanging on threads, and still landing on solid grounds.
Such an immense loss for the literary world, I wish I could have met the man who made me cry, gasp in disbelief and then laugh out loud, the man who took me away, gave me glimpses, and brought me back a different being. May He rest in Peace.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
That’s his heart, on stage.
His pain, turned inside out, his sorrow, his grief, shattering every soul into existence, every mind into a deathly trance.
Poignant,
leaving no air, no words, no sounds.
Passion meant to be touched, talent to be breathed,
Friday, July 24, 2009
Such vivid beauty, waiting to be devoured, almost magical, divine, perfect. Green mountains reaching for the blue skies, blending together perfectly as if they were stroked by a brush. Wooden cabins are scattered around, tickling my childhood dreams. Would Heidi step out of that door clutching her milk bucket? And would I catch a glimpse of Huckleberry Finn in one of those trees?
Amidst such beauty, I am a poet, whose words are embedded in red bricks and smoky clouds. I am an artist, with a palette of mountains and meadows.
I am a child, whose spirit cannot be contained. A dancer, a lover, a singer, and a loner whose solace had finally been found.
There he is, the creator, all around, in the scent of greenery, in the crystal shadows, filling my void with a surreal sensation that makes my heart weep.