Wrote this piece this morning. I haven't had a good cathartic experience like this in a while. Eyes a bit swollen and nose a little raw.
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Rest in Peace Ray Bradbury - 6-16-12
Ten Days ago Ray Bradbury died. Yesterday a story was posted online about a piece of fiction written by Neil Gaiman. He wrote a story titled “The Man Who Forgot Ray Bradbury.” A tribute he wrote for Bradbury's birthday years ago. A tribute to one of the late author's stories wherein he remembers Edgar Allen Poe, “Usher II” I think. I read the intro to the piece and soon after found an audio file of Gaiman reading in front of an audience. An audience here in Portland. An audience that welcomed people I work with. I've listened to Mr. Gaiman reading the story several times now. And likely I will hear a hundred more. It is without question the most fitting tribute I believe I've ever heard.
On June 6th, 2012 he passed away at the age of 91. An author, a writer, a poet, a playwright, A Science Fiction storyteller. His work is like none other and it pains me to admit even here how little I have read of his works. A few short stories here and there, a few novels, Dandelion Wine, Something Wicked This Way Comes, and Fahrenheit 451. I shall have to remedy that. Read more of his work. But what I remember most is his book on Writing. Zen in the Art of Writing. While most were inspired more by his stories and I am sure I will be as well, I was inspired by him talking about writing. About why he wrote, his philosophy of the craft. The passion with which he wrote, the passion with which he lived his life. Writing stories to remember those passions.
Ray Bradbury died three days after my birthday and I'd like to think that a part of his spirit is in me now. As I believe my brother's spirit is in me, protecting me. It's hard to walk the line of not believing the supernatural of any kind and keeping the thought alive that my brother still watches over me. But it's there. A desire to be filled with magic.
I'd like to think that Ray Bradbury left a little piece of something for writers, for young people and their elders who read his stories, for the imaginations of everyone, everywhere. But mostly I'd like to think that he left something for me. This is of course more to my benefit. More to my own personal need. As a man who is swiftly becoming not so young any more, who feels he has wasted years of his life not being himself, who feels there's still a small fire in the middle of his chest just waiting to burn white hot. To believe Ray Bradbury is there helps. It helps me have hope. It helps me like believing my brother is there, that the strength and intelligence and fire he brought to the world helps me.
I want to believe I still have time. That perhaps, just maybe I still have stories to tell. Stories people will want to read or hear. More to the point, maybe I will finally begin to tell the stories that I have been holding on to for far too long.
Neil Gaiman's story is beautiful, and brilliant, and heartbreaking all at once. In it a man has begun to forget words, concepts, and people. He has one particular person in mind that he's trying to remember, an author that gave him so much. He tries to sneak up on the memory from the side. To remember his stories and see if he can get to the memory he's trying to reach. He remembers the characters of Fahrenheit 451 as they remember parts of classic novels, classic stories, cultural touchstones of humanity's existence. And it's almost impossibly fitting.
My wife's family tells stories all of the time. It's a family trait that none of them can actually help, but commit. And the stories they tell are about their family. They are stories about each other. They are stories about loved ones they dare not forget. I've heard these stories again and again, until almost I could tell them. And for a person that was once outside of this family looking in, it's an intensely beautiful thing to see.
Their love of one another is strong and grows stronger as they tell those stories again and again. They bond over where they came from. They connect and laugh, and love, and cry...together. But they remember. Each of them holding onto pieces of those they've lost, sharing with one another, arriving at the name, the concept, the person from the side. From every possible side. Like starring just off center of a really faint star so your eyes will catch its light all the clearer.
I want to remember my brother that way. And I worry sometimes that some may think I cannot let go of my brother. That I will ruin myself remembering the event that shaped so much of my young life. But who am I if not a person who at times wishes his brother was still around. I will tell the stories of that event to myself again and again just to remember a piece of him. I will also tell the happy stories that I know of my brother. I will remember.
I remember running barefoot in the snow in our backyard one winter until my feet were so cold he had to rub them until the were warm enough for me to move. I remember playing with plastic dart guns in our room until I got dart to the eye. I remember watching The Adventures of Mark Twain with him and marveling at the wonder and craft of claymation. I remember his face and a memory of him throwing a baseball into a tire attached to the fence. I remember his smile. I remember him giving hilarious voice to the silent animals on nature documentaries. But I don't remember his actual voice. I don't remember the last thing he might have said to me. I've forgotten pieces I'd rather not forget. People will remember my brother, because I remember my brother.
There are stories that will help me remember. There are stories in me that help make this world clearer to me. There are stories that help me with the heartbreak. There are stories wherein I can explore this world in ways I'll never physically be able to. There are stories in me to help me understand concepts and ideas I've only dreamed of. I'll come at these stories from the side, I'll stare at them from just off center hoping I can catch glimpses of their brightness. There are stories I should tell.
We will all remember Ray Bradbury. We'll read his stories. We'll listen to him speak in videos and recordings. We'll remember him, because Neil Gaiman remembers him, because readers and writers will remember Neil Gaiman. We'll remember Ray Bradbury because we will have a little piece of him in all of us. And I have a piece of him in me. I have to believe that. And I'll remember his writing advice, because his writing advice is the same I think he'd give to me on how to live my life.
“If you are writing without zest, without gusto, without love, without fun, you are only half a writer.”
“But today—explode—fly apart—disintegrate! The other six or seven drafts are going to be pure torture. So why not enjoy the first draft, in the hope that your joy will seek and find others in the world who, reading your story, will catch fire, too?”
“Find a character, like yourself, who will want something or not want something, with all his heart. Give him running orders. Shoot him off. Then follow as fast as you can go.”
“I claim no victory. But there was blood on my gloves when I hung them up.” --Ray Bradbury
RIP Ray Bradbury – 1920 - 2012
RIP Scott David Cushing – 1974 - 1993
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