Memorial for Daniel S. Frank 19/11/80 - 19/10/05
In the period following Dans death, time fell apart: hours crawled like weeks, days fell like minutes, and somewhere in this mist, I came across a poem. It helped somehow, and I have returned to it many times since. So I would like to share it with you, followed by a few memories...
On Death, Without Exaggeration by Wislawa Szymborska
It can't take a joke,
find a star, make a bridge.
It knows nothing about weaving, mining, farming,
building ships, or baking cakes.
In our planning for tomorrow,
it has the final word,
which is always beside the point.
It can't even get the things done
that are part of its trade:
dig a grave,
make a coffin,
clean up after itself.
Preoccupied with killing,
it does the job awkwardly,
without system or skill.
As though each of us were its first kill.
... [Yet] all those bulbs, pods,
tentacles, fins, tracheae,
nuptial plumage, and winter fur
show that it has fallen behind
with its halfhearted work.
Ill will won't help
and even our lending a hand with wars and coups d'etat
is so far not enough.
Hearts beat inside eggs.
Babies' skeletons grow.
Seeds, hard at work, sprout their first tiny pair of leaves
and sometimes even tall trees fall away.
Whoever claims that it's omnipotent
is himself living proof
that it's not.
There's no life
that couldn't be immortal
if only for a moment.
Death
always arrives by that very moment too late.
In vain it tugs at the knob
of the invisible door.
As far as you've come
can't be undone.
... As far as youve come / cant be undone.
My first memory of meeting Dan was on the staircase just there. I was 13, UCS was formidably new, overbearingly grand, and I had no idea that over the next 12 years, this short, pubescently moustachioed, big-haired, bespectacled chap would become one of my best friends.
In September of 2004, Dan, Mike and I were in Poland on a walking holiday - an activity that he loved very much, and which promised to try my nauseating vertigo. At the top of one particular mountain, Dan congratulated me: Well done, Ads. Im proud of you, he said. But theres nowhere up here for helicopters to land. So youre going to have to climb back down. And so, as I clung in fear to the grey rocks, with Mike repeating his catchphrase of the trip, Dont worry! It gets easier after here! over and over again, Dan helped to guide me down, his hands literally placing my feet, step by step through the worst parts. If it wasnt for him, Id never have made it down from that mountain. I can honestly say that. Okay. If it werent for them I wouldnt have gone up the thing in the first place... But still...
The secret to accomplishment, for Dan, lay simply in action. Whether mountains, articles, jobs, or social encounters: one step at a time, was the trick. And once you started, just keep going. He famously wrote his entire distinguished thesis in just such a 48 hour block of sleepless, continual motion.
And yet, despite his boundless intellect, I remember him sitting repeatedly, either at Danas, or in his flat with Zak in Hampstead, or in Camden where he lived with Mike, large bourbon in one hand, nacho in the other, salsa on the table, extolling betweening mouthfuls the wonders of Schwarzeneger, now Governator of California, and his Mister Universe documentary Pumping Iron. I dont think I ever completely understood his fascination. Nor was I ever really sure about how ironic he was being...
I see Dan everywhere. I think of him whenever I boil potatoes, when academic deadlines loom, or the subject of religion enters into conversation; whenever I read a great book, or hear a tune he would have liked, taste a bourbon he would have enjoyed, or even see a goat that bears a slight resemblance. He is there when I am with our friends, when I see his family, or whenever I say anything particularly stupid (for he was always fond of such moments).
He was many things to many of us: son, brother, student, teacher, lover, colleague. But to me, and to a few others here, he will always be one thing: the dude, our dude.
Sainthood would have appealed to Dans sense of humour, I have no doubt, and so I suppose I am calling for something similar.
Saint Dan the Frank (and wasnt he just)
Saint Dan the Beardy
Saint Dan the Wise, the Intelligent, the Learned (hed like that)
Saint Dan the Argumentative, the Stubborn
(he would, of course, have prefered Saint Dan the Always Right)
Saint Dan the Serious Chef
Saint Dan, the only Jewish, honorary Catholic, Atheist saint of them all!
Saint Dan the Missed, Saint Dan the Loved
Saint Dan the Dude.
Sanctification would have made him smile. And so it is that he appears before me like the Cheshire Cat, emerging piece by piece:
The closed-lip smirk at first, slightly wonky, kind of cheeky, half concealed beneath his mass of unshaved facial hair, breaking then into that huge grin: all glowing, unbridled joy. The wide smile is framed by the dark, goat-ish goatee; his eyes by those square-framed glasses. And Atop his head, struggling in vain to contain the sprawling bush of wild locks, that now-infamous Papist cap. He looks at me, sitting confidently, smiling contentedly, and he says, touched and amused by his new found divinity, Thanks dude.
Knowing Dan has been nothing but an honour, a pleasure that I shall forever cherish. So, in ending, I ask each of you to join me: Tell your own stories of Dan. Revel in spreading the word. Keep him alive in your thoughts and your hearts, always. And tell that poor, poor world that never knew him, just what they missed out on. Thank you. x
In the period following Dans death, time fell apart: hours crawled like weeks, days fell like minutes, and somewhere in this mist, I came across a poem. It helped somehow, and I have returned to it many times since. So I would like to share it with you, followed by a few memories...
On Death, Without Exaggeration by Wislawa Szymborska
It can't take a joke,
find a star, make a bridge.
It knows nothing about weaving, mining, farming,
building ships, or baking cakes.
In our planning for tomorrow,
it has the final word,
which is always beside the point.
