November 29, 2010: Charles Spearin - Mrs. Morris

Charles Spearin - Mrs. Morris

In rehearsal. Sunday.

Mike mentioned that he could only stay ten more minutes. One asked why. Said he had to go to a memorial service. I asked who died.

"You remember Michael Smoughton?" I didn't. "You know, played the No Age show with us a couple weeks ago, British guy." I did. "He and his wife died in a tragic car accident a couple days ago."

And my body sunk.

I walked into the memorial service just minutes after. I first felt impostor; I didn't know Michael well, I didn't even know his last name. I'd never met his wife. I didn't know all but a handful in the room. The week before he'd died he'd told me he was leaving Toronto soon to go back to England, I'd been full of disappointment as he was kind and compelling and we barely had the time to connect. We were playing in a band together and he first approached me and broke my quiet. We had a handful of rehearsals, some shows to meet and discuss Canada and Christopher Hitchens and marvel at the getting away with playing inconsequentially simple instruments with well trained musicians, among. I'd last seen him the day before he left Toronto, wishing him as sincerely I could manage good luck in his travels. The time between was daily.

And I felt impostor. I knew his dearest friend would have told me otherwise (and a man named Pete did express such sentiment) but I was allowed to feel somewhat impostor surrounded by those who knew his body well. And the room was so full of sorrow that it overcame and the faces filled me. Speechless, I observed and considered my own paper body, the ones surrounding me. I met small forms of beauty.

Some people got up in front of the crowd and spoke, told stories. No story surprised me, they all told of the transparency of kindness that Michael had emitted. One man used the word "elegance" and it seemed most fitting.

And then we sat, eight of us, and spoke of other things. The sadness of the room had lifted and we simply told stories. Sudden the death was in background of our words and the faces seemed more welcome.

In leaving I was with a sense of thanks, fragile and full of love.

I can't help but hope that with all I speak one knows every word stands before backgrounds of affection. Every statement is in appreciation of form. Of being.