(no subject)
I wrote this two days after Heath died. It summed up my mood then, and it still does. I originally posted it on the Dave Cullen Forum.
TO HEATH
I wanted you to accept that you are one of the greats. I wanted you to be honoured as you deserve.
I wanted you to do a musical and a goofy comedy and a modern drama - yes, another one - and anything else that your mercurial mind lighted upon. I wanted to enjoy the fruits of your artistry, and know that many others were doing the same thing.
I wanted you to direct and write and paint and sing and produce works of art in all the fields you might have conquered.
I wanted you to play Luther Fox.
I wanted to see your body slowly mature and age, until it caught up with the ancient wisdom of your soul.
I wanted to see the battle with your hairline - not that you seemed to care about such trivialities - and the changes in that beautiful, craggy face, the creeping collection of tattoos, the ins and outs of your waistline. I wanted another million photos of you beaming that killer smile. I wanted to hear that incredible voice rumble and roll and drown me in honey and brandy, and set the cinema sound systems shaking again and again.
I wanted to laugh at your crazy stripes, the baggy hats, the mismatch of styles and colours, the boots and shoes and socks, the whole marvelous collection of eccentricities that made you stand out from the crowd even when you were losing yourself within it. I wanted to see you striding out with those impossibly long legs of yours, wearing the clothes that we all knew as well as our own.
I wanted to see you carrying your little girl until she was too big for "that sort of thing", if she ever would be. I wanted to watch you watch her change into her own little person, not just mini-Heath for our enjoyment. I wanted to see you grow old and mellow, surrounded by your progeny, the kids, the grandkids, the flesh-and-blood legacy of your loving heart.
I wanted to believe I might meet you some day, some place, and that if I did you might even recall that odd woman from Australia who talked to trees. And if you didn't, it wouldn't matter because you would still be as gracious and concerned as everyone says you are.
I wanted your future as well as your past. I wanted your present, vibrant and alive, brimming over with your extraordinary gifts.
I wanted you to be happy.
I wanted so much for you, and for me too, and for all the people whose lives you touched and changed. You weren't just a movie star; you were a wise old sage in a beautiful young body, an old soul who looked out at the world through compassionate, warm, all-seeing eyes.
But in the end, in those last few hours, all you wanted was a good sleep.
Sweet dreams, Heath.
TO HEATH
I wanted you to accept that you are one of the greats. I wanted you to be honoured as you deserve.
I wanted you to do a musical and a goofy comedy and a modern drama - yes, another one - and anything else that your mercurial mind lighted upon. I wanted to enjoy the fruits of your artistry, and know that many others were doing the same thing.
I wanted you to direct and write and paint and sing and produce works of art in all the fields you might have conquered.
I wanted you to play Luther Fox.
I wanted to see your body slowly mature and age, until it caught up with the ancient wisdom of your soul.
I wanted to see the battle with your hairline - not that you seemed to care about such trivialities - and the changes in that beautiful, craggy face, the creeping collection of tattoos, the ins and outs of your waistline. I wanted another million photos of you beaming that killer smile. I wanted to hear that incredible voice rumble and roll and drown me in honey and brandy, and set the cinema sound systems shaking again and again.
I wanted to laugh at your crazy stripes, the baggy hats, the mismatch of styles and colours, the boots and shoes and socks, the whole marvelous collection of eccentricities that made you stand out from the crowd even when you were losing yourself within it. I wanted to see you striding out with those impossibly long legs of yours, wearing the clothes that we all knew as well as our own.
I wanted to see you carrying your little girl until she was too big for "that sort of thing", if she ever would be. I wanted to watch you watch her change into her own little person, not just mini-Heath for our enjoyment. I wanted to see you grow old and mellow, surrounded by your progeny, the kids, the grandkids, the flesh-and-blood legacy of your loving heart.
I wanted to believe I might meet you some day, some place, and that if I did you might even recall that odd woman from Australia who talked to trees. And if you didn't, it wouldn't matter because you would still be as gracious and concerned as everyone says you are.
I wanted your future as well as your past. I wanted your present, vibrant and alive, brimming over with your extraordinary gifts.
I wanted you to be happy.
I wanted so much for you, and for me too, and for all the people whose lives you touched and changed. You weren't just a movie star; you were a wise old sage in a beautiful young body, an old soul who looked out at the world through compassionate, warm, all-seeing eyes.
But in the end, in those last few hours, all you wanted was a good sleep.
Sweet dreams, Heath.