…no cruel joke in sight.
Alas Mark was born in the wrong century; he would have done well in the company of the bon vivants, rebel philosophers, moonshine connoisseurs, and French poets of the Baudelaire and Mallarme ilk.
And I suppose it is also true that conformists die everyday, but heretics live on forever.
Mark was too much of a deviant to dismiss, and too excited about life to forget. A non conformist by nature, a freethinker in spirit, and a lust for life so multifaceted that no grand generalization of his character can satisfactorily sum it up.
So it was Spock who introduced me to the punk anarchist, Mohawk haired (a uniform back then) phase of Mark. It was a time when Strummer sneered for us, Marley rebelled for us – but if we screamed at the inequities of society it’s because we were deluded by hope.
We thought of ourselves as subversives. But we were too distracted about this weird thing called life and didn’t have enough time to foment a rebellion. Mark had a raconteur’s zest and a French poet’s panache. He had a biting wit, sharp cynicism, and excelled at exposing the fatuous, moral shoddiness, the crass and the hypocrite. In truth, he spoke too fast but spoke for me; and lived the multihued life while I lived vicariously. He refused to live a half life while reveling in the irony of it all – He lived!
He was capable of these lucid, electric thoughts that would sideline me for weeks; but at the same time would commit these spectacular gaps of logic. Yeah that Art “liberation” thing did happen. I guess, if you’re gonna be a high wire act, you have to negotiate between a social mudslide and the etiquette of a tea party with Marie Antoinette.
Like the rest of us, he was a walking contradiction: sharp tongue but would be dictated by his private pains; His moods vacillated between a swaying bag of shrapnel and ebullient magic; tortured the ones he loved but capable of Twain like insights; would dismiss the apathetic but when the burden of his doubts became palpable – would fall for these shortsighted gains.
Did I mention humor? Our conversations would begin innocently enough like two bards exchanging clever repartees and degenerate into a one sided cap gun battle. This would morph into satirical observations: be it faux machismo, political grandstanding, social follies, the alarm of sexual gluttony, the funniest takes on self loathing this side of reality… my comebacks fell flat and monotone… I was no match for his rambling performances… besides, I’d tell him, I’ve been abused by better folks.
But this early exit is robbing me of a few more laughs that I desperately need, a few more hours to feel more alive, and a few more drinks to keep my equilibrium.
I raise my half empty glass and bid you adieu, me bredda!
And I still maintain that a walking Mark erm… Twain you’re not – but came closest than any of us.
Am thankful we crossed paths
claude
Claude
I’m Gina, one of Mark’s sisters. What a great tribute to Mark. You really captured the real Mark in your writing…and by the way, you write very well. I felt like I was watching a movie. *A swaying bag of shrapnel and ebullient magic* that’s Mark all right.
Thanks for your post which I read over and over again.
Gina
Gina, thank you for the compliment. mark and i had lost touch for a while. i wouldn’t have known had Julie not called to tell me the news. i realize that my sense of loss cannot possibly compare to yours and your family’s. In that regard i want to extend my sincerest condolences. For mark was indeed unique and a heretic (that’s a plus in my book).
claude