Harold Carr 10 2003

Schroedinger's Cat

Craig was alive until I returned from Chile and learned that he had died a week earlier - the day I left. He is still alive as I walk down the hall - until I remember he is gone. (Note how I am now escaping in abstractions. It's so easy to conceive I will see him again - in "heaven".)

Dreaming Craig

My son and I are looking for our companions who are camped somewhere on the upper terraces of a park. We've searched many levels and are about to give up when we see Craig carrying his bed roll from an upper level to the one below us.

We try to catch up with him to ask where the others are but by the time we get near him he has laid out his bed roll in an isolated corner of the park and is sitting on a cement-topped rock wall having a smoke.

It seems he wants some solitude so we walk away leaving him alone. As we go I remember seeing his strong slender bowed legs as he walked ahead of us.

Mantra

In the 80's I made the mantra

heal - whole - holy

Now I have a new one - an additional one

gracious - grateful - grace

(Note the shift from internal to external, from subject to object, from mending to matter.)

Phoning Craig

Now that I'm calmer, life is beginning to feel "normal". In my previous "normal" life I didn't see or talk to Craig every day (sometimes weeks would go by). In that life I'd call him and say, "let's meet for lunch", or "let's go hiking", or I'd walk over to his office in the basement of the state capital and talk - inevitably planning another outing.

So my days are the same: I wake, I walk, I work, I write. However, there is one incommensurable difference: I can't call Craig.

For the families of Craig and Filipe how can there be a normal day - with their physical presence missing each day?

Absence and Intention

This morning Bataille told me why I've been writing since Craig died:

"ink changes absence into intention"

just like me meeting with mutual friends.

It's all abstract while I lie in bed - but real when I hike alone without him.

Disappointment, Fascination and Guilt

I've been meeting with mutual friends of Craig. The contact has been good to share our grief, but there also seems to be an element of disappointment. It seems we have also been meeting to stay in touch with Craig but are ironically let down when the other person is not him... he's still gone.

As I return to the rhythm of my ordinary life it seems the last two weeks have been an eternity occurring in an instance. Looking back on those first days of learning Craig died, I'm fascinated, fascinated remembering how the world dissolved, how nothing existed except his absence, how the core of my being was completely in the present - there was no past, no future, just an infinitely empty now.

On Monday I fly to California (and the following week to Sicily) to give presentations on my work. I'm already feeling guilty knowing that I'll be so engaged that I won't have time to think about Craig every hour of every day. I don't want to bury myself in work to forget. I want to remember him. I want to keep him alive. But it's a fact, life goes on regardless...

The Pleasure and Guilt of Working While Grieving

At work, for the first time in two weeks, handling my tools gives me pleasure - old friends who know each other well. Working, focusing on the task at hand, life feels normal. Then, during any slight pause, it's right there: Craig is gone. Then I feel guilty for having forgotten for a moment, for having felt pleasure - guilty, I guess, for being alive.

Pleasure, focus, forgetting, guilt ... alternate throughout the day. The shock is subsiding, leaving a sad and confused heart.

Anger

I pound the steering wheel and look out into the sky - there's nothing I can do - it's absolutely final. He left us without saying a word. He was dying when we last spoke but I didn't know - he didn't know. Pam even asked him, "do you think you're having a heart attack"? He just layed down and died. She heard his last gasp.

If only ...

Men Crying in Public

I met with Randy for lunch today, someone I have only met briefly once before. He has been a friend of Craig's since junior high. They learned to play guitars together and then played together professionally for 15 years. Randy and I took turns remembering Craig, choking up at points - two middle-aged men, essentially strangers to each other, crying at lunch in a public restaurant. Not overflowing, just momentary tears as the memories touched us. That's how much Craig meant to us and many others.

Flavia returned from Chile

Today Flavia returned from Chile. I met her at the airport. We embraced for a long time. At lunch we cried, thinking of Filipe and Craig. At home I worked downstairs instead of up in my office so we could be close to each other. She fell asleep early since her body is still on Chilean time.

While Flavia slept I talked on the phone with Russell, a long-time friend of Craig's. Russell and Craig rowed their rafts on my kayaking maiden voyage on the San Juan - kayaking, something Craig got me into. We all had plans with Craig. Although Russell lives in Arizona he just retired and was expecting to be able to be out with Craig even more. Russell and I agree that, even though Craig was the center that held us together, we need to keep meeting - running rivers, hiking - out of respect for Craig and for ourselves. Craig will live in our friendship.

Uintas with Craig's son

Today Noal and I hiked to Bench Lake in the Uintas. Tracy didn't come and we didn't scatter ashes - Pam's not ready. No miracles happened except we got to know each other better while remembering Craig and talking our feelings. Later, at home, leaving a message on Julian's phone, I noticed my voice sounded up - even happy - for the first time in a week.

Another Day Alone

Yesterday we would have left for somewhere. Many times we never knew where, it didn't matter - we just left. Instead I hiked White Rock Loop on Antelope Island. Today we'd be there, somewhere, hiking. Instead I'm here alone - writing.

Flavia says to lose someone close makes you more human, more gentle.

Tomorrow I go with Noal and Tracy to spread some of his ashes where he laid down on our last hike in the Uintas (to Bench Lake).

We remember his voice but let's not forget his never-wavering rock-solid rhythm guitar.

