Hi,

Recently, I found myself in a small library that was built probably around the time of WW II, when architecture still mattered. It was astonishingly beautiful, intimate, and quiet. Half a dozen patrons surrounded me. Light poured through the glass windows. I could feel the sweltering heat from outside.

As I sat at an oak table, my mind conjured an image of my dead friend, Doug. I imagined him sitting across from me. Remembering him--larger-than-life, with a personality that literally dripped with creative talent--was deeply comforting. He understood me. I understood him. Both of us were writers: he, Camus; and I, an amateur blogger.

And I felt a feeling that I haven't felt for a very, very long time. Love. Seeing that striking figure with black hair, relaxing, silently supporting me and keeping me company, flooded me with longing and joy. If only the image in my mind could have been turned into a warm body with intense, glistening eyes sitting in a chair, I would have gotten up, walked over to him, held him, kissed him, told him how much I loved him, and made him *feel* and *know* it.

I listened. And from somewhere deep inside of me, I imagined--I "heard"--Douggie say…a line, a particular line that belongs in a story, as part of a dialogue. It was too beautiful of a line for me to have invented myself, and yet there it was, eight words, a profound acknowledgement so powerful that he could well have been sitting across from me. He never said anything like this line while alive, nor is it something that I'd ever write. But I know that he would have *loved* it, smiled his wicked, gleaming smile, and demanded that I write more.

"I wish that I were as good as you. I wish that I could write a short story around it." That's what I would have told him. But I'm not, and I can't.

I would have done anything to save him. He was worth more to me than all the money, power, fame, material, or social adulation in the world. I adored Doug Stewart. He fought a heroic battle. I can't believe that what's left is only my imperfect memories.

I'd have given anything to have just had five more minutes with him, so that I could tell him how great he was in my eyes, how much I loved him, how important he was to me…but I can't.

Instead, I can only say a thank you to no one in particular, in honor of his memory, and add,

"I'll try."

Steve

That's beautiful, Steve.

Lovely

"I can't believe that what's left is only my imperfect memories."

Editorial comment: leave out "only". Your memories are imperfect. His were better and far more complete, but they were imperfect too. To the extent that his memories continue in you, he continues to exist, and even have influence in the world. That is no small thing.

Douglas Hofstadter explores this idea at some length in the book I Am a Strange Loop. He is quite literal in saying that the software that he believes constitutes our consciousness can exist in another person who has ingrained our memories and motivations in themselves, and they can in a sense act as our agents. He went on for several hundred pages explaining what he meant, but I think your "sitting" across from Doug, and sharing the experience with us, gets right to the heart of his argument.

So, yeah, imperfect memories, but they are more than "only". Doug can clearly still influence the world. Thanks for sharing.

So generous of you to share that beautiful moment with us.

Thank you.

I think your writing is wonderful. Keep it up. I am sure Doug would be very touched by your lovely tribute to him. Thankyou for sharing such an intimate moment with us!

At times, when things are just right for me, I too have these maybe unexplainable but connected thoughts with friends and family who have moved on. Sometimes it is almost palpable. When I am working in the yard, in the rose garden, and in a contemplative mood, I sometimes start to cry from the intensity of the moments. Then they pass as I focus on something else. My friend Daryl, my friend Mark, and others who are were/are close to me but are "gone". Color me crazy but it sure seems real to me. It matters not that others don't, can't, won't understand.

Thanks, all, for reading.

I just re-read some of Douggie's writings, which I love so much. They're so sacred to me that I've never shared them, even though they're on a public website. They're as vivid and violently alive now as when he wrote them. I remember why he seemed larger-than-life: he was.

Reading his writings is a powerful, addictive, and compelling experience. He lived life not just with passion, but fire. Reading his stories is like reading about the life of a superhero. You find yourself wondering, "Did that really happen? And that? And that, too?" Yes! All of it.

His writings are energetic, endlessly interesting, and confident. They pulse with intelligence, novelty, and humor. It's hard for me to try to trace how he got from where he began to suicide, even when I re-read his own thoughts about his first suicide attempt. One thing that I can say with certainty is that he was courageous to a degree that I've never seen in another person. That courage may have come off as fearlessness to an observer, but it wasn't. It was courage in the face of fear and very real losses.

There's something else that I find in his writings that must have fueled that courage and made it possible: strength. He had a powerful personality. It was impossible to meet and not vividly remember Doug. Even though he was very much an introvert, his presence was powerful. He didn't try. It's just the way that he was. And a whole slew of extraordinary people orbited around him. I was one of them (though not a member of the extraordinary crowd, by any stretch of the imagination). In a very real sense, we were his fans, and he was the rock star.

Ordinary people don't get admitted effortlessly to a law school, and later, an MBA program. Douggie was off-the-scale intelligent. If there's anyone that I would have thought *couldn't* fail, it was Doug. And yet, he gave up.

Why?

It's when a question becomes a regret that life turns into death. "Why?" with a question mark is answered by "Why." with a period.

Our questions echo back at us, unanswered, after colliding with the walls of silence and death.

He had brown hair. (Why did I write black?) Dark and closely cropped.

I don't want to say that I blame myself for his death, but it's hard to live with myself convinced that had I been physically closer to him, in St. Louis, he'd still be alive today. I am *certain* that that's true. I don't know how to cope with that.

We fought constantly. Someone looking in would never have imagined that we could have been friends. Still less would anyone dream that I consider him to have been the most important influence in my life. I know some highly successful and acclaimed people, but Doug permanently changed my life for the better.

As sacred as he was--and is--to me, I want others to know him. The sacred isn't what he publicly wrote, but the fights, the laughter, and all of the private moments that exist only in my memory.

This was Douggie's website:

http://xionakis.dune.net

You might want to start reading here:

http://xionakis.dune.net/ds-suicide.htm

*deep breath*

Steve

Doug's writing has moved me to tears tonight. I wish I could have known him, too. He sounds absolutely amazing. Steve, I am so sorry for your loss.

I don't know you, but your feelings, your writing have moved me. Honest, unembellished expressions of personal truth: there is nothing more human, more memorable, more worthwhile to read.

Beautifully writen! I usually try not to let things get to me. But Dang it!- YOU MADE ME CRY! Wish I could write like you! Wish I could Feel love like you!

I like it. Thanks for sharing that.