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Post Script The Death of Philomene Long Two people have told me the same story about Philomene’s sad last days. She complained to both Marsha Getzler and Mary Kerr of a terrible “cold” which made her cough and sent her to the bathroom all the time. Marsha was puzzled—“sounds more like a flu”—and Mary actually raised the possibility of pneumonia. I doubt that Philomene was the sort of person who easily went to her doctor because of a “cold.” Mary had asked her for a donation for a fund-raising auction but Philomene told her she was too weak to get to the post office. Philomene was supposed to come up here and was planning to stay with us some months ago, but she ended up canceling the trip. Her death is a real blow to the Venice scene. “None so keen as Philomene.” All those old “Venice Beachniks” are dying off. Black Ace recently did a tribute issue to Tony Scibella. This is Philomene’s “Eulogy for Tony Scibella” from that issue: Last year when my husband poet JohnThomas died,Tony wrote to me—”Philomene: aye, lass & what can i say? I’ll see u in September & maybe we can say ‘JOHN’ w/o crumbling.” These last days I have tried, unsuccessfully, to say “TONY” without crumbling. There is a saying in Zen: “All know the Way. Few actually walk it.” Tony knew—that enlightenment does not care how you get there. The Great Path has no gates. Thousands of roads enter it. Reach for it and you will miss. Let it loose and it will follow you. Tony understood—that those who speak do not know. The quieter you become the more you will hear. The highest purpose is to have no purpose at all. And then nothing is left but to have a good laugh. On October 28th and 29th, 2003, as much of Southern California was burning and the sun hurled solar storms at earth,Tony received his death as he, in life, received his Muse—Her fiery winds of silence descending like a gull into his open palms. 249 250 The Dancer and the Dance Frankie once had a vision of Stuart “waiting at the gate.” That gate has been swinging so much lately that it is just about jammed open. Perhaps because of their great reach into silence for the word—poets seem to speak louder after death. They are here. Philomene Long, d. August 2007 Is it possible to imagine a smiling tidal wave bearing flowers and a guitar? And rushing into a room to give them to you? Is it possible to imagine Philomene Who imagined herself so beautifully? Is it possible to imagine The love she bore to her husband John So that his death was only the slightest interruption of their conversations? Death, pooh! “I do tend to fill up a room,” she said. What happens really is that the room suddenly feels cold. Whatever happened to the sun? it asks. Will it ever return? it asks. And then it sees Philomene So it wraps itself around her, curls up at her feet like a kitten, covers her like a cloak It becomes a MUCH livelier room, Offers witticisms, flirts with everyone, quotes Rumi (its favorite poet). Philomene could make a room talk But she also listened Is this not the first lesson in compassion? What waves of intellect come from Philomene when she speaks What flowers of poetry What echoes of music as from instruments. There are no smiling tidal waves bearing flowers and guitars. Everyone knows that. But there was Philomene There was Philomene ...

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