Drifting today. Didn't go hiking. Saving my knees for tomorrow.

Drifting. Walking. Farmers Market, Avenues library, Golden Braid. Everywhere I go he's not there.

It does help to tell this story of these days. I'm even starting to rewrite some of these lines in my head - something I have a little control over.

Drifting. "Got your slinglite?" Drifting. "Got your leatherman?" Glad he was my friend.

There may be no reason, but there is a rhythm in grief - as I am discovering step-by-step, hour-by-hour, day-by-day.

Keep walking.

There are no paragraphs - just fragments and sentences floating by.

Something is missing.

It takes a long time to make a friend - a moment to lose.

Letting go - someday the dust will settle.

Grieving in North Canyon

Life standing still but my heart is still beating, my chest breathing, my thoughts thinking. I'm not thinking them, they're thinking me.

After three days of crying, seeing mutual friends and family it came to me that Craig would be laughing, saying "what, your boss gave you the week off to grieve and you're sitting around crying - get outdoors!"

So today I'm hiking North Canyon alone, no one else could go. North Canyon has mostly been my solo trail - never came here with Craig.

Lots of leaves on the ground and a few still waiting in the branches. I suppose the falling leaves are telling me dying is beautiful. Or that life is short, remembering long.

So far I haven't cried today. But it's there waiting - waiting for the slightest shift.

This morning my gear was all packed and ready to go - still together from the last hike Craig and I didn't do.

Now walking up the trail, breathing deeper, starting to sweat, removing layers - I know I'm alive. With that life I'll try to live gracefully and graciously with my living friends - with a lighter touch but keep an edge to cut corners.

Poetry, for me, has sometimes been a game - a game of survival - to which I now return with no embellishments - just the facts - and the facts, at this moment, are cold.

It's the dying season making the trail soft with leaves.

In a way I hope heaven or hell or some imaginary beyond is true so I can hike with Craig again. But I'm not counting on it. I'll staying with the earth, the rivers and the living. I'm not expecting an angel to save me. Instead I'll stick to the trails - walking while remembering Kerouac's words, "don't forget your tenderness."

It wasn't supposed to work this way. We were going to stand in streams in hip waders when we couldn't walk anymore.

I've discovered something: it's very hard to cry and hike UP a trail at the same time.

On top, the mule's ears dried, curled and rustling in the slight breeze. The mountain mahogany blossomed long ago, the shrub oak leaves still green. As always, the lake and the islands steady on the horizon.

Quiet now, here alone on the ridge, looking out, over, into our place. For the moment, calm in the mountains where we like to be.

He really was my best friend but I don't think I knew it - it just happened.

I'm writing them down so my thoughts won't sting - wasp weaving in the wind.

Quiet now, lucky he was here - gone but not forgotten. Someday me too - we too.

Always wanting and willing to see what was around the next bend.

Now that he's nothing, there's nothing that separates us now.

Not that I worry about danger, but something about being outdoors with Craig made you feel safe.

Each day outdoors build a bridge between us. Craig was my link and I don't want to lose it. Take up the slack - take up the slack.

I've discovered something else - it's dangerous going downhill and crying.

I feel like calling him up and saying, "do you know what it felt like to learn you were dead!" Far worse than you hiding ahead on the trail then jumping out - stopping my heart.

There's a lot of lyrics we won't hear quite the same way anymore.

For awhile I'm calm - kind of forgetting. Then it comes back to me but it feels like a mistake - like I heard something wrong - I must have misunderstood.

You know, it really is a fine fall day. Still hiking in shorts and tshirt east of the island.

He didn't pass away - HE DIED. He wouldn't dress it up. He'd say, "I'm dead" with a chuckle and glint in his eye.

Later, at Adam's Canyon Falls, the stream going over the edge, separating into thousands of distinct drops, then merging back into the clear cold pool.

Almost midnight

I'm calling everyone I can that knew and loved Craig too. I'm making lists of my living friends. I'm calling them to go on hikes. I'm visiting and having meals with friends. Julian is staying close. The word "community" is growing larger in my vocabulary. But the mountains and desert don't seem as appealing right now without Craig. If he were to see me he'd probably laugh and say I'm blowing a whole week sitting around crying (since I'm not going to work) when I could be using that time for camping.

6 AM

dog barking in the distance
sound of occasional car passing by
mind drifting in a channel of memories
thinking of nothing
nerves randomly firing
wondering where I will walk without him

Craig Crowther

I arrived in SLC mid-morning, returning from Filipe's funeral and mass in Chile. I learned of Craig's death when I got to our house. He died shortly after I talked with him on the phone last Sunday, when I informed him that I couldn't go hiking because I was catching a plane to Chile. But we kept our plans to go camping for 4-5 days this coming Friday.

Death, the presence of an absence. His not being here staring me right in the face. The days, weeks, years ahead without him. The hikes we planned, the music we played, the lines we wrote laughing while hiking:

tahightahike

beyond the copper mine

the sun that never came

loaded but gone

Death In Chile

Walking through fallen chestnuts we receive the news. Less than 24 hours later we are on a plane to Chile. The night before the funeral, in a living room with 13 people, including the family of the lost one, the most prominent sound - the ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece. The next day, in the cemetery, the chestnut blossoms. At a restaurant after the funeral - fingering stitches in the menu's leather binding.