AM I WALKING TOO FAST FOR YOU? A book about Lennox Raphael By JENS O. MAGNUSSEN

 Jens O. Magnussen shares the first two chapters of his book about Lennox Raphael. Such a rich friendship!

CHAPTER 1

This morning, on my way for a swim at Tårbæk Søbad, I came across Nature`s Throne, which I saw for the first time in the company of my dear friend and walking companion, Lennox Raphael, about 20 years ago.

As we were approaching Tårbæk after a long walk from Skodsborg past The Hermitage Castle, we saw that stump of a tree shaped just like a high-backed chair or throne more like it. Lennox immediately sat down with a broad, happy smile like Nature’s King himself.

Now the throne is dilapidated almost down to the forest floor.

Each time I think of the first time I met him, I think of a different occasion, so I must have met him for the first time many times - if that makes any sense - like we knew each other long before we actually met. Perhaps I saw him on TV standing just behind John & Yoko playing the tambourine to John Sinclair, or maybe I met him in Morocco, when my girlfriend, Adelheid, and I travelled there for half a year, and totally forgot. Hardly, but it could have been, though more likely I met his different personas under different circumstances.

Something familiar about his way of thinking, letting imagination encourage intellect and vice versa.
What we have in common, among other things, is our love for a free roaming language without too much predefined purpose, message- or otherwise. Attention is a key word here, and I don’t just mean looking closely but rather an emotional, spiritual awareness going straight to the heart.

Gravel and grass under our feet and the filigree of winter canopys over our heads, we ́d walk and talk or walk in total silence listening to the lovely twitter of spring birds, the sinister chatter of crows on cloudy days of winter or woodpeckers tapping from everywhere.

Now and then we ́d be like children seeing things for the first time, which in fact we were, aren’t we all as everything constantly changes.
“Look! This trunk has the shape of a crocodile lurking in the tall grass, this one has the trunk of an elephant and these naked branches form a long bearded mask under a top-hat. While stags roared their rut out behind the golden autumn trees.

“You know, Jens, this forest is so very different from the one I grew up with!”
Which I soon was about to see for myself going to Trinidad & Tobago for a month.

One evening Lennox and I were reading our poems at some friends` art-studio.
We often performed together with or without music. Later I was reading with Kristian Tangvik on tuba, but first I was giving Lennox some backup for one of his finest pieces and had prepared a slowly flowing flute under his words.

But, “Disrupt my reading!” he said. Rather puzzled I said, ”What?!” But his short answer was, “Just do it!” So I did. Found the shrillest tones on the high notes and broke his rhythm wherever I could.

Wasn’t surprised to see both astonishment and anger on the audience’s faces.
A young girl with fury in her eyes came up to me shouting, “Sink into the moment like a pebble in a pond,” was all I heard! What the hell did you think you were doing?! None of

us could hear a fucking thing! I was so much looking forward to his fine lyrics, and all I got was your horrible flute! Thank you!”
“You’re wellcome,” I answered holding back on the irony, “But Lennox told me to do just what I did.”

Lennox nodded and smiled, “Blame who’s to blame!”

Without any direct relevance I suddenly remembered one morning meeting Lennox at Østerport St. on the platform for our train for Klampenborg. It was at the time when they still used these very noisy old diesel locomotives, very often driving in blocking our rail thus delaying our train for five minutes or more. When I stuck my fingers in my ears complaining about the roaring engines, Lennox chose a more positive approach quoting John Cage (think it was) for saying, that all sound, even what we normally call noise, is music. Well theoretically I can see his point, but it doesn’t really make me enjoy the constant booming sound more than a string quartet by Mozart.

Now and then as light and shade changed over our heads and at our feet, we’d slow down almost to a halt and talk philosophy to total abstraction, talk uphill and down from the top to the valley below. Talk our way backwards from temporary conclusions to the initial questions and take them apart to see their hidden ingredients fluttering like verbal butterflies before our eyes. And rather than arguing which way to go, we’d laugh out loud enjoying the beauty of ever changing directions.

Pure intellectual relief!

“Don’t rush!” he’d say, reminding me about last years fall trying to catch an S-train just about to leave. Instead of a quick ride home I got a deep wound on my left shin.
So seing my train about to leave the platform I just strolled down slowly waiting for the next to come.

Otherwise Lennox isn’t a man full of good advice about the obvious, good luck, but when he sees you’re about to do damage to yourself, he lets you know. A considerate man you can rely on, though he prefers you rely on yourself.

