For Angrist
How do I explain you to those who could not know?
Those who have not toiled and labored for that year,
that year of proving, of hard work and suffering1?
No one can understand the residents of the island
of misfit toys, we speak our own native tongue.
We're stained glass, shattered and broken,
throwing crimson and sable light on the wall.
I'm not sure I knew you myself, James.
Not like the others, who loved you for decades,
and those who lived with you, your friends,
your freeloaders, and your final witnesses,
those people who knew of your pain.
We first met, I'm sure, on the field
on opposite sides, me quaking in fear
as you stood, towering, incarnate rage.
At Tracks2, it was no different, barring
your wrathful inebriation, as you guarded my sister,
Jayde, who you knew as Brother3.
A bleary eyed mad-man you seemed,
Watchful protection for those in your care.
It was Jayde, who we now both call Brother,
It was Jayde, who gave me that call.
Can I tell you, Brother, how wrong I was
about you? The outsiders that never knew you,
seeing only Angrist the Twisted, Mad Prophet4,
never knew what we saw. How can I explain
to the layman the dread of hearing you chuckle?
The glee of a brilliant mind turned to mischief,
only you knowing where the hammer would fall.
And I heard tales from a fellow Brother
(that foul Hobbit, trickster, the memory for us all)
of your journey to the redwoods and your hikes
on the trail. There was a pain there I never knew,
but Hobbit said, “the redwoods make him calm.”
I hope one day to make it out there, and see
all that you saw. But we spoke of a call?
The phone call was short; what was there to say?
It was shocking, to hear what had passed,
to hear what had ended in powder, lead and flame.
At the service, I was numb, nervous, and guilty,
I had left you behind, trapped in self-exile
from the group, from my real self
So you live in our memories, the eternal
self-propelled engine of devotion,
endlessly loyal, forever the pillar,
never ceasing to astound us,
for good or for ill. We miss you.
You were there for us always, Brother,
And we will meet you at the Gates5.
1My country in game requires a year of service before one could join. Petitioners often had to dig a pit big enough to roast a pig for the annual anniversary camp-out, along with other menial tasks and grunt-work.
2A late and lamented nightclub in SE DC.
3The country started out with only male members, who addressed each other as “Brother.” When the first female member successfully petitioned, tradition held, and she was given the same form of address.
4Angrist was James's character name in Darkon, though it might also be said that James was Angrist's character name in real life.
5 I could explain this, but really, just read this as “I’ll meet you in Paradise” and it’ll make more sense to you.
