yesterday was a strange day in some ways, i had my garden cleaned up which in itself was a huge task as the debris filled a huge trailer that was capped with a tarpaulin that was about 7ft high. just in time before the huge rainstorm that hit, i watched the clouds roll in and heard the thunder in full knowledge it was upon us.

the thunder was so loud i had to lock the doors but the lightening freaked me out to the point i switched everything off and stayed in my bedroom. which i deemed the safest place to be. i was struck by lightening once and since then lightening freaks me out. in the same way fire engines freak me when i hear their sirens as i was once involved in a terrible accident with one which wrote of the car i was driving. when either of these two happen i just freeze up in fear.

around this time my dad died. i got the call as i was cleaning up the new converted garage, the storm had subdued, so i went to check the room and discovered a pool of water. i was mopping and scrubbing up, attempting to rescue my rug. i had just called back the afghans, part of me was furious as these guys were warned the room has to be waterproof. the skirting boards were ruined. i was lucky the books remained dry and carried my dehumidifier down. 

then i got the call from jake, he was on his way over and had left work heading to my parents on the train, he said he had no details only my father's heart had stopped beating and he thinks he may have left us. 

then my brother rang, he was driving over and said he felt this could be it.

a stream of incoming calls confirmed this and although i felt a sad tear or two i understood this was just part of a process and my dad was in a better place, at peace and not in pain or frustration at his failing body, he had regained his dignity and was home. my experiences with ayahuscia and my own journey had given me a kind of positive attitude so although i was sad i was also joyous that he had lived a long life, 94 years old is pretty good innings. his hero clint eastwood was the same age, and my last conversation with dad i described watching clints last film, 'the mule' where he looked identical to my dad. it was really uncanny.

i think he loved clint's characters, and identified with them as a righteous man.  my dad was indeed a righteous man, he was also very kind and gentle underneath his boxer physique, he  was loved by everyone. 

when i was a kid dad would teach me all sorts of skills, engineering, building and construction, car mechanics, decorating and fixing shelves, watches, circuits and gardening. everything he showed me went in one ear and out the other, he was talking to an idiot child. i recall when i was about four he was showing me how to put up a shelf and as he was tightening the screws i picked up the electric drill, put the drill in the electric socket and turned it on. 

once he was teaching me to swim in a pool in spain, he turned his back on me and in i went pulled down by my inability to understand the mechanics of swimming and what he had showed me. under the water i watched peoples limbs glide past me, through the deep blue i had no idea i was even drowning until he dived in and pulled me out. everything he attempted to teach me, maths and money just disappeared into a black hole inside my brain.

however, dad was a great story teller and as a boy had lived in bombed out rubble in east london, with his pet rat. he had no family here but somehow survived, he had left home (india) as a teenager and managed to live by his wits until he found a job. every night he would tell me a story, often about his days in london, sometimes about the exotic life in india, and sometimes about the mysteries of kabbalah, however all his stories had this weird style, mysterious, occult, last temples, ancient jungle civilisations, alien encounters, ghosts and god. these stories stayed well within my mind, i was enraptured. spent my days daydreaming and lost in my own forming imagination. i think that's when my desire to be a writer formed. i guess it did even though i could never articulate it at such a young age.

dad was a mystery to me, he stopped talking about his amazing family, his life back in india, his own father was the owner of a circus. very wealthy until he gave it all away. i once saw some photographs of the performers, it was a classic circus with animals and weird bearded ladies, freaks and outsiders. a strong man, a guy who dived into water, a man who was shot from a cannon. they even had a huge big bear that escaped and terrorised a small town, his own parents lived in a haunted house, they had servants and a cook, and often they would leave as they could not deal with all the poltergeist activities. his mother was a psychic who had dreams that would come true, she was beautiful but as soon as she lost her youngest son she did of grief. his dad was a strange man i met only twice, he was gandalf. i met him when he was old and poor. he had a huge long white beard and a big staff. he blessed me and mumbled some words, he had deep rich eyes and after he died i used to dream of him often, in fact i had very vivid 'messages' in dreams where he was present, often with his staff. he is a big influence upon me in some ways.

dads stories got me through life, i hated skool, all i ever did when i was young was stare out into the grey landscape and skies, the endless drizzle and drab mass of faceless zombies dreaming of a life under blue skies, strange exotic landscapes and beaches, sunshine. meanwhile the teachers voice droned on endlessly.

i hated england but i had my imagination filled with exotic adventures, dreams and alternatives. i knew there was more to life. i searched for it, travelling and being open to adventure and explorations.  as dad aged he began to withdraw, silent and strong, over skype, it was my time to tell him stories and we had some great conversations. my visits to london i would always borrow his jacket which he eventually gave me, he loved his suits and to dress sharp but he was from a generation where it was all very 1940's. often he would bemoan my hair, it's to long he would say, it's to short. shaving everyday was an important part of his routine, even until death he shaved each morning, with a razor. 

dad was a happy guy, but as we spoke later in life, as we both got older we saw the wicked in the world and our conversations became darker. it was hard for him as he was still holding onto the faith he had in institutions, he was more english than most english people i knew. whereas my mother was a cynic and she hated the institutions along with me. dad held a respect for anyone in uniform or a position of authority but as we spoke in later years he begun to see through the empire of dust, the corruption and betrayal. we both knew whatever apocalypse you choose we were living in its onslaught. i always said when we spoke about death, it's just letting go. he was scared, and i would reassure him of his faith.

