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A Poem, by Henry Gibson:

Jesus picked a flower one day,
My nephew Mel another -
well, not my nephew really:
more my uncle's niece's brother

Thank you.

A poem for Henry Gibson:

I used to love your clever poems;
And wrote, myself, but was just a dabbler -
I really never understood
How you could write Hedda Gabbler.

Rest inpiece
joshwriting: (Default)
Listening to him read his poetry.

Watching him stroll across the NMH campus in his blazer, scarf, and moccasins.

Seeing him mime and act.

Watching him direct Anouilh's Antigone for the MIT High School Studies Program.

Going to Balticon with him and Becca.

Attending his creation/direction of the authorized multi-media performance Wizard of Earthsea.

Chess, Diplomacy, and a dozen other games.

Sharing his mother.

The Comedy/Drama of the Life of Marck Morrison abruptly closed forever, last month.

He'd want me to smile. I can't quite manage it just yet.
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In the news today, I read of Bobby Fischer's death at the age of 64, in his home in exile, Iceland. Somehow, this seems like a thoroughly appropriate age at death for him.

I am a child of the 60's and early 70's, having turned 18 in 1974, and during my life until then Chess in America was spelled F.I.S.C.H.E.R.

His games against Spassky for the world championship were carried on television, albeit in awkward fashion. The complete games appeared in the major daily newspapers. His presence was big enough that a match many years later, repairing him with Spassky was still news, even though Spassky was far from the player he had been and nobody knew what sort of game Fischer was up to.

I was (and am) a chess player, and I loved the game he played. I never knew him personally, and doubt that the stories I have heard come anywhere near describing the complete man, so I am loathe to even remotely claim I know why he did much of what he did or said some of the wild things he said.

I just know that as with many other iconic figures, he changed a lot of lives, many of them for the better, despite his eccentricities as well as because of some of them. The world is a poorer and less strange place without him.

Goodbye, Bobby Fischer. May you have the happiness and peace now that seemed to elude you throughout most of your life.
joshwriting: (Default)
Novelist Kurt Vonnegut dies at 84

No random noises in my head will make me forget his work. No thick lenses will make it too hard for me to read it. No mask can hide the beauty and power of his writing.

His voice is stilled, but his voice will resonate in the souls of the divergent for as long as there are such folks. The irony of mandatory readings of Harrison Bergeron in schools will continue.

And Kilgore Trout will continue to be a hack, no matter how hard Phil Farmer tries.

I will miss Kurt Vonnegut, mostly in an abstract way, if not abstruse. He is one whose passing most prompts me to hope that there is some sort of continuation after death.

I think tomorrow's psychology class will take a look at Vonnegut, in memoriam.
joshwriting: (Default)
Goodbye, Johnny Hart.

Thank you for the many hours of laughter from B.C. and The Wizard of Id.

He was 76. His strip, B.C., started in 1958!

But, to me, he will forever be best remembered for the two observations in The Wizard of Id:

The King is a fink!


The peasants are revolting!


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