The Perfect Catastrophe of Gordon Edgar
Lawrence’s photographs tell the whole story, the whole
kit and cargo, the perfect
catastrophe of Gordon Edgar.
He began off-center and obstinate to rise remarkable.
GE found a place to stand with the wildest of the bunch
when it was still every
man for himself in the crossbeams,
a museum piece but always exited through the gift shop.
A penniless shoe-shine boy, ragged, unintended &
slangy
eyed the clean ivory keys of an oak Victorian upright
piano
took his salt on the side dreaming up graceful little
verses
dogged to turn poverty into fat cap, cane & Cheshire cat.
He buffed & swiped the tops of expensive loafers for naught,
long-legged Richie Riches sneered over stark grey
newsprint
lobbed dimes in the dust & sped away in sleek cabriolets.
It was cloud-splitting, things counted & then
divided, the
rules of his young bones & gentle madness recorded
neatly
in a mourning journal tucked tightly into his back
pocket,
(some-day songs).
On the inside cover he had scribbled:
quick to spill, slow to simmer,
never falter, never wither
exclamation point,
just one though, GE modest, composed.
He wrote ‘Your
Stars, Algonquin’ in a rural hen-house, not a
bawdy house as often reported. It started out as an elegy
for someone named Iris, a tight fistful of exploding
flowers
sunk into the soil too early & with slow despair, in
a languid
tune, we find him digging up the bones of the wind-up
girl;
he knew the perfect place for a fire was a paper-thin
heart.
Book-besotted, rock ‘n’ rolled, someplace beyond Kingston
on earth as it is, GE scaled a concrete particular,
bright & free.
The last time I saw him I gifted him a cleft vase of rosettes
his heavy black boot guarded the bottom step to his
spotlight
his mood ship-shape & easy; with a glint in his eye,
he said:
“Imagine a poem
that starts with a Zippo Lighter & the Poet
stares at the sky craving
a cheeseburger & a chocolate shake.
I’m full of doubts
but have no regrets, & the truth is, life is simple:
first ecstasy, then
illness & reverse eternal hitch-hiking your
way to the Eden
Garden, ahhh the lilies of paradise do shine.”
Lawrence’s photographs tell the whole story, the whole
kit and caboodle, the perfect
catastrophe of Gordon Edgar.
Some are ripped & faded, some are flimsy Polaroids,
others
emotive stills of his start/stop motions, many of them candid.
Gordon Edgar, the
perfect catastrophe, will leave us enthralled,
our lips parted in holy blues, searching for his
invisible features
& at the exact same time, before being washed with
light, he
will come looking for us to say good-bye, one bleary eye
at a time.
**
I knew I needed to write something today. Mood dictates
that for me. It’s been a long, rough week thus far, my fingers were itching and
so I pecked. I had an idea budding for a few days and this, the result. It isn’t
meant to eulogize anyone, nor is it meant to be mournful, rather the opposite.
There are bits and pieces of secrecy woven in and those are the poems and
meanings I love most, sneaking a little something that only I know. I may, at
some point, play with this one more, fatten it up, amend, lengthen, shorten
even if necessary. But, for today, it has been my exercise in exorcising my
anxieties, fears and missings.
I am venturing out into the sun soon. Happy for it
because there is the sweet face of a good friend waiting on me, or perhaps it’s
more like the anticipation of seeing said face to ease my weariness. And then,
if I’m lucky, there may also be another warm soul waiting with a hug for me.
Fingers crossed.
In propinquity,
Nic
