Resonance

| 22 Comments

It's November 19 again.

I'm staying holed up at home. Drinking tea, plugging away at writing, listening to the dishwasher churn while the crock pot turns vegetables, potatoes, tomato puree, broth, meat and flower flour into a mutant but hopefully good tasting stew.

With luck, I'll avoid the Weird today. But we'll see.

Twenty years.

Still remembering, Rich.

22 Comments

Not sure how I missed that entry from last year. I personally don't know what it feels like to have lost someone that close to me, but that was definitely a very powerful piece of writing.

It's also kind of odd since, hey, MY girlfriend's birthday is on Nov. 19. Nov. 19, 1985 to be exact. Not that I'm attempting to forge any connection here but I like coincidences, they're funny. (My girlfriend's birthday is also EXACTLY three weeks before mine if you get out a calendar and trace downward but that's something else.)

Proof that immortality does exist.

Hooray for the crock pot. But... "flower"? You might ease back on the tea, methinks. Unless you're making some sort of Posy Stew.

Flower gives it body. Less watery, ya know?

Proof that immortality does exist.
Well said.

I remember crying a year ago when I read the words you wrote to share your friend with the world that won't ever know him how you do. And those same tears are back.

I think people feel pain for one another because otherwise the pain would be too much for the person feeling it to bear. I know when I've lost family it felt that way.

I dunno. I don't think I have the words.

I suppose I'm lucky, in that regard. I've got a day like that too, but it only comes every four years.

Also, I remember why I didn't comment on this last year - it's all too weird to see someone saying they remember your name, but not mean you.

Heh, my real name is Eric, I get that kind of weirdness constantly on this site.

The death of another is a strange experience. At this point in life all my grandparents have died, and one uncle. But the death's I've experienced the hardest have been friends. A friend who used to give me rides and got me one of my first jobs, and then committed suicide on the anniversary of her father's death. A friend and mentor in my theatre company who had a heart attack, but wouldn't go to the hospital because he had no health insurance and didn't think he could afford to go. And, well, my cat, who'd been my constant companion for over a decade. As a guy who usually lived alone and didn't make friends that easily that was a big shock.

And personally, I seem to get Virgos in my life. 2 out of 3 girlfriends and my only sister, at least.

Here I was feeling all sad about my dead truck. DAMN YOU BURNS.

But seriously, man. That's awful. I missed last year's post, but I'm glad I got to read it today. It was beautiful. I don't cry much, but I got pretty close.

You should be a writer or something.

I've seen really weird kinds of deaths, the kinds of deaths you wonder how could possibly anyone have that kind of illness. Particularly among my high school class associates. A girl I know, Gwen, died because her head was so ovally shaped it put too much pressure on her brain and it went squish. She looked like Gretchen from the morning cartoon show, Recess.

It's hard enough to come to grips with death, but it's harder when death decides to make someone's death as illogical as possible.

You know, Miyaa, that has always led me to a question - can the struggle to stay alive be the point of a death? One of the two deaths that really hit me in my life was someone about 4-5 years older than me, while I was still in college. But he died like he lived - crazy, unpredictably, but fighting to the end. And his death wasn't pointless, because he wrung out every drop of meaning and joy he could in his painful final hours, and it would be an insult to him to call those meaningless.

In all, if I had the one question with God, guaranteed to get an answer, that would be mine. Because as desperately as I want to believe that there can be meaning in a failed struggle to survive, I just don't know.

Maybe it's due to my recently learning and reading the story of the cellist Vedran Smailovic, but after clicking through the line of links that leads to the original story, I've got tears in my eyes, man.

I've said this before, privately, and I'll say it now. You can write too well.

"In all, if I had the one question with God, guaranteed to get an answer, that would be mine. Because as desperately as I want to believe that there can be meaning in a failed struggle to survive, I just don't know."

I see these kids, every day, struggling to survive, at the children's hospital where I work, and I have this same feeling. So many of them don't make it, sometimes after years of struggling. Whether we're talkin' a premie in the Neo unit or the 12-year-old Leukemia patient, one can't help but wonder why these kids were put here, what lesson or purpose their short lives could possibly have. CF is a personal favorite disease of mine to despise; these kids start out pretty normal, until their own body's mucus starts killing them.

The amazing thing is that I see these kids, and sure there are little snots among them, but for the most part, they're far braver than most adults I know. They may have tubes coming out of different spots, and have been in dozens of surgeries over their short years, but they live, damnit. I've seen kids riding their IV poles down the hall like a skateboard, laughing as they go, until their mothers or the nurses catch them.

Somehow, even though so many of them don't make it, their personal struggles remind us all that life is for living, and their strength gives us hope. There must be a meaning in that, at least. Right?

Oh, and Eric, oh, what to say. You move me to tears. The poem rips my heart. And, of course, how the hell did I miss that, last year?

Here's hoping that this November 19 included nothing weirder than a mutant (but tasty) stew.

I'm sorry, Eric. I can't imagine what it would be like to lose such a close friend. It must be something you never really forget... Here's to hoping you don't have to go through it again..

CF is a personal favorite disease of mine to despise; these kids start out pretty normal, until their own body's mucus starts killing them.

Ah. Cystic Fibrosis. I remember Adina. Robin. Barbi. Keegan. Aubrie. Aubrie's was hardest - she was like a little sister in a lot of ways. Just married, just out of school, just got a lung transplant, just...gone.

In all, if I had the one question with God, guaranteed to get an answer, that would be mine. Because as desperately as I want to believe that there can be meaning in a failed struggle to survive, I just don't know.

For me (and this gets into personal realms of belief, so your milage may vary) it's like this: We were all born. We're all going to die. In between, we all survive. It's not the struggle to survive that matters, it's the struggle to live.

And the people I named above? They lived. They made an impact. My life is different because of them - my choices are different because of them. I remember. I know my life has impacted others and I owe some of that impact to them, so now they've impacted people they never met. This thread is proof that Richard's life has impacted us - a powerful accomplishment since I was 9 in 1985.

As Lyndon said - proof that immortality does exist.

Hope everything went well!

I just read about Richard, & I can barely see the screen for the tears in my eyes. As I read about Richard, I remember some of the days that resonate with me, both positive (among many, Sept. 16, beginning in 1989, which I know was a special day for Wednesday, too; hopefully it still is....) and negative (including Oct. 24, the day of the death of Gene Roddenberry (1991), and the day that I learned about the death of my 1st college roommate (1993)). :sigh:

Thank you for sharing, Eric. Hopefully yesterday was not 'weird'; hopefully the stew was good. :)

Holy... ROBIN?!

Oui!! It's been TOO long! I'd LOVE to chat and catch up! Time for work now--it's almost 08h00 (Eastern)--but I'll be back tonight.

Before I go, though: happy, Happy, HAPPY day (from me & Kayt!)!

Wednesday: Hipy papy bththuthdth thuthda bthdthdty.

I feel obligated to note this. You said in the other journal that 11/19 has been weird for you since 1985. I was born 11/19/85 (the day Calvin met Hobbes, I might add).

I cause weirdness!

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