Late night/early morning thoughts before a funeral.

I don't know if I was 8, or 9, or 10... or maybe even 11, though I doubt I was that old.

I was at summer camp, and I saw my brother... and, well...

To say that he was beautiful was meaningless; to say that I loved him was hopelessly redundant. I had touched the mind of God, you see, and I had seen him, and realized these things on an incredibly primal level.

Isn't that impressive?

You know what else is pretty impressive? Watching a pigeon fly into high-voltage lines, just right. *PIFT*, and there's nothing left. Yeah, it's impressive as hell, but not a whole lot of fun for the pigeon.

I was thirty seven when I realized that I was different. Not just 'different', but *DIFFERENT*. I realized that I was a regenerating pigeon, flying into high voltage lines just right, over and over again. And I don't know if I started insulating myself, or flying differently, but I wasn't getting *PIFT*ed anymore.

And today I wonder... did my brother have fifteen months more to learn how to deal? Or fifteen more months of flying into high voltage lines, so that, where I was able to find an answer, he wasn't?

Spider Robinson wrote about two telepathic brothers... and how they were finally able to share the control over that horrifying form of telepathy they shared.

He also wrote about meddling time travellers who went back in time, and fixed things, and made a beautiful thing even more beautiful.

Maybe my brother died because he needed sex, companionship, love, or whatever he was seeking.

Any person who opposes condom distribution and education for HIV control, note the middle two factors before you open your mouth against it again.

Maybe my brother needed something to insulate him from the high voltage, or better flying lessons... and maybe it came in a needle, until the day it came in a tainted one.

Anyone who opposes needle exchange programs, keep *that* in mind. There are people who I've helped, and I desperately hope there are many more of them than I know. There are going to be a lot more people I help. And a clean needle just might have doubled the number of people who could be helped by someone in my family with loads of brainpower and empathy... and just a minor change in *my* life, and a dirty needle could have cost the world both of us.

Today I want a time machine. I want to go back, and find my brother at the age of thirteen or so.

I want to tell him that it's okay that he's gay. I want to tell him it's all about love, and you can't help loving men, or women, if that's how things are for you.

I want to find a certain minister - no, Catholics did *not* have a monopoly on religious leaders who raped children - and...

Well. I don't think I'd kill him. Not if I got to him *before* he raped a child.

When I think of my vision of how beautiful my brother was, and overlay it with the fact that this rapist got to him, though... there are no words. And if he was before me now, I don't know if I could stop myself.

I want to go back and say to Chuck that it doesn't matter that he had two scary, awful secrets.

I waant to tell him that no, I wouldn't understand him at all, but god damn it, no one would understand ME, and no, that wouldn't be enough, but god damn it, it wouldn't matter, because at least we'd share that much. At least we could share the isolation, and the feeling of loneliness.

It's not that I want to save his life so much as I want to make the life he had be something closer to what he deserved.

But, for today, I have a vision, of my brother.

He is beautiful, and I love him, though to say so is both redundant and inadequate.

It's enough... but only because it has to be.

Only because it's all I have.

Fare well, my brother... you deserved the world, but more importantly, the world deserved you. I hope that, next time around, it's a better meeting for you both.

Late night/early morning thoughts before a funeral.

I don't know if I was 8, or 9, or 10... or maybe even 11, though I doubt I was that old.

I was at summer camp, and I saw my brother... and, well...

To say that he was beautiful was meaningless; to say that I loved him was hopelessly redundant. I had touched the mind of God, you see, and I had seen him, and realized these things on an incredibly primal level.

Isn't that impressive?

You know what else is pretty impressive? Watching a pigeon fly into high-voltage lines, just right. *PIFT*, and there's nothing left. Yeah, it's impressive as hell, but not a whole lot of fun for the pigeon.

I was thirty seven when I realized that I was different. Not just 'different', but *DIFFERENT*. I realized that I was a regenerating pigeon, flying into high voltage lines just right, over and over again. And I don't know if I started insulating myself, or flying differently, but I wasn't getting *PIFT*ed anymore.

And today I wonder... did my brother have fifteen months more to learn how to deal? Or fifteen more months of flying into high voltage lines, so that, where I was able to find an answer, he wasn't?

Spider Robinson wrote about two telepathic brothers... and how they were finally able to share the control over that horrifying form of telepathy they shared.

He also wrote about meddling time travellers who went back in time, and fixed things, and made a beautiful thing even more beautiful.

Maybe my brother died because he needed sex, companionship, love, or whatever he was seeking.

Any person who opposes condom distribution and education for HIV control, note the middle two factors before you open your mouth against it again.

Maybe my brother needed something to insulate him from the high voltage, or better flying lessons... and maybe it came in a needle, until the day it came in a tainted one.

Anyone who opposes needle exchange programs, keep *that* in mind. There are people who I've helped, and I desperately hope there are many more of them than I know. There are going to be a lot more people I help. And a clean needle just might have doubled the number of people who could be helped by someone in my family with loads of brainpower and empathy... and just a minor change in *my* life, and a dirty needle could have cost the world both of us.

Today I want a time machine. I want to go back, and find my brother at the age of thirteen or so.

I want to tell him that it's okay that he's gay. I want to tell him it's all about love, and you can't help loving men, or women, if that's how things are for you.

I want to find a certain minister - no, Catholics did *not* have a monopoly on religious leaders who raped children - and...

Well. I don't think I'd kill him. Not if I got to him *before* he raped a child.

When I think of my vision of how beautiful my brother was, and overlay it with the fact that this rapist got to him, though... there are no words. And if he was before me now, I don't know if I could stop myself.

I want to go back and say to Chuck that it doesn't matter that he had two scary, awful secrets.

I waant to tell him that no, I wouldn't understand him at all, but god damn it, no one would understand ME, and no, that wouldn't be enough, but god damn it, it wouldn't matter, because at least we'd share that much. At least we could share the isolation, and the feeling of loneliness.

It's not that I want to save his life so much as I want to make the life he had be something closer to what he deserved.

But, for today, I have a vision, of my brother.

He is beautiful, and I love him, though to say so is both redundant and inadequate.

It's enough... but only because it has to be.

Only because it's all I have.

Fare well, my brother... you deserved the world, but more importantly, the world deserved you. I hope that, next time around, it's a better meeting for you both.