(Photos are from Bernie Fox) We were an hour late for the ceremony. I don't quite understand the mental processes that led to this, but I eventually came to accept that this event was effecting everybody in different ways. Catherine, Mia and Joel had dealt with all the horror that accompanies the end of a life, and so this scattering of the ashes was not the essential shuffling off of the mortal coil that it was for me. We got to Drake's Beach just as the assembled were concluding their speeches, poems, keenings and other tributes. Perhaps it was for the best, because I hadn't prepared anything, and didn't really have anything to say. Joel opened the black box, and the plastic bag that held the ashes and put it open-side to the waves. We stood around and watched the ocean play with it. I met all the folks I'd heard about... Marcia, his first wife, Valerie, the production manager on the African Project... and some folks I knew, but hadn't seen in ages. Eventually Mark realized that the ashes weren't being washed out, so he emptied them onto the sand. I walked down to the two clumps and took some between my fingers. There were larger bits... bone I guessed... and the ash smeared on my hands. Hard to believe that this was some of the same stuff I'd lived with for 9 years, made love to, fed, cared for, argued with, and eventually abandoned to its fate. (Click on the title for more.) Everyone told me that I was 'the one'. I had managed to convince myself that he had just been using me to support him all those years, and so it was easier to let him go. But now I hear that it was true love all along, and so it's not so easy to just dismiss. On the one hand, it is gratifying to know that my time wasn't wasted, and that I am worthy of love, but on the other, it tears me apart coming to grips with losing that love forever. No chance that we will ever reconcile and be friends again. The next day Catherine and I went through his things in the garage. She had been unable to do it without being paralyzed by grief. It wasn't too bad with the two of us. There were clothes... his godawful 70's speedos... his good raincoat that we had tailored for him... his scarves. I took one scarf and pressed it to my face. I could still smell him on it... the last time my nose would be filled with him. There were electronics... most of which he didn't really know how to use. There were art supplies... some unopened, others opened and unused, others a jumbled pile in a bag. We hauled the bags out onto the sidewalk, preparing to take them to the Goodwill. A couple was inspecting them when we came out, ready to start loading. They wanted to take it. This was it... the last chance to save some of those clothes... did I want them? Some of them are nice... but I've got too much stuff as it is... but they will be gone forever... but I need to let go. Catherine said that if they took everything, they could have it. Agreed. He picked up the bag with the raincoat in it... there it goes... speak now or... let it go. We walked down to the cafe and had a drink and talked. When we returned the sidewalk was bare. That night I went to stay with Joel and Toni. Joel is a theatre technician, designer, director, and producer. He knew Jim for over 40 years. He is the executor of Jim's artistic estate. Mark wanted the collection of decorated, carved sticks that Jim made, so we went to his storage space in Richmond to get them and look for a set of art carving knives that Jim had decided were his, but were a gift to me from my mother. The knives weren't there, but we looked through all the trunks. The trunks and bins are a mirror image of mine. We split them up when he packed up to leave Australia. We looked through all the boxes. There was the Paraclete costume... a character from the bible that Jim had fleshed out into a cross between the Grim Reaper and a Roman warrior. He had been arrested for a performance piece drawing the connection between the CIA and the Contras. He had eventually won a lawsuit against the state for violating his freedom of speech. There was The Lobster Man, the show we had produced first in Sydney, along with Dick and Eve costumes. The main piece is the mask, which is made from a material called Altraform... a plasticised fabric that becomes flexible when heated, but hard and rigid when cool. The masks were painted when formed, and the lower jaw was made separately to the rest of the face. It was put on with an elastic strap around the head so that when the performer moved their jaw, the mask's jaw moved as well. For the show, all the dialogue was recorded, and the performers mouthed along to the recording. The show was a modern remake of Sam Sheppard's "Cowboy Mouth" about a young, ambitious woman who wants to make her boyfriend into a rockstar but destroys him in the process. It was originally written in the 70's, but Jim rewrote it to refer to Kurt Cobain. Jim was always interested in the travails of artists, how their gifts are expressed, used, and abused, and how the machinery of capitalism interfaces with the artists' gifts. We produced the Lobster Man as our first show in Sydney, after Higgins' grand scheme failed. It was a cast and crew of three: Jim, me and an actor we hired to play Dick. We put it on in a nightclub in Kings Cross called the Paladium. We used it as a workshop to build the set pieces. It was only available late nights on weekdays. We would take a break at 2 or 3 a.m. and wander down the street to a landmark cafe called The Piccolo. Vitto, the gay Italian immigrant who ran the place, has covered the walls with pictures of famous people who were regulars, or just visited on occasion. It was the bohemian literary epicentre of the Cross, where people would pass joints around the tiny room. We met Glenn there, and had many animated debates about politics. When we mentioned that we were looking for an art-studio and living space, he referred us to the Lord St. warehouse. After the show closed (to empty houses and massive losses), we set up shop at Lord St., along with the Black Rose Anarchist Bookshop, Cat@lyst computer activist technology, Reclaim the Streets, Greenpeace, Friends of the Earth, and Mekanarky... the mechanical anarchy collective. I thought I'd found activist paradise. I know I've digressed here, but these are the things that come back to me when I see Jim's worldly posessions. Each piece carries an amazing story or three, and memories both sweet and sour. I could go on, but I'll leave it here for now.