I'm not really one who goes all in on being overly (or overtly) spiritual. I wasn't raised to be religious (lapsed Catholics on both sides of my family tree). I am not big on the thought that there's loads of meaning in everything that happens.
Backstory--In college, I collaborated on writing projects with two friends, Michael and Melissa. We were (as so many young aspiring writers are since time immemorial) in thrall to the Beat Generation. The thought of writers hanging around together and getting drunk/stoned while writing and helping to edit each other's work was what we aspired to. Michael, Melissa, and I formed "The Trinity", with Michael assigning us our roles. I was Jack Kerouac, Michael was William Burroughs, and Melissa was Allen Ginsberg.
Life happened. While I still collaborated with them both over the years, it never became as cohesive as it should have been. I had a very self-destructive phase in my late 20s, which I have thankfully pulled myself out of. Michael, unfortunately, had more than a phase. He lived at home right up to age 39, which is the age he will always be, because I just found out a few hours ago that he was found dead in his bedroom by his parents today. I don't know what the exact cause of death was yet. Obviously it is easy to speculate, and it makes a knot form in my guts to know that speculation in this case will probably be borne out by the truth.
Now for the weird(ish) part. Today, prior to learning of his death, I had gone to a record store and bought a used Rolling Stone magazine from 1982. In it, the previous owner had stuck an index card which had the following written on it:
"Memory and dream are intermixed in this mad universe"--Jack Kerouac.
Jack Kerouac died of the drink while living with his mother. Michael became Kerouac. I wish I could find some meaning in this odd coincidence, but I don't think I will. I just hope this all isn't just fodder for some sort of odd anecdote. His death hasn't really sunk in yet, but I hope he would appreciate my initial instinct would be to write about what happened.
Backstory--In college, I collaborated on writing projects with two friends, Michael and Melissa. We were (as so many young aspiring writers are since time immemorial) in thrall to the Beat Generation. The thought of writers hanging around together and getting drunk/stoned while writing and helping to edit each other's work was what we aspired to. Michael, Melissa, and I formed "The Trinity", with Michael assigning us our roles. I was Jack Kerouac, Michael was William Burroughs, and Melissa was Allen Ginsberg.
Life happened. While I still collaborated with them both over the years, it never became as cohesive as it should have been. I had a very self-destructive phase in my late 20s, which I have thankfully pulled myself out of. Michael, unfortunately, had more than a phase. He lived at home right up to age 39, which is the age he will always be, because I just found out a few hours ago that he was found dead in his bedroom by his parents today. I don't know what the exact cause of death was yet. Obviously it is easy to speculate, and it makes a knot form in my guts to know that speculation in this case will probably be borne out by the truth.
Now for the weird(ish) part. Today, prior to learning of his death, I had gone to a record store and bought a used Rolling Stone magazine from 1982. In it, the previous owner had stuck an index card which had the following written on it:
"Memory and dream are intermixed in this mad universe"--Jack Kerouac.
Jack Kerouac died of the drink while living with his mother. Michael became Kerouac. I wish I could find some meaning in this odd coincidence, but I don't think I will. I just hope this all isn't just fodder for some sort of odd anecdote. His death hasn't really sunk in yet, but I hope he would appreciate my initial instinct would be to write about what happened.