Spent an hour and a half at the Cultch this afternoon (see previous post) listening to others remember Roy Kiyooka. A bunch of poets, writers, artists. Folks who knew him mostly. Someone read from some pieces that he had given her before he died. It was powerful writing – timeless, as good writing is. People argued about dates – we laughed. Fumiko (his daughter) talked about the film that she was finishing on her dad – seven years in the making and almost done, she said. Roy, in all his facets, was remembered. His laughter, his loneliness. His generosity, his tapes. He made a lot of tapes – readings, music, parties. Several of the composers that have been writing for Marginalia were there. They talked about listening to the tapes – trying to nail down the direction their compositions would take. The was, overall, a refreshing lack of sentimentality.
It was a good way to spend an afternoon. I think Roy would have been sitting in a corner of the room with his camera – documenting the event. Enjoying himself immensely.