I remember finding out about the suicide of Kurt Cobain. I was with my brother in 13th Ave Music, our local indie record store (anyone remember those?), and it was written up on the whiteboard where the new releases were usually written. For those of us that were into his music, it was an unexpected shock; we were young and alive, and the man who had sung all our songs, so new and vital in a way that only is possible when you first hear something that speaks to you, somehow, he wasn't. It was a strange thing to be sad for the death of a man you had never met. It felt personal, but not; it felt devastating, but not. A real voice, an original talent, was stilled, and all the songs that might have spoken to us would never be written. It has happened to me since then, Douglas Adams and Kurt Vonnegut and so on. Sir Terry Pratchett died recently. and I have been thinking of him a lot since then. It is a strange thing to be sad for the death of a man you have never met, but even st
Here in the Black and White