With a heavy sigh I can type his name. Little solace, but at least we know, we have some closure. No more wondering, no more worries. No more hope. But questions remain. Well actually, it's just one question. Why? There are a million, no, a bajillion theories and studies, yet those who can truly answer the question are gone.
How do I eulogize my friend? How do I tell anyone who happens to read these words just what kind of man he was? Do I list his musical accomplishments? How about the magazine that was born from idle chit chat at The Black Swan? The Cosmic Debris. I'm glad now that I kept a copy of every issue every published. At least it's something. How can I convey the deep feelings I have in my heart for him? My former band-mate, at times my editor, always my friend. His love for Smirnoff Blue Label Vodka, rye and ginger, pine nuts on lasagna (who the hell eats pine nuts on lasagna?), David Gilmour playing in the pouring rain at Knebworth--the time he leaned over during a song and turned our keyboard player off...well, really, he was playing completely off key...and how we laughed when we realized Harry didn't even know he'd been shut off. He'd take a tie and fashion it like a headband, long end hanging down of course, and become his alter ego--the Teenage Mutant Vodka Poodle.
New Year's 1990. Shawnigan Hall. Mill Bay's Most Dangerous Band. Weeks of rehearsal, selling tickets, decorating, putting together food......and then Barry gives the band the set lists and a letter. He dedicated an entire paragraph to telling us that no performer should wear a white garter belt. I guess that meant me because I couldn't imagine any of the guys in a white garter belt. (well, I could, but that's a story for another day) So, with the help of his then wife Darlene, we set him up. At midnite, as the band screamed through Hendrix's Auld Lang Syne, yours truly slinked up to him, slowly and seductively pulling a black garter belt out from under a very short black skirt. Much to his delight, the garment was draped across his microphone. Then he sniffed it! We fell all over ourselves laughing--it was so, so, Barry.
I need to remember the good things, the funny things, and for now, his highs and lows must be forgotten. If I remember those, I cry enough tears to fill the inlet where they found his body.
We gathered together last weekend, comforting each other, numb with grief and shock. Taking stock of the number of people there, someone wondered out loud if things would be different if Barry could be there to see how many people loved him. Between you and me, I don't think it would've made any difference. He knew, and it didn't change anything. Not a goddamned thing.
We're here, he's gone.
One thing, when I see him again, and I believe I will, I'll punch him. Hard.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Friday, October 01, 2004
Missing friends
I wonder, do we all sit at our computers, conjuring up words of wisdom in hopes that someone stumbles across them? Hey, we could all be the next Hemingway--if the words would just come out right, dammit!
And there are some who can't find the right words at all. No matter how hard they try, they feel like they're doing nothing more than tilting at windmills. Rash decisions are made, leaving those left behind wondering why? Was there something we missed, could've done--how did we fail our friend that he felt there was no other way out? In our grief, making vain attempts to understand, we make his death about us--how could he have done this, hurt us all this way? Didn't he know we loved him? That we were there to help him? Maybe he thought he'd accepted enough charity. After all, a man has nothing if not his pride. The reality is his death is about him, and unless one of us has ever swam in his depths of despair, we can't understand why anyone would choose to check out early. I guess it's when that final ray of hope disappears, when that light at the end of the tunnel is the oncoming train, misery envelopes you like a shroud......maybe that's the moment of clarity. Sad thing, we'll never know. He will, but then again, his death is about him.
Our friend has been missing since Sept. 13th. Early this evening they pulled the body of an unidentified male out of the water in the Saanich Inlet. With all my being I want, no I need, to believe it's not him. I'm afraid to type his name yet. It'll make seem final, and as long as he's missing, he could be anywhere, right? Right?
In my heart I know he's become Comfortably Numb.
Then I cry...........
And there are some who can't find the right words at all. No matter how hard they try, they feel like they're doing nothing more than tilting at windmills. Rash decisions are made, leaving those left behind wondering why? Was there something we missed, could've done--how did we fail our friend that he felt there was no other way out? In our grief, making vain attempts to understand, we make his death about us--how could he have done this, hurt us all this way? Didn't he know we loved him? That we were there to help him? Maybe he thought he'd accepted enough charity. After all, a man has nothing if not his pride. The reality is his death is about him, and unless one of us has ever swam in his depths of despair, we can't understand why anyone would choose to check out early. I guess it's when that final ray of hope disappears, when that light at the end of the tunnel is the oncoming train, misery envelopes you like a shroud......maybe that's the moment of clarity. Sad thing, we'll never know. He will, but then again, his death is about him.
Our friend has been missing since Sept. 13th. Early this evening they pulled the body of an unidentified male out of the water in the Saanich Inlet. With all my being I want, no I need, to believe it's not him. I'm afraid to type his name yet. It'll make seem final, and as long as he's missing, he could be anywhere, right? Right?
In my heart I know he's become Comfortably Numb.
Then I cry...........
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