Of course, in hindsight, I can’t help translating his words into spiritual moves. How we run for what we imagine is The Truth rather than this nasty lie pulling us back in the dungeons of blind ignorance.

How exactly this constant flow of imagery becomes a trap, the famous hamster-wheel of endless philosophizing the simplest of thoughts into the most complex of riddles, remains the mystery it was designed to be by God knows what gods.

One day it was family-story-time, and I told him about my father’s death when I was 16.
How he passed out in his armchair, where he used to enjoy his cigar and brandy after dinner reading his favourite author, Aldous Huxley.

We heard the ambulance picking him up late at night, and early next morning a deeply moved mother told us he’d died just a couple of hours ago.
More to that, obviously, but what matters here is Lennox’ desentimentalizing but very caring reaction. Put his arm around my shoulder (rare thing) and said with the friendliest of smiles, “I’ll be your dad now.”

A joke, of course, but still these weren’t empty words or airy promises.

When years later I came home after a week by my mother’s death-bed, totally exhausted with her last breath still in the palm of my hand, he called asking how I was. I told him and added that for the moment I just wanted to be alone and let it all sink in.

But no. “I’m coming!” he said, and ten minutes later he was knocking on my door.
“It’s open!” I shouted and did indeed feel much better hearing his steps up the stairs.

Thing is, when mom decided to end her life by starvation I was in Paris visiting a buddhist-friend of Lennox’, who’d invited me to read from my book, IMPOSSIBLE POEMS, in a book-shop. A little tricky as several of the listeners understood little or no english, so one guy who did had to translate my reading line by line.

My niece, who was with my mother, got rather desperate when I didn’t answer the phone, but then she thought of calling Lennox to try and figure out how to get in touch with me. He was of course immediately helpful, and as I’d just finished reading, he got through to me where she couldn’t. Well, I got on the first possible plane home, put my luggage in my flat and went straight to the nursing home, where they, good luck, fully respected mom’s decision giving her, what they called terminal treatment.

Another fine day to remember is when I introduced him to Norwegian painter, poet and activist, Laurie Grundt.
We had a long walk through the snow and slush of early spring, and after that I was going for my weekly drawing lesson at Laurie’s home-studio on top of Fredens Ark (Arc of Peace) in Freetown Christiania. When I asked Lennox to come along he happily agreed, curious to meet this old friend of mine, who I’d mentioned so often.

When we arrived he was working on one of his huge murals about the Nordic countries - think it was Finland this time. Another thing that caught the eye, was the piles of books everywhere. Laurie was very careful to get all the facts right. As I’d expected they immediately became best friends.

Of course Lennox was very impressed by all the details and the sheer beauty of the mural.
Laurie served us coffee with a small Snaps on the side and wanted to learn as much a possible about Lennox’ native country, Trinidad & Tobago, and he, in return, told about how it was to grow up in Bergen before and during World War 2, how he’d drive around on his bike smuggling weapons from one resistance group to another right under the noses of the German soldiers.

A few years later, when Laurie at the age of 90 went back to Bergen, because his legs couldn’t cope with the stairs to fifth floor anymore, we went up there every year to celebrate his birthday. He had been given a nice apartment overlooking Holberg’s Have next to the dome.

Exhibitions, readings, party with old friends and his charming daughter, Kristina on the 10th of September, which continued up to his death at the ripe age of 96 a couple of years ago.

Sadly, because of unbearable pain, they had to amputate his right leg just a few months before he died.
We’d normally fly from CPH directly to Bergen, but once we chose to take what BBC calls one of the most scenic train journeys in the world from Oslo to Bergen. Over mountains, down in the valleys past sparkling lakes a. s. o. Delightful!

There were many walks where we’d talk deep, but still with our heads above the ground and a sharp eye on the shallow.

Lennox’ spiritual / emotional agility was inspiring and often lifted my thinking out of the swamp of seriousness my moody blues designs from the dreary dreams of sleepless nights.

How deep a poem could move subconsciously would depend on, yes, conscience, turning on or letting go.
How high would make even a zombie cry!

CHAPTER 2

One of the most obvious places to write about Lennox is at Bellevue Beach listening to the soft lapping of waves on the shore.
“This is My beach!” he often said with a happy smile on his face.

It’s also the place where he introduced me to the fine art of winter-bathing.
For many years, after our walks in Dyrehaven, he’d go down for a swim regardless of season & weather, and I’d go home to Brumleby for lunch or dinner.

