I am in the middle of putting the finishing touches on a script tonight, and I was in a creative and productive mood. I wanted to reach out to a friend who has extensive radio background and ask him for his advice on getting some added radio/talk-show publicity for our upcoming show, since I was altogether unsuccessful in getting it accomplished for our current show through the venues we were targeting, but I am wearing them down. I also wanted to tell him how exciting it was to be working in a few fields that I used to talk to him about, and just happened to be listening to a CD he made me about ten years ago. He was a friend who shared common musical interests, and we enjoyed talking about radio and other things but had not done so in awhile. I was excited to hear his view on things.
I got to his Facebook, and after reading a few messages, figured out why I hadn't seen his name on my news feed in quite some time. He's gone, died in late 2012. People were posting videos on his Facebook, wishing him a happy birthday, "to where you may be now," and posting pictures, etc. I realized this had been going on for over a year and a half. I had moved at about that time, so I realized that during my move when I wasn't checking my Facebook, I didn't see that he had died, and at this point in our lives we really didn't have very many mutual friends, so it wasn't a huge shock that no one had let me know, as either they didn't realize I knew him, or they figured I had heard it somewhere.
There is no death notification on Facebook, nor does the application realize that although you have not posted to someone's wall in awhile, it doesn't mean that they didn't mean something to you at one point in your life, and still do.
So here's to you, Paul, and the post I would have sent you, alerting you to an excited message in your inbox where I would have told you that I am finally, after all, an actual writer, and that I work with music and art and food and theater every day. I would have asked you your advice from your many years in radio and music, and would have giggled to you that the kids and I still listen to mix CDs you compiled for me. I would have thanked you again for being a friend to me during a confusing segment of my life, and for caring enough to talk to me about the things I cared about. I would have thanked you for, once upon a time, teasing me about calling myself a writer when I was too scared to send anything in. I would have apologized for not keeping in touch.
What's odd is that you were only part of my life for a short time, but there is something so striking about you being gone and seeing the outpouring of love and friendship that continues on your page.
This makes me want to make decisions and do things that have a positive impact on people. It reminds me that achievements mean nothing in the face of the memories we make with people we care about, the little things... all those sappy things I used to discount. Shared songs, laughs, pictures. The things we take totally and utterly for granted.
Here's to today's motivator; the reminder that no matter how cool and creative and smart and kind someone is, they will not be here forever, and neither will you. Never forget that we need to do as much as we can while we are here, touch as many people as we can, and laugh as much as possible. RIP, PJY, and it's moving to see that even though you died in 2012, your friends still talk to you on your Facebook on a regular basis, making sure you know the songs they heard that remind them of you, and the stories they tell... the essence of art and the true reason for any of this storytelling and creating - the memory of single moments in time, encasing details in tunes and lines and movement like small shrines, making a person's life and smile and acts easily remembered for years to come. You were a sweetheart, and you are missed. Broadcasting on a differently frequency indeed.
No comments:
Post a Comment