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Stories from a man who fails to meet media expectations of what it means to be gay:
white, frivolous, over sexed yet sexless, shrill, single, stylish, a clown, unimportant, et al.
Tue 06/04/2002
Tony, that is, my friend Vince died last week.
He was thirty-five.
He had been HIV positive for ten years.
He was one of my oldest friends.
And he is now gone.
Even now, after having had nearly a week to get used to this, I can barely believe that he is no longer here, and when I do manage to fully comprehend this, it hurts.
It feels like a part of my history is gone.
A part of my heart is gone.
John and I attended his funeral this morning. The church was filled with his relatives and friends. The priest was thoughtful and comforting. The services were calming. I no longer believe in the church in the way that I did when I was young, but the repetitiveness of the rituals of the mass were familiar and thus soothing.
I have been told that as long as he is remembered, Vince is not gone. I do know this is true, but I also know that I am troubled that there will be no experiences, no new memories.
I have been told that Vince is with God now. I do not know if this is true, but I hope that he has found peace, that he is happy.
During the service this morning, people cried. People wept. Some, were able to say goodbye.
I've cried, I've wept, but as of yet, I haven't been able to say goodbye.
Writing this may be a part of my doing so. I'm not sure.
All I do know is that I love you Vince.
nico