I don't even know what to write. But you're gone and Samhain is almost here, so I have to write something. You marked so many festivals, but this was special. This is the time for campy, kitschy, clashy trinkets. The time for the dead.
Your postcards still adorn my walls. Your books line the shelves. But most of all, there are those trinkets. Devil masks and candy hearts. Vintage tins and finger puppets. Plastic ghosts.
Your love came in pieces.
Now I dwell on how much those small things weighed. After all, you never liked fuss. And because you didn't like fuss, there are things I never told you.
I never told you I look up to you.
And that's important. Sensitive queers have few role models, and I was lucky to have one as a friend. You meant a lot to me. You still do. You always will.
So that's my fuss. I will never forget you, you grumpy Gen X cynic. In fact, there's a piece of you I'll always carry with me. A Richard-shaped trinket.
RM Vaughan was an outrageous and insightful writer. I was honoured to write the blurb to his insomnia book Bright Eyed, but I recommend reading any of his works – he was one of those rare minds who could truly see our world from its outside. He deserves to be remembered.