Jan 24, 2007
Yesterday, I may have learned that a friend of mine is dead. A sweet sardonic man with few in his life, having lost most of his friends to HIV in the 80's and 90's. I knew him through the motorcycles. We rode together fairly regularly when I lived in Nevada. He'd come up to visit my wife and I, and we'd go ride through the mountains around Lake Tahoe. When I had a chance, I'd visit him in San Francisco and we'd take the bikes up the coast highway or down into the Santa Cruz mountains. I used to think that he got more out of the relationship. But I was happy to offer what I could to someone that didn't have much left. His health was an ever pressing issue, a crushing presence. Little bit by little bit, it turned worse and worse. But through more than anything anyone should have to stand, he kept going - though his world got smaller and smaller. Sometimes the mighty effort of the day was getting from the bed to the bathroom. Sometimes the victory was regaining enough sight to be able to type, to send an e-mail or to update his web-site.
I realized yesterday that I hadn't heard from him in a while, that he hadn't replied to the e-mails I'd sent over the past year. New e-mails bounce. The phone numbers, numbers he and his partner had had for many years, no longer work. I'm sending a letter to the old address. Maybe he's still with us. I hope so.
Rotting Apple, 6" x 5"
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