"The world is a circle..."
It's funny how things go around; how connections you'd never expect to arise, do so, and in doing so, remind you of long distant days and events, far away kindnesses and moments.
I've been lucky enough to be friends with Neil Gaiman longer than my son's been alive; we 'met' each other on CompuServe's Comics and Animation Forum in mid-1995, and he's been a friend since. And although I've read pretty much everything he's written, and enjoyed it, there's one specific comic book that will always remind me of my late brother, who died in January 1998.
Yeah, told you there were connections. Mike.
It's Sandman #43, the third book in the Brief Lives arc.
A wee bit of explanation.
Shortly after Mike died, at the tragically young age of 38, I really wasn't much in the mood for comics. The family were still trying to make sense of what had just happened, and were still saying, in response to those who those who said "we don't know what to say", "no, we don't know what to say to each other either". Sure I read some comics, some old favourites, but I was just getting through the day.
At around this time, my closest friend, who'd emigrated to America three years earlier, invited me to visit, just to get out of the UK for a few days. It was with genuine gratitude that I accepted the invitation, and went over to stay with Ian and his family in Forest Hills.
Well, that gave me a problem of a different sort. Although I usually have no problem sleeping on airplanes, I knew that this flight would likely be different. I wanted to take something that I could enjoy reading, but was something I'd read before, but something that would take my mind away from the dreadful events of the previous couple of weeks. Sandman seemed perfect. I picked up the first collection and put it in my bag. Then I took it out... remembering the final story in the collection: The Sound of Her Wings, a nicely crafted tale, but one in which the character of Death shows her necessity in the cosmos. During the story, you see the deaths of several characters, characters that you only met for a couple of pages, but with Gaiman's and Dringenberg's skills, you actually cared about.
Hmm.
Even in the state I was in, I knew that was too close to home. Which wiped out The Doll's House as well, since the story was included there as well, for some reason.
So I grabbed my copy of Brief Lives from the bookshelf and packed that, as well as some others.
A few hours later, I'm on the aircraft, we're pulling away from the terminal, then we're in the air... and after reading the newspaper, I pulled out Brief Lives.
I'd forgotten how #43 starts, and I'd forgotten the character of Bernie Capax, a man of some 15,000 years of age. And how he dies in what he thinks is an accident, buried under a collapsed wall. His spirit, however, doesn't realise he's dead and he stands by the remains of the wall, in delighted surprise: "Not even a scratch." When Death arrives, he's, you'll forgive the word, crushed. Then, in an attempt to convince himself that he didn't do too badly, he says, "I did okay, didn't I? I got, what, fifteen thousand years? That's pretty good, isn't it? I lived a long time."
And that's when I remembered the next line, even before I read it. I didn't even know I was ready to read it until it hit me with full force.
Death smiles, holds out her hand, and replies: You lived what anyone gets, Bernie. You got a lifetime. No more, no less.
Yeah. You know what though? It helped. I thought of what my brother had achieved in his thirty-eight years, and for a moment, just for a moment at that time, but later for longer, I was comforted by the line.
So, last night, I went to see Amanda Palmer in Brighton, thanks to the kindness of Amanda, who - as you probably know - is married to the aforementioned Mr Gaiman. Caught up with Neil outside the gig, and was introduced to several of his friends, very nice people who, some of whom astonishingly enough, knew of me from online activities and such things. The above story came up, for the first time in a long while. Connection.
Was very good to see Neil, even though I'd seen him a lot more recently than our usual gaps between meetings would imply, and also that he was suffering from a touch of what in the world of comic books pros and fans alike is universally known as "con crud"; I'm not sure what the equivalent for post Edinburgh Festival is.
However, the gig itself was wonderful. My former landlady (ok, for three days in Edinburgh, but I love calling her that) blew the place away, and I don't know anyone who was there (including Mitch, Clara and various mutual friends) who'd disagree. She played some new as yet unrecorded material which varied between good and immediate classic, and some old favourites.
Not entirely sure why the three very drunk people next to me kept on calling for Astronaut considering she opened the gig with it, but maybe they missed the opening numbers. I was, it has to be admitted, mildly disappointed that she didn't perform Vegemite, but that's just me. And without spoiling the surprise for anyone who's yet to see this mini-tour, all I can say is that all gigs should begin with a workout.
And everyone should have a bellydancing PA. It should be a rule or something. Just saying.
But connections. Remember I said about reading Neil's writings after we lost Mike?
For entirely different reasons, reasons I'm not about to go into here, I was thrown somewhat when a couple of the songs (songs I've heard performed before by Amanda, let's be fair) hit home far harder than I'd expected. Far harder.
Completely took me 'out' of the gig, and Amanda's such a powerful singer that I couldn't write them off at the time as "just another song".
Pow - right in the gut.
But even with those moments, the gig was perfect.
