What follows is part of a eulogy written by me, Lee Kear, for my wife Catherine. It's around 2500 words, but is worth reading by anyone who wants to know what the love of two soulmates is like.

Catherine Perry
Died 9.36am Tuesday 7 November 2006

When I was looking through Cath’s journals to write these words I fund a poem she liked enough to write down twice. It’s called Praematuri

When men are old and their friends die,
They are not so sad,
Because their love is running slow,
And cannot spring from the wound with so sharp a pain;
And they are happy with many memories,
And only a little while to be alone.

But we are young, and our friends are dead
Suddenly, and our quick love is torn in two;
So our memories are only hopes that came to nothing.
We are left alone like old men; we should be dead –
But there are years and years in which we shall still be young.

Margaret Postgate Cole


Catherine Perry was born on the 11th of April 1960 in Royal Brisbane Hospital to Harry and Kate Perry, who had emigrated from a bleak post-war Britain in 1951, bringing the family to Willandra St, Alderley, an area of Brisbane, which was still then a rural area. She had two elder brothers Peter and John, and older sisters in Judith, Nola and Susan. The family was complete when younger sister Rachel was born a little over two years later.

Catherine was a very bright child, and her sister Judith told me this week she remembers making up alphabet and number charts to hang next to the nappy changing table for her and teaching her the alphabet, and that Cath learned to talk and read at a very early age. Jude told me of a time when she was out walking Cath in her pram when a very matronly lady stopped and was ooh-ing and aah-ing, and goo-goo-gooing at the pretty little baby, who promptly told her “Don’t be so stupid.”

At school Cath was noted for her exceptional intellect, independent spirit, wit and rhetorical skills. Many of her teachers were confronted and challenged by the precocious ability of this young girl to bring political critique and unnervingly adult logic to bear on cant and catechism. Her lifelong friends from the Newmarket High Debating Team, Jane Barry and Elizabeth Mawson are here with us today.

Words were her allies, sentences her soldiers, paragraphs her politicians, all marshalled in support of causes she believed in - causes that sprang from love for others, her love of truth, her belief in justice tempered by mercy and human compassion. Words were her first love, and Cath decided very early in life that she would make her living by the pen.

Catherine was a bright and magical child and in many ways her father’s favourite, although they often clashed as she grew into her teens. When Harry became President of the Miscellaneous Workers Union she occasionally accompanied him on union business, learning about people, and the rough and tumble of practical politics in Queensland. Her own strong political convictions were formed then, as were many of the themes that ran through her life.

After High School Catherine entered the Arts degree program at the University of Queensland, majoring in Journalism, while working part-time at a Brisbane advertising agency. She was what’s known in the industry as a ‘creative’ – someone whose job it is to come up with the inspired ideas that will make or break an advertising campaign. With her gift for language and ready sense of humour it was a role that suited her well. Her work on major campaigns paid for her education and left us with such characters as Eddie the Expert and Cyclone the wonder dog, and slogans that those who remember the 70’s may still recall – “Hey, Charger” - “GotchaGetchaJeansOn”. That such ephemera could still be remembered would have amused her enormously.

She earned the money to make her way in the world, and the respect of industry professionals while still in her teens. Full of energy and enthusiasm and life she found time to take a vigorous role in student politics and edit the University’s student newspaper “Semper”. Under her management Semper flourished, full of intelligent, articulate, passionate young voices, and the bizarre cartoons of her close friend Matthew Mawson. She made friends there that she would keep for life. At night she worked the graveyard shift for Radio 4ZZZ – the student radio station, acquiring a devoted, if slightly strange fan base with her smoky and alluring voice and a seductive, impish on-air persona.

Post Uni career

There were no newspaper jobs in Brisbane when Cath graduated and so she joined the federal public service. She was proud to be a public servant, working for the greater good rather than personal profit. It was something we had in common. She worked for the Health department and then Social Security, in Brisbane and Canberra. She was also a proud unionist, carrying on a family tradition.

