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When someone you really care for dies, they unfold for you like an origami pterodactyl. It seems to always be like this,
the gentle and tactile opening up of a life. In Gus' case, this was true beyond my comprehension. I can't profess to have
known Gus very well. He was a great mentor and great friend. We laughed over countless breakfasts, pulling apart movies
from the inside out. When he emailed with me, he referred to himself as my bitch. Even still, I can't say that I knew him
well. Visiting New Mexico upon his death led me to believe that few people did. When a life is as rich and complete as Gus
Blaisdell's was, there really is nowhere to begin. And for all the fantastic stories he relayed to each of us in his life,
there are thousands more to unravel after his death. Just four days shy of his 68th birthday, Gus died too young; however,
his life was so full that he may as well have lived to be 200, and for that he deserves as much celebration as mourning.
Gus, who was seemingly impossible to capture on film, looked a lot like Christopher Lee. Picture Saruman the White with
short, disheveled hair. For the first few months I knew him, taking his summer session class "Teen Rebels" in an
attempt to escape my god-awful masters program in English and visit the fun kids over in the film program, I don't think I
ever saw him dressed in anything other than his purple t-shirt (the neck stretched and yanked like a four year old's), shorts,
and sandals. During the next semester when I served as his Teaching Assistant in "Women in Film," I learned that
around October, he switched to jeans. They had holes in the knees. The thing is, students who came in the first day saying
"who is this crazy guy?" soon were mesmerized by his spoken-word lectures (you'd never hear the same one twice)
and amazing, incredible brilliance. A now also deceased (and also brilliant) scholar friend of Gus', Louis Owens, once referred
to him as one of the true geniuses.
Gus told stories by the boatload, and he didn't always tell the same ones to everybody. My friend Bryan, who knew Gus
longer and better than me, had never heard some of the stories I relayed while staying with him in Albuquerque, and he knows
countless stories that are quite foreign to me. It would be silly, then, to recount these stories, and besides, somehow they
would sound like bragging coming from me, whereas when they came from Gus they were just tales of his amazing life. The secret
was that Gus seemed to think his life was ordinary. Lucky, perhaps, and certainly the fruits of hard work, but not extraordinary.
He only told one story in a way that could be construed as bragging-okay, he was even a little nah nah nah nah nah about it,
but with extremely good reason. Sitting at an outdoor café (perhaps bar?) in NYC with some boorish friends, Gus was interrupted
by a hot woman sipping a cocktail. She asked him to ditch his friends, sit with her and watch her get drunk. She was Madeline
Kahn. He did what she asked, and when she was done, he saw that she got home safely. I'd brag, too. But the interesting
thing is, this is the kind of story anyone would brag about. It was the day to day stuff, the "I was at dinner with
Gene [Hackman] and his wife and I told him that he should star in a film about ..." type things that were just his life.
A good life. A life well lived. But simply a life.
Upon Louis' surprising death, Gus described himself to me through Louis' eyes:
"For his part, he treated me as the second father of the birth of the voice of Native American lit: getting
Momaday to write Rainy; saving Silko from law school by a timely grant in her senior year from the NEA; same for [Joy] Harjo
and [Simon] Ortiz."
This is the way one found out information about the incredibleness of Gus' life, through a quick note highlighting his
involvement in the work of brilliant writers. Way to Rainy Mountain was a book Louis taught in class. I myself teach Leslie
Marmon Silko's Ceremony. It was an insight, however, that was dropped in context of another great life and how that person
saw him. While he was not humble, these were not details he wore on his sleeve.
What he did wear on his sleeve, or more accurately, his arm, was a teeny-tiny tattoo that honored his wife, Elizabeth.
Gus, Bryan and Jason all eventually got tattoos naming their girls, and while Bryan's "Patti" covers his forearm
and Jason's "Mo" is sizable and detailed, Gus' tattoo was very, very small. Upon showing it off to us, he said:
"It didn't hurt at all!" And we were able to give him a lot of shit over it, because Gus was nothing if not a
man who could both dish it out and take it.
This laid back, well-humored aspect of his personality applied to taste, as well. When it was in theaters, Gus defended
the movie "Return to Me" with surprising vigor (because it really was an awful piece of crap). He was a fan of
Julia Stiles. This brilliant film scholar who taught truly great films, large and small, had no time for snobbery. Stiles
was, as he called her, "the dolinck," and damned be anyone who raised a brow.
Our friend Bryan described Gus' memorial service (which we were, annoyingly, unable to attend because of school and teaching)
like this:
"[The memorial] ended with a live Dylan recording of 'Knockin' On Heaven's Door' and then 'Sympathy For The Devil'...
Too good."
With people who were inspirational and great, one can go on forever. Gus collapsed of a heart attack in front of a restaurant
he frequented to excess (he was going back for his second meal of the day). I can't help but think that there, on that familiar
corner surrounded by a place (that strip of Central Ave. he walked daily, enjoying coffee with students, corner-chats with
acquaintances, breakfasts with friends) that knew him well, if his life flashed before his eyes, then he died smiling.
By Mo
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My New Mexico
for Gus Blaisdell
Edge of door's window
sun against
flat side adobe,
yellowed brown-
A blue lifting morning,
miles of spaced echo,
time here plunged
backward, backward-
I see shadowed leaf
on window frame green,
close plant's growth,
weathered fence slats-
All passage explicit,
the veins, hands,
lined faces crease,
determined-
Oh sun! Three years,
when I came first,
it had shone unblinking,
sky vast aching blue-
The sharpness of each
shift the pleasure,
pain, of particulars-
All inside gone out.
Sing me a song
makes beat specific,
takes the sharp air,
echoes this silence.
Robert Creeley
from Just in Time: Poems 1984-1994, (c) 2001 Robert Creeley
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Emily's blog, September 18, 2003
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