|Name at birth:
|| Paul Joseph Silver
|Date of birth:
|| 9 November 1965
|Place of birth:
|| Red Bank, New Jersey
|Date of death:
|| 4 August 2004
|Place of death:
|| Los Angeles, CA, USA
|| Sharon Gardens Cemetery, Valhalla, NY
|| Ron Linder (email@example.com)
In Paul’s profession, one’s work is judged by how it isn’t noticed. It isn’t supposed to draw attention from a movie. Rather it adds another dimension to the movie, making an experience with depth, emotion, and context.
Paul was like the profession to which he devoted a portion of his life: Paul didn’t make himself the center of attention, but, when with you, he made you feel like an important part of the scene. A social gathering with Paul was, in many ways, like a “feel-good” movie, but real.
Paul had a kind-hearted, personal touch for people he came in contact with, that tended to quickly create a lasting bond. He had a quick wit, a warm smile, and a gentle laugh. Paul was friend and family. Some do not achieve both. For Paul, both were seemingly effortless.
We will keep our wonderful memories of Paul, because we have no others.
Rest in peace, Paul.
Kirk, Deb, Thane & Logan
A poem from Paul's journal:
As I stand atop my mast
Looking out across the sea
I look aft and see the past
so undisturbed and carefree
Where no worries ever crossed my mind
When I was pure as thy spirit, sporting no stains
And now on this search I am sure to find
My inner battle aggravating such pains
My thoughts so many entwining the links
of my confusion; its a knot in chains
If I do not succeed I will slowly sink
And give in to this great game
My vessel on its unknown course
The four winds as my guide
Wherever thou takest me I'll show no remorse
and with the fullest sincerity abide
For I have no direction except yours
My compass confused not able to decide
Will thou ever let me convalesce these sores
that have been inflicted upon my hide
So I peer forward into the years
The sun's glare in my eyes
I see the tears of my fears
Fall silently from the skies
On a Rosebush Full of Blooms
On a rosebush full of blooms, there is occasionally one rose more fragile than the rest. Nobody knows why. The rose receives the same amount of water and of food from the earth; of clipping and tending and gentle encouragement from the gardener. Its time on earth is neither more nor less significant than that of the other blooms alongside. Its stresses are neither greater nor fewer. Its promises of development are just as rich. In other words, it has all the necessary components to become what it is intended to be; a beautiful flower, fully open, spreading its fragrance and color for the whole world to see and enjoy. But for some inexplicable reason, once in a while a single rose doesn’t reach maturity. It’s not the gardener’s fault; It’s not the fault of the earth, nor of the rain, nor the sun. But neither is it the fault of the rose. For some roses, even the touch of the gentle spring rains leaves bruises on the petals. The sun’s rays-so soft and warm to some flowers-feel searing to others. Some roses thrive while the fragile ones feel buffeted by inner and outer ghost winds. So it is that sometimes, despite the best growing conditions, and best efforts of the gardener, and the best possibilities and predictions for a glorious blooming season, a particularly fragile rose will share its glow for a while, then fade and die. And the gardener and the rosebush and the earth and all around will grieve. We are never ready for a loss. Not for the loss of a promising rosebud, nor for the loss of a friend or relative whose life appears ready to unfold with brilliant color and fulfillment. In the midst of our grieving, we can be grateful we were in the garden during the same season. We can remember and celebrate the glimpses of color and fragrance and growth that were shared. We can love the fragile rose and the fragile soul for the valiant battles won, and blooming that was done. And as our own petals unfold, we can remember the softness and beauty of those who touched us along the way.
Ernestine Clark (1988)