Absolutely Fucking Perfect.
Heh.
Sorry.
I've been lucky enough to be friends with Neil Gaiman longer than my son's been alive; we 'met' each other on CompuServe's Comics and Animation Forum in mid-1995, and he's been a friend since. And although I've read pretty much everything he's written, and enjoyed it, there's one specific comic book that will always remind me of my late brother, who died in January 1998.
Yeah, told you there were connections. Mike.
It's Sandman #43, the third book in the Brief Lives arc.
A wee bit of explanation.
Shortly after Mike died, at the tragically young age of 38, I really wasn't much in the mood for comics. The family were still trying to make sense of what had just happened, and were still saying, in response to those who those who said "we don't know what to say", "no, we don't know what to say to each other either". Sure I read some comics, some old favourites, but I was just getting through the day.
At around this time, my closest friend, who'd emigrated to America three years earlier, invited me to visit, just to get out of the UK for a few days. It was with genuine gratitude that I accepted the invitation, and went over to stay with Ian and his family in Forest Hills.
Well, that gave me a problem of a different sort. Although I usually have no problem sleeping on airplanes, I knew that this flight would likely be different. I wanted to take something that I could enjoy reading, but was something I'd read before, but something that would take my mind away from the dreadful events of the previous couple of weeks. Sandman seemed perfect. I picked up the first collection and put it in my bag. Then I took it out... remembering the final story in the collection: The Sound of Her Wings, a nicely crafted tale, but one in which the character of Death shows her necessity in the cosmos. During the story, you see the deaths of several characters, characters that you only met for a couple of pages, but with Gaiman's and Dringenberg's skills, you actually cared about.
Hmm.
Even in the state I was in, I knew that was too close to home. Which wiped out The Doll's House as well, since the story was included there as well, for some reason.
So I grabbed my copy of Brief Lives from the bookshelf and packed that, as well as some others.
A few hours later, I'm on the aircraft, we're pulling away from the terminal, then we're in the air... and after reading the newspaper, I pulled out Brief Lives.
I'd forgotten how #43 starts, and I'd forgotten the character of Bernie Capax, a man of some 15,000 years of age. And how he dies in what he thinks is an accident, buried under a collapsed wall. His spirit, however, doesn't realise he's dead and he stands by the remains of the wall, in delighted surprise: "Not even a scratch." When Death arrives, he's, you'll forgive the word, crushed. Then, in an attempt to convince himself that he didn't do too badly, he says, "I did okay, didn't I? I got, what, fifteen thousand years? That's pretty good, isn't it? I lived a long time."
And that's when I remembered the next line, even before I read it. I didn't even know I was ready to read it until it hit me with full force.
Death smiles, holds out her hand, and replies: You lived what anyone gets, Bernie. You got a lifetime. No more, no less.
Yeah. You know what though? It helped. I thought of what my brother had achieved in his thirty-eight years, and for a moment, just for a moment at that time, but later for longer, I was comforted by the line.
So, last night, I went to see Amanda Palmer in Brighton, thanks to the kindness of Amanda, who - as you probably know - is married to the aforementioned Mr Gaiman. Caught up with Neil outside the gig, and was introduced to several of his friends, very nice people who, some of whom astonishingly enough, knew of me from online activities and such things. The above story came up, for the first time in a long while. Connection.
Was very good to see Neil, even though I'd seen him a lot more recently than our usual gaps between meetings would imply, and also that he was suffering from a touch of what in the world of comic books pros and fans alike is universally known as "con crud"; I'm not sure what the equivalent for post Edinburgh Festival is.
However, the gig itself was wonderful. My former landlady (ok, for three days in Edinburgh, but I love calling her that) blew the place away, and I don't know anyone who was there (including Mitch, Clara and various mutual friends) who'd disagree. She played some new as yet unrecorded material which varied between good and immediate classic, and some old favourites.
Not entirely sure why the three very drunk people next to me kept on calling for Astronaut considering she opened the gig with it, but maybe they missed the opening numbers. I was, it has to be admitted, mildly disappointed that she didn't perform Vegemite, but that's just me. And without spoiling the surprise for anyone who's yet to see this mini-tour, all I can say is that all gigs should begin with a workout.
And everyone should have a bellydancing PA. It should be a rule or something. Just saying.
But connections. Remember I said about reading Neil's writings after we lost Mike?
For entirely different reasons, reasons I'm not about to go into here, I was thrown somewhat when a couple of the songs (songs I've heard performed before by Amanda, let's be fair) hit home far harder than I'd expected. Far harder.
Completely took me 'out' of the gig, and Amanda's such a powerful singer that I couldn't write them off at the time as "just another song".
Pow - right in the gut.
But even with those moments, the gig was perfect.
Absolutely Fucking Perfect.
Heh.
Sorry.