I am heartbroken to share the news that our dear friend Sean Dolan passed away this week. He died peacefully in his sleep at home.
Sean and I met as work colleagues and became friends. Not long after Sean moved into his office it became clear that his retiring persona belied a depth of intellect and feeling. His bulletin boards were plastered with colorful postcards, drawings, and photos that slowly spilled over onto the surrounding walls. As they say, bulletin boards are the windows to the soul: in this case, a startling bounty of tones, images, and ideas.
About a dozen years ago, Sean shared his writing with me. Epic doesn't begin to describe it: in the pages and pages of writings and drawings he made, Sean ruminated on Crazy Horse, imaginary pirates, haunted trains, winter roses, Sonny Liston, the Apocalypse, Easter Sunday, Henry Kissinger, Patti Smith, sainthood, and silence. He was obsessed with Scripture and Bob Dylan. The coyote was his spirit animal.
When we met I was just getting started writing songs and playing guitar in public, struggling for confidence and for words. He was so encouraging. When I asked Sean if I could adapt some of his beautiful words to music, he agreed -- and never gave me any shit when I needed to edit something to make a line scan or fit onto a commercial CD. (I'm not talking marketing here, I'm talking *fit.* Unedited, one song could easily eat up practically all the audio a CD can hold.)
I remember ruminating with him over a picture of Nina Simone. He leaned back in his office chair, tugged at the leather cords and pendants around his neck, and said, "just look at her. Just look at her face."
We went to see Emmylou Harris together, and cried. He saw an after-hours Bob Dylan show at Tramps, and gloated.
When Sean started playing guitar and singing his own songs, that was huge. He sent me recordings of what he had done. He had a beautiful singing voice, very warm. Unlike me, he didn't edit the songs down. It was like four cassette tapes and he was just getting going.
Sean loathed buffoonery. He was fascinated by his son Brian. Above his desk, he had an enormous color picture of Brian's face: a windswept little blonde boy staring straight at you. If that face didn't drive out buffoonery, I don't know what would.
Like the coyote, Sean was a trickster, showing up when you least expect and always slipping away too soon. He came to so many of our band shows but we never seemed to get enough time to talk as much as we wanted to afterward. I sense he really enjoyed hearing us play, though -- and when we played one of his songs, the guys in the band really made it sound like rolling thunder. I always felt so comforted feeling Sean's presence in the back of the room when I was singing.
Often when I asked Sean how he was doing, he would say, "forget it. I’m through. I'm going to go ride the rails."
The moment I learned of his death, a train whistle blew in the distance. Now he is riding. I'm broken but hopeful. The afterlife may be the only place that can fully realize his ecstatic, tangled visions. Travel safe.
Sean Dolan's writings live here:
http://lonesomecoyote.blogspot.com/
Showing posts with label Beyond category. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Beyond category. Show all posts
2.03.2012
1.25.2005
Eulogy
THREE SCENES WITH BEN STERN
By Erica Smith
One
On our third date Ben Stern took me out on the pier. It was a hot night but clear. The George Washington Bridge was sparkling to the north. Jersey was dark in places, lit up in others. The cliffs across the river looked very dark and very tall.
He pointed to different places across the river. That spot had been utterly contaminated, bought for a song, and redeveloped, and is now worth millions. Up there is where the Ramapo Mountain People live. Had I heard of them? I hadn’t, but now I understand: you don’t necessarily notice them, but once you recognize them, they’re everywhere.
He told me his office friends were intrigued by our romance. But they teased him, “yes, but does she know what’s wrong with you?” My eyebrows went up.
Quickly making a guess in my own head, I ventured that maybe Ben knew too much. Every building façade, cobblestone path, and traffic circle has a story, and he seemed to know them all. How could I possibly keep up?
I decided I liked how he could see things come alive that I took for granted: a piece of skyline, a car engine, a railroad tie.
Well, I thought. I could use a good challenge.
Two
When Ben Stern started coming over to my apartment, he would inevitably gravitate toward the television and start tinkering. It was a small TV and I didn’t have cable, just bunny ears. I never turned the thing on anyway.
One evening Ben showed up at my door with a large loop of cable under his arm.
He took the cable and crawled under my desk. He screwed the cable into the box for my cable modem. Then he unraveled the thing across my living room and screwed it into the television. Presto: we got basic channels. We watched Saturday Night Live, giggled, and had snacks.
This process was intriguing to me, but very messy, with a thick wire snaking across my living room floor, and nests of cable here and there. It settled into a pattern: As soon as Ben would go home I would unscrew everything and scoot the wire under my TV stand. And when he would return, we’d plug everything back in again, and we would both solemnly vow to drill holes in the wall and run that cable properly.
Friday night he must have had enough of this process, for he showed up with a deck of cards.
“Do you know Rummy 500?”
“I’ve forgotten it.”
“It’s fun.” He cut the cards, shuffled, and cut again. He had already printed out instructions and read them to me.
As we played, he told me how his grandparents had been crazy for canasta.
“Are you sure you want to lay that card down?” he said after I laid a card down. He pointed to his cards. I saw a strategy I had missed.
“Uh-oh,” I said.
“You can take it back.”
“No.”
“It’s not too late.”
“Look, I blew it, let me blow it.”
“It’s really not too late.”
“Fine.” I took the card back.
It happened again 20 minutes later.
“You sure you want to do that?”
“WHAT NOW?”
He nodded toward a card.