Her close friend Michael Morgan met her in 1985 at a union delegates meeting and the two soon became ‘partners in crime’ working together to advance a reforming agenda, recruit allies, and open eyes and minds, while also taking the time to engage in enough mischief to keep them both laughing. She stood up for the underdog against blind bureaucracy, prepared to take on any challenge. He told me this week that when he remembers those days he thinks of the words of Blake’s Jerusalem:

“I shall not cease from mental fight,
nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
‘til we have built Jerusalem,
in England’s green and pleasant land”

For him that was what Cath was doing – building a better world one person at a time, person by person, soul by soul.

Among her career achievements from that there were two that she was particularly proud of. The first was introducing Plain English to the Social Security. For many years every pamphlet available from the Department of Social Security in Queensland bore her words, words that simplified and explained, making clear the benefits available to the Department’s clients.

She was also instrumental in establishing an entirely new benefit for teenagers in violent and abusive families, enabling them to receive an independent living allowance that helped them to escape the cycle of abuse and neglect by leaving home before the age of 18. She was immensely proud of this and the practical help it gave to many unhappy children. This was the kind of pragmatic social reform that she loved – finding and helping the people who fall between society’s cracks – pushing an often unpopular line with passion and finding real answers - Idealism with results.

Among the good friends she made during those years are Senator Claire Moore, Ian Barry, Jane-Frances O’Regan, Robyn Olander and her sister Valerie. I know she would be very pleased that you are here with us today.

Catherine and I.

Catherine and I met on the 8th of April 1991. I was 33 and she was about to turn 31. I had come in to meet the Social security Public Relations team of which Catherine was the linchpin. Her father’s family, she said, was from Pontypridd in Wales, and she was writing a story about the Forest of Dean, which was an old and magical place about 12 miles away from there. "My family is from the Forest of Dean.", I told her. “Those are the trees my ancestors came down from, some of them fairly recently..”

Within days we were firm friends, within weeks we were talking to each other three or four times a day, often for hours, in a conversation that continued for fifteen years.

For five years we were friends and business partners, spiritual seekers together, someone to lean on in tough times, someone to celebrate with in good times. We founded and published magazines and her writing won awards, we interviewed Prime Ministers and Bishops, ran Management Programs on tall ships, taught Strategic Planning to Buddhist monks, and wrote and thought about everything and anything. I taught her all I knew about being a consultant, and she became a better consultant than I was. She taught me how to write, and I hope that this will in part repay that gift.

In those years we grew closer and our friendship weathered all manner of storms. She liked to say that we had ‘destruct-tested’ our relationship. In the end it became clear that we were never going to be really happy living apart and Catherine and I began living together ten years ago.

Catherine my wife.

I have been loved passionately, unstintingly, deeply, devotedly, endlessly, magically, magnificently. And the one thing that I am most proud of is that I made her happy.

Her friend Juliana Jarvis told me many people would listen to Cath on the phone during the four or five times a day we spoke to each other and ask her how it was that we could talk with such obvious and outspoken love for each other. Always with tenderness and warmth, never critical or carrying on that subtle struggle for power that characterises so many relationships; always with genuine affection and delight in each others company and conversation. How it was that we never tired of saying “I love you”.

She would try to explain that we had fought our battles and grown closer for them; that we had found each other’s faults and cherished them; that we had finally found in each other someone worth all our love, surrendering to that bliss that never becomes tired or stale. In the fifteen years we knew each other we never once ran out of things to say, to share, to bring us joy in each other’s company.

Many years ago my mother asked me what it was that I saw in Cath that so captured me. I told her that she was the first person I had ever known who was worth everything I had to give. I was doubly lucky in that she gave to me everything she was.

Many people go through life looking for the ‘One’, that one special person they think they’re meant to be with. They worry that in so large a world they might turn the wrong corner, miss-step their destiny and lose their one chance at happiness. They fear that their whole life will be ruined if they never meet that one true love.

The truth is that for most people there are hundreds of ‘the ones’, hundreds of people with the right personality, the right fit, the right needs, beliefs, hopes and desires; hundreds of people with whom they could be happy, and make a happy life together. We are more alike than we are different. For a lucky few however, there is a unique and singular One – One person in all the world’s history and geography for whom they are meant. Rarer still are those of that few who ever meet. But sometimes two people do meet whose souls are two sides of the same shining coin. We were that lucky.