Then one autumn afternoon I decided to join him. The idea being, that if I started swimming while the water was still lukewarm, I could slowly get used to the increasingly colder waves, and lo and behold, it worked; though one January morning with snow and temperatures below zero I was a bit hesitant.

“Breathe slowly and think warm”, was his useful advice, and I did enjoy this freezing dip more than I ever thought possible.
So it’s been a precious part of my life ever since.

And let me just emphasize, that Lennox never put pressure on me or even suggested that I did this. He was simply a living example clearly showing the benefits of this exercise. Great for body and soul starting the day with a victory overcoming ones anxieties.

Odd experience, after his third stroke immobilizing him totally, I was dozing in the sun, eyes shut enjoying the sound of children playing in the sand, when I heard a mother’s voice calling, “Come here Lennox! Don’t run any

further, Lennox. Come here!” and saw a little boy laughing and running towards the water.
Well, I’ve never met anyone else by that name, so it was quite a surprise, but made me very happy to see, that there was a new Lennox on the beach now that my old friend couldn’t enjoy it anymore.

“I love people!” he said one morning on the platform waiting for our train.
Rather tired after an almost sleepless night, I answered, “I’m sure you do - even the Hitlers of the world?”

“Well, even the Hitlers were sweet, innocent babies once!” “Yes”. I said rubbing my eyes,
“Are you perhaps one og these true Christians to whom love is a steady must rather than a hesitant maybe?”

“Not really. Like in so many of life’s important matters it’s less a question of religious sets of rules for human behaviour than of sheer observation. An eye for the good embedded in the hearts of even those we see as less worthy, even nasty or evil. You yourself told me about how a blind double-murderer became your best friend and compassionate support in the hell of Prison Civile de Marrakech. How about that??”

“Well, he was special”, I objected. “Aren’t we all”, was his typical answer.

“These days I am writing mostly for myself”, he said one day on the S-train showing me handwritten, illustrated pieces from his mammoth-work of more than a thousand pages, Naipaul’s Country, named after Nobel Laureate, V. S. Naipaul, Trinidadian by birth. Imagination run wild, if ever I saw. Sadly, after his third stroke, he isn’t able to finish it after more than 20 years of work.

He’d read me bits and pieces on our way home from Bellevue Beach. Weird characters interacting in the strangest ways. Not aliens, but fascinating figures of the mind. Never really got any idea of a story-line from the short extracts, though it should be there somewhere.

After many years of journalism, drama and spokesman for the P. M. of Trinidad & Tobago, A. N. R. Robinson, I could easily understand his urge to play with whatever he could dig up in that fine mind of his.

Some days I’d read him a new poem written the night before. Often in danish, but although he rarely spoke that language, he understood every word and I appreciated his applause.

Well, Lennox was a charming man, and able to do something not all charming men can do. He could flatter a woman he didn’t even know. “You look lovely this morning!” he’d say to someone just passing by. And she would smile back and look happier than a moment ago. I’m sure that If I did the same she would think, “What’s he up to?” He, on the other hand, could say it with a gentle innocence, making even the more boring types actually feel lovely.

And, as simple psychology tells us, when you feel better you look better.

Going to a bar with him was often quite an experience.
At times I saw what I’d call reverse racism (I’m sure though, Lennox wouldn’t use these words). Being a good-looking, always well dressed, black man, people would crowd around him, while I’d be almost invisible. Did that make me jealous? Only rarely moved by vanity, but I got used to it, and now and then I noticed that Lennox wished he was the invisible one.

Possibly that goes way back to his days of fame and glory in New York in the late sixties. Being the celebrated author of several musicals, he was often recognized in the streets, and his friendship with John Lennon didn’t help in that respect.

At a certain time he just had enough, and a friend of his, best-selling novelist, Robert Gover, said, “Leave all that fuss behind and come stay with me in California!” Which he did. For how long I don’t know, but it got him out of a very stressfull situation.

Some days he’d invite me for lunch after a long, appetite- stimulating walk, and we would enjoy his delicious Trini- dishes with a good bottle of wine.
Afterwords he’d go to the piano, I’d pick up my transverse flute and we would improvise some jazzy pieces.

Delightful afternoons in their flat in Rosengade.

Other days, summer, autumn, we’d go sit in my garden in Brumleby, sip mint-tea and pick apples from my tree. Often friends and neighbors would drop by, and Lennox soon became a familiar face.

