Broadcaster, writer, musican, minister, magician.
My father, my father, my father.
Died of the quick decline at the Glebe, Southwick, on the Solway Coast, on 31 October 2006, as I was sitting in a cafe in the İstanbul Otogar, drinking tea before embarking on a long journey.
At night, if I can’t sleep, I sometimes go to the window and, if it is clear, look beyond the streetlights to the space beyond. It becomes more and more difficult to get there, because earth’s light pollution is blotting out the cosmos. But from the Glebe fields by the Solway one can see the fields of stars. There they are, the revolving galaxies. Inside the cottage behind me is my little family which one of these days I will have to leave. But for now they’re here to cherish. My heart beats for them, but my heart also reaches out to the family who left me, father, mother, Alan, Catherine, Etta. My heart reaches out so far it thins to invisibility. They, and my friends who have gone, have been travelling beyond death for years. They must have gone very far by now. I don’t find words, but I yearn that somewhere in the mystery of universes, wherever they are, in whatever form they are, they could be touched by the unconditional love I feel for them.
The intensity passes. Is it real? Do they exist anywhere? How at one moment can one be surrounded by faith and see everything fit together, and at another moment feel so utterly lost in aloneness and unknowingness?
The uncertainty is how it has always been, and always must be, no doubt.
I Was Invited: the autobiography of Ian Mackenzie (2003)