In her purse this week I found a letter I wrote to her in June of this year. It reads:

To my darling wife,

I’m writing this so that there’ll be something other than bills and junk mail in the mailbox when you get home, and to remind you how much I love you.

If my memory was better I’d know exactly how long we’ve known each other and how long I’ve been in love with you. But time only measures constancy and makes no calculation of how vast and all encompassing our love has become.

When we met it was clear that we would know each other for the rest of our lives, but it took a while to see just how miraculous, how important, how perfect a fit, how deep the bond between us would become. When we met I was at the peak (or near!) of my young man’s powers. From that time on it was only really important how much we could be together, how much we could be, in fact: “Like two sides of the same coin” was how I explained it to people.

The only thing that mattered then was how much we could discover in each other, and how much we could become as a pair. The adventures we had, the battles we fought, the magic we did, the love we made, all give me a warm glow in my memory.

The only thing I miss from those times are the three-hour phone calls at any and all hours. Winding our words together, knowing each others thoughts, making such perfect harmony with our voices.

I guess I’ll have to make do with being with you always, with our souls growing together, and with lying in bed talking until the small hours pass. Growing old together is the reward of all our past struggles, and I know I’m truly blessed to know, love and have you, for ever – XXX Lee XXX

Catherine and Children

Cath and I never had children of our own together. A daughter, whom we called Rose, miscarried. Still, Cath was a second mother to my two daughters, Suzie and Ellen, whom she loved, taught, grew up and, when needed, swept up into her arms. Their own mother acknowledges the wonderful job she did raising them, and was shocked and saddened by the news of Cath’s death.

From Suzie:

Although I am unable to be here today to say goodbye to Cath physically, right now I'm on the other side of the world, it's currently 5am in Prague and I'm here with you all today in spirit. I'm thinking of you all, especially my Dad, my Sister and of course Cath. Cath was just so special. So loving, so generous, so wise. There were times over the years when I stumbled in the darkness; Cath was there to show me the light.

She was always there when I needed her the most, always there to love and support me no matter what. She loved unconditionally and that's the best kind of love anyone can ever have. It makes miracles happen. It was an absolute pleasure to have known Cath and to have her as part of our family. She was my mother, my friend, my saviour. I loved her very much and I'll miss her always. I love you Cath ... xxx Suzie.

Finis:

It’s impossible to sum up a life in a few short paragraphs. Catherine was no plaster saint, but it’s her virtues that most people will remember. All the cards and notes we have received this last week have had one theme in common, and that is that Catherine gave. She gave of herself to others in a personal and profound way.

She made Christmas a joyful and satisfying time, loving everything from cab-rides home with a mountain of gifts after a ‘search-and-possess’ missions with our daughter Ellen, to sitting bleary-eyed while children tore apart the wrapping paper early on Christmas morn.

As our good friend Ellen Shipley would say “She gave good Birthday”. It was the one thing she was competitive about. She could find out what it was you wanted or what would delight you, or even invent something and surprise you with it. It became almost impossible to give her anything that showed the same amount of care and style and joy.

She was an intensely spiritual woman. Together we explored every path, from the Magic she was taught by her father, through the Buddhism I learnt from mine, to Judaism, the mysticism of the Catholic Saints and more. Armed with a healthy scepticism, we would listen to shamans and sham gurus, read and dispel New Age nonsense, and meet with nuns and healers. Eventually, taking the long way home, we returned to the Anglican High Church and in particular to this church.

She tutored dozens of people through University degrees, and introduced many couples who went on to marry, just for the pleasure of seeing them made happy.

We lived with the door open. Magpies wander into the kitchen knowing that it’s safe to do. She bought new books every week, following Voltaire’s maxim: “Wear the old coat, buy the new book.” She believed that Love + Peace = Happiness

She could talk to anyone. Rock stars, the White House, Papal Nuncio, Senators, Ministers, Prime Ministers serving and retired, and the man who sold the Big Issue on George Street. She knew him by name, not because it was virtuous to do so, but because she was genuinely interested.