“I made the bad move, let me make it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Let me blow it.”
“Come on.”
Finally, he let me make the bad move. Then he showed me what to do so it wouldn’t ever have to happen again.
Three
We were both so excited that the blizzard was coming. As people who were not especially religious, we had found our mutual day of celebration.
It was past midnight. We had watched “Sex and the City” (my choice) and “Victory By Design,” tonight on the subject of Porsche. ( . . . His choice.)
Saturday Night Live was winding down. I was getting ready to cozy up with a blanky.
Ben turned to me, smiling. “So? You ready to go out?”
“Um . . .”
“Come on!”
We bundled up with sweaters and hats and coats and hoods and socks and boots and gloves and made our way downstairs into the snowy cold street.
It was cold but the wind was not so bad. It was snowing, but not hard, not stinging. We crossed the street toward the river. The snow was well traveled but I liked stepping in the big footprints he made.
When we started going down the ramp to the pier, he would turn around every few paces and check on me or take my hand. If we had to go down a step, he would go first and then extend his hand back to me.
When we got down to the pier, the wind was blowing over the snow so it looked untouched. Chunks of ice floated in the Hudson. The sky looked dark pink and reflected dark pink in the water. I saw what looked like a group of supports in the water. Remnants of a pier? They were markers for the shallow water, he said.
I looked across to Jersey, where it was dark with an occasional sparkle. The bridge was lit. It was completely quiet except for the wind.
It occurred to me that this might be one of the most beautiful moments of my life.
By Erica Smith
One
On our third date Ben Stern took me out on the pier. It was a hot night but clear. The George Washington Bridge was sparkling to the north. Jersey was dark in places, lit up in others. The cliffs across the river looked very dark and very tall.
He pointed to different places across the river. That spot had been utterly contaminated, bought for a song, and redeveloped, and is now worth millions. Up there is where the Ramapo Mountain People live. Had I heard of them? I hadn’t, but now I understand: you don’t necessarily notice them, but once you recognize them, they’re everywhere.
He told me his office friends were intrigued by our romance. But they teased him, “yes, but does she know what’s wrong with you?” My eyebrows went up.
Quickly making a guess in my own head, I ventured that maybe Ben knew too much. Every building façade, cobblestone path, and traffic circle has a story, and he seemed to know them all. How could I possibly keep up?
I decided I liked how he could see things come alive that I took for granted: a piece of skyline, a car engine, a railroad tie.
Well, I thought. I could use a good challenge.
Two
When Ben Stern started coming over to my apartment, he would inevitably gravitate toward the television and start tinkering. It was a small TV and I didn’t have cable, just bunny ears. I never turned the thing on anyway.
One evening Ben showed up at my door with a large loop of cable under his arm.
He took the cable and crawled under my desk. He screwed the cable into the box for my cable modem. Then he unraveled the thing across my living room and screwed it into the television. Presto: we got basic channels. We watched Saturday Night Live, giggled, and had snacks.
This process was intriguing to me, but very messy, with a thick wire snaking across my living room floor, and nests of cable here and there. It settled into a pattern: As soon as Ben would go home I would unscrew everything and scoot the wire under my TV stand. And when he would return, we’d plug everything back in again, and we would both solemnly vow to drill holes in the wall and run that cable properly.
Friday night he must have had enough of this process, for he showed up with a deck of cards.
“Do you know Rummy 500?”
“I’ve forgotten it.”
“It’s fun.” He cut the cards, shuffled, and cut again. He had already printed out instructions and read them to me.
As we played, he told me how his grandparents had been crazy for canasta.
“Are you sure you want to lay that card down?” he said after I laid a card down. He pointed to his cards. I saw a strategy I had missed.
“Uh-oh,” I said.
“You can take it back.”
“No.”
“It’s not too late.”
“Look, I blew it, let me blow it.”
“It’s really not too late.”
“Fine.” I took the card back.
It happened again 20 minutes later.
“You sure you want to do that?”
“WHAT NOW?”
He nodded toward a card.
“I made the bad move, let me make it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Let me blow it.”
“Come on.”
Finally, he let me make the bad move. Then he showed me what to do so it wouldn’t ever have to happen again.
Three
We were both so excited that the blizzard was coming. As people who were not especially religious, we had found our mutual day of celebration.
It was past midnight. We had watched “Sex and the City” (my choice) and “Victory By Design,” tonight on the subject of Porsche. ( . . . His choice.)
Saturday Night Live was winding down. I was getting ready to cozy up with a blanky.
Ben turned to me, smiling. “So? You ready to go out?”
“Um . . .”
“Come on!”
We bundled up with sweaters and hats and coats and hoods and socks and boots and gloves and made our way downstairs into the snowy cold street.
It was cold but the wind was not so bad. It was snowing, but not hard, not stinging. We crossed the street toward the river. The snow was well traveled but I liked stepping in the big footprints he made.
When we started going down the ramp to the pier, he would turn around every few paces and check on me or take my hand. If we had to go down a step, he would go first and then extend his hand back to me.
When we got down to the pier, the wind was blowing over the snow so it looked untouched. Chunks of ice floated in the Hudson. The sky looked dark pink and reflected dark pink in the water. I saw what looked like a group of supports in the water. Remnants of a pier? They were markers for the shallow water, he said.
I looked across to Jersey, where it was dark with an occasional sparkle. The bridge was lit. It was completely quiet except for the wind.
It occurred to me that this might be one of the most beautiful moments of my life.
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