Only anarchists are pretty...

This seems to happen with more and more frequency as I get older. I find out that someone to whom I used to be somewhat close, someone with whom I've lost touch, has passed on. And I feel this sort of gentle, yet building, wave of regret that I didn't find a way to stay close, or get back in touch.

So...Stuart. You were a friend in the giddy old days, when we would stay out all night at clubs and house parties, doing lots of substances represented by initials that were so bad for us but felt damned good at the time. You were someone I had a good time with for so many nights back in the mid/late 90s. You were someone I knew I could trust and feel safe with in terms of letting go of control and inhibitions back then, which was a sometimes-rare thing. You were the guy it was so easy to get silly with, and who just appreciated people, all people. I remember one night when we were hanging with our usual affection, and we talked about you being gay and my being straight, and you smiled and shrugged and said, "I just like cute people." A simple little statement, but one that said something about your openness and disposition. I remember running into you years later in Chicago, and us being happy to see each other, but distant. Time had passed, and the days weren't so giddy anymore, and that reckless abandon with which we'd lived life before was replaced, as it should have been, by cautious sensibility. I thought at the time that maybe we'd never had much in common beyond partying. I wonder now if we would have found common ground beyond partying if we'd tried. I don't know. Now we'll never know.

Goodbye, Stuart. I wish I'd had the chance to know you again before you left. You were a bright light when I knew you. I hope you're in a better place now.