A friend remembered

I suppose in the end some combination of the pain and his skewed, convoluted rationalizations against despair won out. Nothing ever quite shut off the toxic tsunami of rejection, complex ideation, and brilliance that always seemed to be barreling down life's way toward him, about to submerge him.

He was a Jew who grew up in Texas: not the modern Texas of Dallas suburbs, but "home on the range" Texas. He was an urban poet who needed to be around horses. At times he seemed almost happy, when selling and recommending books.

He was an overage hippie who had once been a stalwart of the War Resisters League. Later on, he proudly affixed a National Rifle Association decal to his ancient VW bug.

He was a transman. That fit him better than being a courtly, diminutive, aging lesbian. That identity seemed closer to who he felt himself to be. It was better, but maybe the person inside it all never quite fit any of his civilization's labels. I don't know.

He finally ended his life -- shot himself, naturally -- in Central Park in New York. I can't say "why." None of his friends are surprised; I feel sure all are as horrified as I am. I guess the pain won. That was not right.