pdf download - Westerly Magazine

(At twenty eight you did not bother to hide your disparagement for thosesubstantially older than ourselves.)"Half dead trendies," you had snorted, "fearful of their own mortality. Apsychiatrist would be of more use to them than a pair of dumb-bells."I'd agreed of course. I usually did. You were the expert on death and dying."You can't afford to let yourself go," you remark in the here and now, comfortableand at ease in my presence. "Not these days when health and image are intertwined."I nod, saying nothing."The whole concept of a salubrious appearance, be it corporate or private, is bigbusiness - and anyone who doesn't acknowledge that fact is doing themselves andtheir company a disservice."You lean forward, animation altering your usually reserved features."Take the funeral industry for instance. Now they've been subjected to somerigourous criticisms over time and quite rightly too, but essentially they've graspedthe link between the image and the product. They've had to, in their field they'veliterally no choice. Death is the antithesis of the healthy body our society has cometo worship. So their representation, like mine in a sense, is. critical."My eyes drop to my lap. I do not understand the direction you are taking.You clear your throat modestly."I've been working with the Society of Funeral Directors since last year," youreveal. "Conducting lectures and seminars on the psychology of successfulpresentation." You pause for effect. "It's a first, at least in Australia ... not to mentiona personal coup."I look up from my thin, bloodless hands in amazement, a watery smile flirtingweakly about the comers of my mouth in case this is another of your elaborate,humourless jokes. One glance at your pleased expression tells me it is not.I feel my face harden, first the eyes, then the cheeks, lips and jaw bone. Beneathmy skin I can almost count the white cells multiplying."Don't be so judgemental," you chide disapprovingly.Too stunned to think I do not reply. My fingers stub out the cigarette; my foottaps nervously against the leg of the chair."It's no use saying you're not," you add. "I can still read you like a book."Your gaze captures mine."It was one of the comforting things about our relationship," you pronounce. "Thatrefreshing absence of duplicity - the knowledge that I could know someone, reallyknow them, without having to constantly question and doubt."Part of me, that part that even now can not renounce optimism, searches yourdeep strong voice for a trace of warm regret, of fond reminiscence.My hope, as irrational as it is eternal, is quickly harnessed.You give nothing away."It's really quite ethical," you say reassuringly, returning to your work with a zealeven the passionate sparks of love were unable to diminish. "What it boils downto, if you11 pardon the cliche, is a more effective personal service for the consumer."Incredulous, I do not respond.You continue undaunted. "They're packaging a product, but their marketingstrategies, until now, have consisted of denying the fears and realities of their clientele.They have ignored the therapeutic role almost entirely, despite the lip service of theirpublic relations men."Nausea overtakes me. Without wishing to cause alarm I raise one hand and pressit firmly against my temple.You stretch back and extend your trim, trousered leg. The perfect picture of health."You're probably imagining that I've adopted American procedures and, in part,I suppose I have. I certainly don't lay claim to total originality. Who can in thisbusiness?" You shrug. "For me it's a matter of what works - and an inter professional66 WESTERLY, No.2, JUNE, 1989