This is a piece of work I have written in memory of my father, who died just over a year ago. I have been grieving over the loss of him since his death, but for the first few months I was so busy organising the funeral and dealing with family conflicts viz his will, and liaising with my sister over the house & contents sale that followed his death that I didn’t begin the popularly understood phases of it until the spring this year.

When the fire burns will you cool me down; Will you love me enough to be there, still love me when I’m cool (!) too?
Then later on, nearer to the first anniversary of his death and burial, but before the estate had been divided, ‘case closed’, I entered a different ‘hypo-manic’ phase of grief. I recognised the signs and resolved to remain mindful for fear of a full ‘relapse’ due to (unresolved) trauma and grief, and I relied on friends to help me to learn to take control of this little beast, – the adrenalin driven ‘depression with severe anxiety’ which appears to psychiatrists as colourful symptoms of ‘early stage onset’ of ‘hypo-mania’ which might be treated by daily visits and drug popping but no case for involuntary hospitalisation if at all unless hyper-mania is suspected to be imminent.
Family names are different. To some family members it is ‘here are early warning signs – what can I do to help’ . To others it is ‘she’s effing mad as apeshit, and as crazy as a box of frogs’ and then exasperation and impatience, even intolerance ensue. Other friend’s are patient and accepting and nurturing – that’s the best medicine of all.
That my dad and I were and are ‘classic and colourful cases of bipolar disorder (class 1)’ we both know. He’s gone now, but I hear him (no not literally, calm down) laughing. I’m still here. I miss him dreadfully but I’m far from done with my little spot in ‘heaven on earth’. I’m creating a chilling space out of what is yet a house I’m hiding in; it’s going to be the palace of my life and loves.
Even alone sitting in my own house, houses either side of me, one of them audible and connected: I can get to feel claustrophobic. Especially when one of them’s connected all down one side. So -I’m gonna keep some of my wild patch amongst the apple and plum trees just as it is. Then beside it I’ll have a ‘the shed’: a place for chilling while I work, rest and play, ‘away from the madding crowds’.
It’s where I will go when I want to get:-
In mind of my father,
I would like to say: [Poem Follows:]
My father’s not going,
my father’s not gone:
He was never much in –
though nature gave
him that clefted chin,
those ice blue eyes;
that laziness in his swing
That swung in everything –
Including the drumming
And the piano blasts
And the music that jazzed
Wherever he was.
He is a swinger, a jazz man,
An artist of soul
Who mere mortals judged
And pilloried
When the shit hit the fan
And that’s music too,
A story of love,
And Tragedy-
Comedy,
His Labours of Love:
He loved too much, too deeply,
For the tall proud swan,
Though not enough,
as a cash-flow king,
For the one who took her place:
Who was a cute little kestrel ,
Beady-eyed, who doubted
this Cash-Meister big-time.
So she curled up,
in disappointed fear,
Around the cash that was left –
And wouldn’t part with it.
Leaving him lonely.
And that was the nub of it.
the ultimate cause of the heartbreak.
The true love of his life was music:
Cameras, cash & women came
a close-run second to that.
But his fatal addiction
was women..
Though his appetite for
Savile Row rags,
Handmade Italian shoes
and his Frank Sinatra hat,
showed a passion for finery
That needed cash
that wasn’t made quite right.
You could see it
In the way he smoked his fags
– It was his critical weakness point:
When that went, too
He lost the taste for living,
and found the air too stale to breathe.
So, while no-one
continued to listen,

Got trapped & killed at Depression Stage; NHS & Charity partly responsible according to Janie Greville.
He fucked off
to the bar
(in the sky).
You’ll find him there still:-

The gate-way to heaven above, bouncers below keeping the masses out. Dad at the bar near the piano & drums, probably chatting with Doll.
In peace – at last!.
For Anthony Pierre Greville, Born 14th July, 1930 – Died 4th October 2012.

His spirit was purified by Sept 28th at the very latest; his soul was released, during a private family service, about three weeks after his death.
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This piece December 7-8th, 2013