It can't even get the things done
that are part of its trade:
dig a grave,
make a coffin,
clean up after itself.
Preoccupied with killing,
it does the job awkwardly,
without system or skill.
As though each of us were its first kill.
... [Yet] all those bulbs, pods,
tentacles, fins, tracheae,
nuptial plumage, and winter fur
show that it has fallen behind
with its halfhearted work.
Ill will won't help
and even our lending a hand with wars and coups d'etat
is so far not enough.
Hearts beat inside eggs.
Babies' skeletons grow.
Seeds, hard at work, sprout their first tiny pair of leaves
and sometimes even tall trees fall away.
Whoever claims that it's omnipotent
is himself living proof
that it's not.
There's no life
that couldn't be immortal
if only for a moment.
Death
always arrives by that very moment too late.
In vain it tugs at the knob
of the invisible door.
As far as you've come
can't be undone.
... As far as youve come / cant be undone.
My first memory of meeting Dan was on the staircase just there. I was 13, UCS was formidably new, overbearingly grand, and I had no idea that over the next 12 years, this short, pubescently moustachioed, big-haired, bespectacled chap would become one of my best friends.
In September of 2004, Dan, Mike and I were in Poland on a walking holiday - an activity that he loved very much, and which promised to try my nauseating vertigo. At the top of one particular mountain, Dan congratulated me: Well done, Ads. Im proud of you, he said. But theres nowhere up here for helicopters to land. So youre going to have to climb back down. And so, as I clung in fear to the grey rocks, with Mike repeating his catchphrase of the trip, Dont worry! It gets easier after here! over and over again, Dan helped to guide me down, his hands literally placing my feet, step by step through the worst parts. If it wasnt for him, Id never have made it down from that mountain. I can honestly say that. Okay. If it werent for them I wouldnt have gone up the thing in the first place... But still...
The secret to accomplishment, for Dan, lay simply in action. Whether mountains, articles, jobs, or social encounters: one step at a time, was the trick. And once you started, just keep going. He famously wrote his entire distinguished thesis in just such a 48 hour block of sleepless, continual motion.
And yet, despite his boundless intellect, I remember him sitting repeatedly, either at Danas, or in his flat with Zak in Hampstead, or in Camden where he lived with Mike, large bourbon in one hand, nacho in the other, salsa on the table, extolling betweening mouthfuls the wonders of Schwarzeneger, now Governator of California, and his Mister Universe documentary Pumping Iron. I dont think I ever completely understood his fascination. Nor was I ever really sure about how ironic he was being...
I see Dan everywhere. I think of him whenever I boil potatoes, when academic deadlines loom, or the subject of religion enters into conversation; whenever I read a great book, or hear a tune he would have liked, taste a bourbon he would have enjoyed, or even see a goat that bears a slight resemblance. He is there when I am with our friends, when I see his family, or whenever I say anything particularly stupid (for he was always fond of such moments).
He was many things to many of us: son, brother, student, teacher, lover, colleague. But to me, and to a few others here, he will always be one thing: the dude, our dude.
Sainthood would have appealed to Dans sense of humour, I have no doubt, and so I suppose I am calling for something similar.
Saint Dan the Frank (and wasnt he just)
Saint Dan the Beardy
Saint Dan the Wise, the Intelligent, the Learned (hed like that)
Saint Dan the Argumentative, the Stubborn
(he would, of course, have prefered Saint Dan the Always Right)
Saint Dan the Serious Chef
Saint Dan, the only Jewish, honorary Catholic, Atheist saint of them all!
Saint Dan the Missed, Saint Dan the Loved
Saint Dan the Dude.
Sanctification would have made him smile. And so it is that he appears before me like the Cheshire Cat, emerging piece by piece:
The closed-lip smirk at first, slightly wonky, kind of cheeky, half concealed beneath his mass of unshaved facial hair, breaking then into that huge grin: all glowing, unbridled joy. The wide smile is framed by the dark, goat-ish goatee; his eyes by those square-framed glasses. And Atop his head, struggling in vain to contain the sprawling bush of wild locks, that now-infamous Papist cap. He looks at me, sitting confidently, smiling contentedly, and he says, touched and amused by his new found divinity, Thanks dude.
Knowing Dan has been nothing but an honour, a pleasure that I shall forever cherish. So, in ending, I ask each of you to join me: Tell your own stories of Dan. Revel in spreading the word. Keep him alive in your thoughts and your hearts, always. And tell that poor, poor world that never knew him, just what they missed out on. Thank you. x
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
hotpinkauras:
I really enjoyed looking at your pics...u remind me of someone I know...you are very sexy 
jessickah:
Any saint would recognize this memorial. In such a state as to not know what to say, I wish to say everything... But then the failure arrives. Not that I think everyone who may understand something this deep and direct has to loose someone this close to them to "really know," but I do have to say that I too lost my best friend, although it was many years ago. Have you thought about polishing this and using it as a cornerstone for a published chapbook or anthology? Even as a piece of work that you may try to someday showcase in some kind of forwadness to the public? (Not that SG showcases it's girls and members to quite the WHOLE wide world...) But, what I am truly saying (in avoidance of turning this reply into a 400 page thesis), is that this is a fresh documentary filled by and created by an act of true art. A feeling of and through true art. People really FEEL that in a piece of literature, poetry, or whatever it may be. These things, if they get out there, will not go unheard. They just won't... And I apologize for bum-rushing your journal, but I stumbled in through one of the poetry groups. Write On!