He committed suicide last month. Three days after my birthday. My parents sent me a letter with his obituary from The Olympian in it.
He wore this silly red and blue poofball around his neck when we were in high school. He made me a mix tape named after the damn thing (SuperFuzz BigMix). I still have it. He smoked cloves. He introduced me to Coil (success), Front Line Assembly (success) and Rush (complete and utter failure). He kissed like a cat lapping gently at milk, as if he couldn't bear the thought of having his motions towards another person interpreted with any kind of violence. Which, I think, sums him up, at least the person that I knew ten years ago. Because what else can I do now? It's one thing to have made the decision to leave a memory untouched, crystallized, revisited in moments of pleasant nostalgia. It's another thing to have every other option permanently removed.
September is a loaded month.
September 7th, anniversary of maternal grandfather's death. September 11th. September 22nd, my birthday. September 29th, maternal grandfather's birthday.
And now, September 25th, anniversary of Colin Reese's successful attempt to take his own life. Goddammit.
Edit 20050414: Guardian article about Rachel Corrie, two years after her death
Colin's memorial speech for Rachel