She interviewed a taciturn Bob Dylan, She slow-danced with Foreign Minister Gareth Evans, She heard future Prime Minister John Howard sing The Red Flag, She delighted Graham Freudenberg, who was Gough Whitlam’s speech-writer, by asking for his autograph; She drank champagne and discussed the problems of Africa with Archbishop Desmond Tutu; she shared sushi and Chivas Regal with a Yakuza: she championed Dr Peter Bayliss and mourned his passing, and she was invited to project-manage the visit to Brisbane next year of the Dalai Lama.

As she often said: “I contain multitudes.”

She had a lively and subversive sense of humour. Next to her desk at work she had a succession of posters, the latest of which says, “Unattended children will be given an espresso and a free puppy”. When teaching me to write for Public Relations clients she would say, “Keep laying on the schmaltz until it makes you cringe with embarrassment, then it’s perfect.” And at home, in our sewing box, is a large pair of scissors engraved with the words, “Run With Me.”

She could charm the birds from the trees. I’ve seen her do it, talking a small bird down from branch to branch, and finally onto her open palm.

She comforted the dying, volunteering at Mount Olivet Hospital.

Her death

In the week before Catherine died she wrote a poem, which came to her “all of a piece”. I’d like to finish with it:

A Poem by Catherine Perry Thursday 2nd Nov 2006

The marriage-bed is the centre of happiness,
a point from which all things ripple outward,
a nest from which all things learn to fly.
It is the sign of return, part of the great rhythm
of the seasons and of the years.
It is the dream of return, the strength and faith
that sings of home.
It is what we return to, as migratory birds
passing over marshes and fields
dream of the end of the journey.
It is what frightens night-devils away,
even in winter.
It is the tree that grows through the house,
the hollow of the tree that has never known death.
It is the crystal of all feeling, the flower of all
understanding, the small containing the large.
It is the nautilus growing its many chambers.
It is the sudden outburst of one who has long been silent.
It is the heart-stone.
It is the name of all names
that thinks it is a star and a rose.
It is a conch-shell rough on the outside,
but pearly in its intimacy.
It is a snail rolling over and over
building a staircase.
It is an animal, an almond, a repose.
It is an oyster opening in the full of the moon.
It is a mouth telling a secret.
It is a kiln where clay battles fire.
It is the simple happiness of sleeping on a boat.
These are the walls we've pressed back into a circle
in the shape of our bodies
and it will take a long time for the waves
spreading from the centre of our intimacy
to reach the ends of the world.

Catherine Perry died five days later at 9.36am on Tuesday 7 November 2006.

May her name be written in the Book of Life.

This world is diminished by her passing.

Kjazkear, my wife, died Tuesday 7th November 2006. She collapsed at work with a heart attack and was dead very shortly afterwards. Regular readers will know her wit, style, humour and the excessive amount of work she was doing in an organisation that was toxic, uncaring and irredeemably stupid. Her eulogy will be posted shortly.

The fun just never stops...

Monday is the last "Big Day" for this project - the day when our tenancy-solution "goes live" in far North Queensland.

 

And, as these things go, the paperwork isn't all done; not all the addresses have been sucessfully uploaded into the mainframe; not every tenant has signed on the dotted line - in other words, we are all in last-minute-tidy-up-hell and are pushing and pushing and pushing people to get it finished NOW.

 

and OF COURSE something has come adrift somewhere and there's a bottle-neck no one can find, and a process-flow which someone isn't following - BUT WE DON'T KNOW WHO.

 

So, anyway, the fair Vicki finally went into a meltdown in a meeting with the IT Geeks and huffed and blew and spit and swore and everyone dived under the tables and refused to come out, and promised, cross their hearts, to fix it - if we could figure out where it was broke.

 

SO, we three, the Piranhna Sisters as the boss calls us, marched out of the meeting and into the very office of the first suspect and demanded to know if they were sitting on the files. "No, no - not me. I've finshed them. I give them to Suspect B!!!" cried the quivering mass.

