Δαφνη Ευτυχια Αρθουρος

Yesterday we said goodbye to butterfluff at a small memorial service that started at three o'clock "fannish time" (4:10). Given how the fluff's friends are distributed around the planet, I imagine it would have been much larger if we had Niven's teleport booths. I've said a few times in the past couple of weeks, "I feel like I'm running out of words." Fortunately in person I can let my guitar speak for me (though I didn't play very well -- my mind was on things other than technique). Most of what needed to be spoken was spoken; Butterfluff is remembered, Butterfluff's memory has been honored, Butterfluff's friends (those of us fortunate to have been able to attend -- I wish everyone who wanted to be there could have) have bid a tearful farewell, and then we all spent the next few hours in each other's company with food available, reassuring ourselves by means of ordinary conversation about all topics, Fluff-related and otherwise, that life does go on and we remain connected to each other, none of us alone in our grief. What's that quote, "Laughter shared is increased; sorrow shared is diminished"? The sorrow isn't removed, but sharing our joint sorrow helps make it much more bearable. And the comfort of conversation with friends helps pull us -- well, me, at least -- briefly out of the "brain spin" I've been falling into too easily since hearing of the passing of my friend.

Some irreverent comments were made in low voices, which would have upset some of the people there (hence the low voices) but which Butterfluff would have loved ... or would even have said. (One comment that was said to me, I could hear in my head in Butterfluff's voice, and even know exactly which tone-of-voice it would have been spoken in.) Butterfluff capitalized on absurdity, and knew when and how to be irreverent.

I'm not done mourning, but the memorial service was an important step. I still hurt, I still grieve, but this is natural. There will be things that make me think of my friend and make me cry. But at some point it'll stop being every time my brain is otherwise too quiet. This I know, for I have been here before. Sure hurts a lot right now though.

Conversation with friends ... some seen far too seldom ... As always happens at such times, we see people we've lost touch with, wonder how we lost touch, think that it's good to see them but it's a shame we're seeing them for this particular reason, and contemplate how gosh, we really ought to make sure we get to spend more time with our friends while we still have them ... And then all those tiny but urgent things, the niggling details of daily life that consume our time day-to-day and week-to-week, catch us up again and we fall back into our established patterns. How does one break loose of that?

How much of our fondness for memories of childhood, high school, and college is tied to our having gotten to spend so much more time with our friends back then than in "grown up" life?

Butterfluff's sister had asked that if anybody taped the service, she be sent a copy. I asked, and nobody else seemed to be planning to record it, so I took my video camera and a huge box of assorted gear and cables (and someone ran out to buy an adaptor I needed so that I could put the monitor after the VCR instead of before it), and videotaped the service. I've glanced at the tape, and it's not very good, but it'll do for what it needs to be. (Some of the problems were from the equipment (I couldn't get a clear enough image on the monitor to be able to tell whether the camera was focussed, so I had to guess, and I didn't quite nail it; and I didn't have a stable enough tripod (actually, I used a cymbal stand)), some were from my inexperience at shooting video (yeah, I've already noted how I could've fixed some things if I'd known), and some were just plain mistakes because, as one might expect, I was not at my best mentally yesterday.) Several people helped me set up, tear down, and load and unload the car, for which assistance I am grateful.

This seems to be a bad month for cancer, and for deaths in the extended community in general. I've seen announcements of fannish/SCAdian deaths in a couple of other places in the past week or so, someone on a mailing list I'm on is about to lose a close friend to cancer, and another friend of mine said his lymphoma is back -- this was not the week I needed to hear that news, for while he didn't sound all doom-and-gloom, I couldn't help the fact that a voice in the back of my skull started shrieking, "No no no, I just lost someone to cancer, I can't stand to lose another!" -- here's hoping he beats it. And then there's theferrett's uncle Tommy. What is it about June 2004?

Before I forget: I've been meaning to link to aliza250's very important outburst of disgust in reaction to keith_m043's announcement of Butterfluff's death. I haven't written anything about that aspect of it because I don't trust myself to. The pain, indignation, and anger are too great, and too tightly bound together, and I'm afraid to even start. Just as on a roller coaster I fear that if I start to scream I shall never stop (yeah, I'm phobic about roller coasters -- another topic another time), I'm afraid to start writing on this just yet.

I'll confess to being rather startled by Keith's statement that I had written a good eulogy, since lately I feel as though I am communicating poorly -- that "I keep running out of words" feeling I mentioned. There's so much I feel I haven't said, or haven't said well enough. Or just don't know how to say.

And that's it. I'm not quite out of words this moment, but the tears are here and making it hard to see the damned screen, so I'm going to stop writing and go back to bed. Maybe catch another hour or two of sleep before going to the recording studio this afternoon.