This is a post about death and grief.

Grief is funny; in some ways I feel very familiar with grief, like we’re tiresome old friends who constantly bicker out in public, but sometimes grief still manages to surprise me. This past month two people that I knew – folks who vibrantly composed two very different communities that I am part of – passed away.

The following is not an attempt at obituary – loved ones who knew Eirik Gumeny and Tim Martin have already done the deed admirably well – but rather further memorial.

I only knew Eirik for a brief time, but even in the short amount of time that I interacted with him online I valued his respect for honesty and directness. Working with him on Eat the Rich was a pleasure – it’s upsetting to lose someone so integral to the horror community, particularly someone who was doing so much good work to help marginalized communities be heard while publishing anticapitalist and antiableist fiction. Eirik was a real one; not everyone is.

Tim was always kind to me. Generous with his hugs, he was strongly opinionated and spoke softly with a sharp sense of humor. I’d see him perform on Monday nights at the Celtic Arts Center. An elderly gentleman with a slight build, it was always a pleasure to watch him play. Frequently he played the bodhran, which is a traditional Celtic drum, but he was also a delight on the bones. The wood would dance and whirl in his hands like living things. Sometimes I would sketch him as he performed with the other musicians at the session. Mostly I would listen.

When you are queer, and you grow up poorly parented, you tend to find parent figures wherever you form community. Elders can easily become queer family when they extend kindness. Duckling-esque, I think I imprinted onto Tim a little.

We heard about Tim’s death while Afton was performing outside at a church. A scarab kept dancing in front of the musicians along with the butterflies drawn to the pomegranate blossoms. When a friend told us about him I kept irrationally thinking that the scarab had known all along; it had been trying to tell us first.

The first time I showed up to a session at the Celtic Arts Center after Tim’s death, a drummer didn’t attend. Seated at a table inside the rented community center, which is notable (and ironic) for the outstanding number of photographs of the Queen of England hanging on its walls, I held my paper cup of coffee from the bar and listened. The music felt lost without its drumming heartbeat. Lethargic with grief. When my partner Afton set up their percussive board and started dancing, the hollow resonance of their footsteps picked the music up from the floor. Things started moving again.

And the next session after that, a drummer was there.

There is no cure for grief, and familiarity with it is not inoculation from grief’s effects. I’m not saying anything new when I say life is short, in fact I’m saying something very old. Modern memento mori. Something we’re all aware of but frequently push aside, because living with the truth of our mortality can be overwhelming and terrifying.

But isn’t that truth also wonderful, too?

If you would like to express sympathy towards Eirik’s family they have requested that you consider donating to: https://cota.org/COTAforEirikG/

A memorial for Tim will be held at the Celtic Arts Center (the Mayflower Club) on August 17^th from noon to five.