He was, as mentioned, also a very observant person. One evening in Copenhagen Art Club I was reading a long surreal poem with my fingers on the Kalimba, and I read it very fast intending to overwhelm the audience with my flood of intricate images. It seemed to be a bad idea as many people already after a few stanzas slipped away, But Lennox stayed watching me closely, and when I’d finished he waved me over to give me a piece of advice.

“I really enjoyed the lyrics”, he said, “but as you noticed, most of the audience lost the thread and couldn’t find head

or tail in the text. You should slow down, emphasize the key-words and, very importantly, pause where it makes sense, giving the listener a chance to change focus.”
I had, of cause, considered along these lines myself, but stubbornly wanting to invent my own unique style I went on running too fast.

Later I did as he suggested and, lo and behold, applause, applause.
Well, of cause it makes good sense. Be aware of your audience and don’t just stand there eyes glued to your reading’s premeditated plan, however thrilling it might have seemed to you sitting by your laptop. After all it’s a two- way-communication. You talk and they listen, so if they don’t understand what you’re saying, they stop listening. It’s that simple - be flexible!

At times the most simple and obvious can seem almost incomprehensible to an intellect taught to complicate such matters, that even a child can see with its naked brain. And those who blame children for going after easy solutions are absolutely right. Only idiots deliberately chose the difficult ones, they’d wisely point out.

Facing a snowy morning I remember a long walk through deep snow in Dyrehaven. We had been walking past the Hermitage Castle and were slowly approaching Klampenborg St. by a reasonably passable path, when we took one step to the right and suddenly stood in snow up to the waist.

“Damn!” I shouted with boots and pockets full of the white slush, but Lennox just laughed saying, “Well, this is certainly a new kind of winter bathing!”
Fortunately we were just five minutes away from the station, and back on track we could soon enter a warm carriage,

brush off the snow, dry our socks a bit and take a look the latest poetry.

“Don’t fall asleep on me now!” Lennox said calling me at one o’clock two hours after I went to bed. He needed more information for his book about me, “Zen of Inner Walking”, and when he was hard at work it couldn’t wait till morning. “Ok”, I yawned, “What do you wanna know?”

We talked for about 20 minutes, and I provided the info he asked for. My mothers maiden-name, when and why I started writing poetry, inspired by who, how often and where I performed et. c., et. c.

Wish I could call him now to refresh my memory re topics of our talks through the forest and at the beach, but as he died only a few months ago, that would take a direct line to heaven.

I did in fact get through to him in another vivid dream, where he reminded me about how we talked politics in T & T and his career as spokesman for the P M, and in Denmark where my mother was a member of the Danish Parliament for two years. He only met her once, and I was happy to see the mutual respect and sympathy between them. Mom had been somewhat hesitant to meet him, not for racist reasons obviously, but because her english was very poor. But meeting him at my 65th birthday, her first comment was, “What a charming man!”

Well, appearing in my dream he was standing at a golden podium in a long blue robe with a white-bearded, crystal- eyed angel at his right and a tall, serious woman at his left. “Don’t ask me questions for your book”, he said, “All you need to know will pop up in your head if you let it. Just listen closely!”

The tall, rare beauty materialized a long, red flute out of her fingers and played “The Gentle Maiden” with tones so clear, they made my spirit flow.
“Is that really you, Lennox?” I asked, but before he could answer I woke up with my eyes full of tears. Tears of sorrow and relief, erasing all my grief.

And, as he said, patient attention triggered my memory, and suddenly I remembered we were standing on top of the mountain overlooking Bergen, when a white-tailed eagle (think it was) swooped down and almost touched my skull with its sharp claws. Later Laurie told us it was protecting its newborn. I had inadvertently come too close to their nest.

Lennox saw it happening, “Ups! That was a close one!” he laughed.
Not that I had forgotten the moment’s drama, but it wasn’t the first thing on my mind thinking of Lennox.

He could be like a teenager with his Iphone, taking photos of everything that caught his attention. Especially two things: The windmills by Svanemølle and me shaking out pebbles from my shoes. Often walking fast on Dyrehaven’s gravel paths it happened et least twice on every walk.

He must have left hundreds of these photos!
We had plans to exhibit his windmills, all taken from the same angle in all kinds of weather and light with or without ships. Guess that’s not going to happen now unless his widow, Helga decides to do it.

Or we could make an exhibition called PEBBLE IN THE SHOE.