last time i was in london he was in a decrepit hospital for most of my stay, he thought it was the worst hotel he had ever been in. one visit he called me over and said, 'do me a favour son, lend me a couple of pounds to get a taxi. i have to get out of this bloody hotel, it's terrible.'

i laughed and explained the situation to him, but inside all i wanted to do was take him home. the national health hospital contrary to popular belief was appalling, staffed by non english speaking people who wandered around like zombies, overworked and underpaid, ravaged by staff shortages and cutbacks, mostly africans or indians and a bunch of colonies come back to eat the remains of the empire. 

he was so happy to return home, the day i had to catch a return flight to australia. my biggest regret that trip is i was unable to cook him his fave dinner, a greek lamb dish he always spoke about. i tried to get a take away from a greek restaurant but there were only indian and arabic restaurants anywhere nearby.

anyways, my father is at peace, we remain, a fractured family who come together in grief and i have to do my duty as the oldest son. i will miss the funeral on sunday, i'm not disappointed as i never attend funerals and will probably miss my own. my grief is minimal but the loss is huge, my father was a big influence upon me, a man who gave me my own sense of righteousness and moral framework, a man who showed love to all creatures god had created even the pigeons that my mum hated nesting on their balcony, my father felt a deep compassion for them. 

and that is who he is. who he always will be. i see him in my own son who shares his greatest qualities, and i am grateful my son got to experience his grandfather when he moved to london about 20 years ago from sydney. he embraced a family he had never really known and loved them in my absence, he really became me in a strange way, while i lived the live i had always wanted, in the sun, blue skies and the beach at my door.

my father loved a drop of scotch and when my friends sue and simon left they gave me a bottle of new zealand whisky, so late last night i poured myself a small glass and thought about how when he would come home from work he would say, 'son, pour me out two fingers.'

two fingers of scotch dad. 

possibly the most baffling thing about my father was how much he loved my mother, who is not an easy woman to love. i was always somewhat baffled as how he had stuck by her for so long, putting up with the kind of behavior that would drive anyone away. it actually angered me, i saw it as some kind of weakness and betrayal of me, whom clashed furiously with her. he would always rush to her defense, even if she was wrong he would defend her from everything. like a shield of light he loved her and would protect her, even when her anger and awful irrational 'hatred' was on display he would stand by her side and make sure she was okay. once i recall he was thrown out by her temper tantrum and i must have been 5 years old, i grabbed his leg and begged him not to leave me with her, i literally held on down the driveway until he drove off in a car. i'll never forget the feeling off abandonment i felt, how could he leave me with her? but they were back the next day and he was dad again.

later as i grew older i understood you can never question a mans loyalty or devotion to his woman, it's a private intention and from the outside it has no rational or reason, logic or understanding. i began to admire his devotion and somewhat respected it. ironically he was in love with another woman before he married my mum, a lady called helen who ended up in new zealand. i think she was his true love but she chose another man. they reconnected a few years ago but i don't think they ever saw one another. 

when dad retired during his lunch times he would drive down for lunch at my mums work so they could eat together, i'd always say things like, 'jesus why not just enjoy the peace and quiet and have lunch here at home,' but he would enthusiastically drive down to meet her for a big baked potato. towards the end he stopped eating save for a tiny bowl of porridge, half a cup of english breakfast tea and half a banana. he would gobble down pharmaceutical pills randomly, from a huge big wooden box where he kept a lifetimes supply of scripted medication. i'd bring him natural supplements and vitamins but he only had misplaced faith in the doctor drug dealers. towards his final years they discovered his delusions and delirium was caused by the cocktail of pills he scoffed whenever he wanted. 

far away in australia i would honour my dad every time i had an ice cream. my father was a great ice cream maker, and made and used natural ingredients. our fave was rum and raison as he always poured in a bottle of rum, and we would all get drunk on the results. so whenever i had an ice cream in australia i'd be reminded of dad, the best ice cream maker ever.

when he was a young man i remember he started to smoke cigars and one xmas he sat at the head of a big family table, when my mums parents were alive and uncles aunts and cousins were young. he held everyone's attention as he explained the art of cigar smoking, suggesting and demonstrating the best way to prepare a big fat cuban cigar was to dunk it in whiskey. we all watched, wondering about my fathers new found passion for these fat cylinders you set fire to like cigarettes but a horrid dirty colour. with a huge proud grin he dunked the cigar into his single malt and rolled it around, giving it a thorough soak. then imitating clint he slowly brought it to his mouth and lit it. the only thing was it was wet and wouldn't light. we all laughed and he must have felt slightly embarrassed putting it aside. much later when i was alone with him and we had eaten a big xmas feast he looked at me contented and picked up the now dry cigar, he put it in his mouth and smiled at me, lighting it. the whole thing just exploded in flame. and he dunked it out with a look of shock.

the cigar smoking phase did not last long. but he always had the good nature to laugh about it with me.

yeah dad was quite old fashioned, an anglo portuguese indian jewish druid who loved clint. it's weird, he, me and my son all left our countries of birth and hot tailed it to the other ends of the planet at the same age. yet we were more than close, always will be.

as usual i don't have much time for me to do much, gotta get my home in order, do a couple of shifts and then work out a flight. it's going to be somewhat nuts and that flight is spirit crushing, i always feel like a deflated balloon at the end but i know what i have to do. lets just hope mercury in neptune don't get even more complex. so far it's been a roller coaster and not without it's drama. and so far i seem to manage each challenge, somehow.