 

OK - into the lifts, stomp, stomp, stomp, into Suspect B's office - was HE sitting on the files? "No, no - not me. I've finshed them. I give them to Suspect C!!!" he cried. We demanded proof. Dammit - he had it....stomp, stomp, stomp...you get the drift.

 

Turns out there was someone sitting on the files...the leader of the meeting we'd first come from!!!...stomp, stomp, STOMP.

 

As you'll have guessed, files released, problems solved, nervous breakdowns averted....

 

...but the thing is, we WENT, we ASKED, we DEMANDED, we took ACTION, we THREATENED (OK, so that wasn't our finest hour, but you know how it is), we PREVAILED.

 

By skipping the protocols and the stupid, fuddlesome processes we actually found out who did what and made sure they did it. And we got proof that meetings never solve a damn thing - they were either lying to our faces or are so incompetant they didn't know they were at fault in the first place. SHEESH!!!

 

Trolling the blogs the other day I discovered a new meme- VERY short stories - also known as six word novels. It seems to have started with Wired Magazine last November. They asked famous writers like  Stan Lee. Margaret Atwood, Neal Stephenson, Frank Miller, Neil Gaiman, Ursula K. Le Guin, William Shatner, and Joss Whedon to write science fiction novels using only six words to convey the whole story.

As a model they took the great Ernest Hemingway's favourite six-worder: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." (Doesn't that just ooze unspoken plot?)

Other star contributions include:
Failed SAT. Lost scholarship. Invented rocket.
- William Shatner

Computer, did we bring batteries? Computer?
- Eileen Gunn

Heaven falls. Details at eleven.
- Robert Jordan

Bush told the truth. Hell froze.
- William Gibson

Longed for him. Got him. Shit.
- Margaret Atwood

Anyway, my family fell on the idea like wolves at lambing season, and we've come up with a few more...

• Of course Mummy loves you, Sigmund.
• "I've encrypted it," Leonardo said, mysteriously.
• Isaiah 43:1 "Your ass is mine."
• Coincidence? Hardly. He's my evil twin.
  
• Terrorised teen morphs into slasher basher.
• Master race foiled by gutsy sidekick.
• Heart of darkness, "Day return, please."
• Star-crossed love, epiphanies abound, Hallmark channel.
• Royals in soccer star death plunge.
• Gee, that Cassandra's a bit negative..
• Hold Menelaus! Achilles, your sandal's undone.
• Spies? Grill the perky Russian gymnast.
• "Human body parts." E Bay's worst nightmare.

I'd welcome other contributions to this - don't restrict yourself to science fiction. You'll noticed we included a couple of "news at eleven" type headlines. The real trick is sticking to just six little words.

Now, this WAS a day!

On mature reflection, and taking everything into account, we all decided we'd had a gutful of the whole stupid project and we quit!

Do you know how liberating it is to really say, "Take this job and SHOVE IT!"??? It was an instant high, a complete relief, and a really satisfying moment for the whole team. The people who had tried to engineer our demise were solidly ousted and had come to terms with their defeat and moved on....and then we gave them what they wanted....sort of.

Because instead of being disgraced and devalued and dragged back into the working-mire of the cubicle farm, we told all and sundry to stick it - no hanging around, no doing the work they can't do while having to eat crow - we just handed over the files, wished them luck and signed off.

It's brilliant! Now the organisation is trying to get us to change our minds, is offering us rewards and write-ups in the trade-papers - its desperate to know how on earth they're going to get this project off the ground with no experts - and its lashing the whiners who made us miserable for pushing us too far!!!

Many, many happy. Many, many pleased.

We're contracted until Christmas and we've been told they insist we stay on until Christmas eve...which is great. We've told THEM we don't propose to do a damn thing except update the filing and write job applications. We've strung "police lines - do not cross" tape across the doorway, constructed a giant Advent/ Countdown calendar out of cardboard and candy, and plan to have "a cake a day" parties until the old clock ticks down.

Various senior execs were spotted during the day in huddles; the BOSS still hasn't been told because no one wants to see a grown-woman eat her own head; and the people who's every wish has been granted - "OK we Quit. It's ALL Yours" - could not be found at all this afternoon.

Stand by everyone - its going to be a riotous few weeks.