The Book of Aaron
"I have always been unsatisfied with life as most people live it. Always I want to live more intensely and richly." 足Everett Ruess
Table of Contents: Wherever Particular People Congregate . by Christopher Steinauer (1) This is a Love Song . by Ashley Butner (3) Songs of Aaron (4) For Aaron . by Megan Burik (5) A Catastrophe of Unstrung Pearls . by Maurine Pfuhl (10) Classic Aaron Roberts (12) We and a Pop足Culture Menagerie Mourn You . by Jahnavi Delmonico (14) Letter to Aaron . by Laina Porter (15) Curated Tweets of the New足Age Retro Hippie (17) Aaron . by Stephanie Howes (20) Parts of a Recommendation Letter . by Betsy Delmonico (23) A Note on the Binding . by Allison Sissom (24)
Wherever Particular People Congregate You’re there. In worn and travelled photos. In red and swollen eyes. In the yearning and empty embrace of the grieving. In that Paradise of Youth, of too many beers and too little sleep, music thumping into the summer night, you smoke on a crowded porch, your laughter echoing into us as you write yourself into our mythologies. How the tale of Gilgamesh must have erased all those personal stories of nights out with friends, of frozen cheese pizzas, of sleepless twilight hours when lovers rested and the hero’s eyes reflected the ghost light of a phone, the drool of a snoring partner soaking his pillow. Gone is the complete tale of you. Thirty years of life can never be compressed and now the only tales of you exist within fragments of our own legends. No minstrels will sing of the time you broke down a door to free friends or when, in a sunlit orchard, You picked bags of plump blueberries and I ate half of them. The countless games you played and won. The songs you sang offkey. The cranes you formed of paper and wishes. No minstrels will sing these tales of you. Fuck the minstrels.
You exist now in the realm of a reflection, not alive, not dead, but in the songs we sing to each other. We will smile and cry and laugh and smoke and pound the earth beneath us, weeping, as if those forlorn vibrations will pull you up and the tale of you might exist again in full. For now there is the sorting of mundane artifacts, the things left behind after your divorce from yourself: your broken computer, your car, your cat. These are not stories. These are not you. You’re there. In the stories of our past. In the songs of our mind. You will live forever in them wherever particular people congregate and tell these tales of you.
by Chris Steinauer
This is a Love Song You were the type who fixated on perfectly bonefolded corners, impeccably taut lines. The edges, the dimensions—they all had to line up with unerring acuity. Sharp, extravagantly efficient seams, all designs placed and in place by your and only your hand. No one could deny the pristine furniture and room arrangements of your imagination. But if there was a slip, if there was a tear—a sudden jagged line such as penned by tooambient a student—God forbid—a crookedly hung print. Well then—unfurl the incinerator, crumple the parchment and throw it to the eaves—nay—beneath them. Unsatisfied until it winds its way to the dumpster 2 storeys down. Rip it all to shreds until your hands are covered in paper cuts that might not ever heal but never look back, only find a new, more deserving project. Redirect the perfectionist’s perfect eye for detail. You could have spent weeks manically penning the great Un American Novel full speed ahead. But the second that character strayed, the moment you realized he would never exist on the page exactly as you imagined him—that very instant mimesis buffered never to reload—you would set a match to the entire story. You would throw the computer down the stairs just to see it spark. You burned it all down. Because I guess the Master never whispered so you could hear him: manuscripts don’t burn, Aaron. And yet here I am futilely attempting to rearrange the ashes of so many unfinished tales and, essentially ineffectually, the one who once bound them. I miss you. by Ashley Butner
Songs of Aaron Come on Eileen Dexy's Midnight Riders Tubthumping Chumbawamba Bad Romance Lady Gaga Grace Kelly Mika The Sporting Life The Decemberists I Miss You Blink 182 Gallery Piece Of Montreal Heads Will Roll The Yeah Yeah Yeahs Uncontrollable Urge Devo Beat On The Brat The Ramones Rock The Casbah The Clash Deceptacon Le Tigre D.A.N.C.E. Justice Kids MGMT Jolene The White Stripes Wagon Wheel Old Crow Medicine Show IT’5! Architecture in Helsinki I'm In No Mood The Fiery Furnaces Romeo and Juliet Reefer Madness Superstar Jesus Christ Superstar Total Eclipse of the Heart Bonnie Tyler
For Aaron At first, I hated that everyone was posting tributes to you on Facebook. It hurt me to open up my app, needing that quick dopamine hit of a Like on a picture, and instead I'd see your smiling face with friends who miss you. Then several people, including your mom, mentioned how they found comfort in reading those posts. They show what an impact you had on so many lives. I guess I had to let myself begin to process your death before I could resume enjoying your life. So, here goes, friend. My tribute to you. ** You were the offkey bass line to my college and post college experience. You filled out the song of my life, bringing harmonies and idiosyncrasies I never could have imagined without you. Our story, like your story with many people, begins on a hot Kirksville summer night with too much booze and just enough college listlessness. There were video games, and records, and Chinese symbols... I was intimidated to hang out with you at first because you were so cool. I mean, pixelated Earthbound tattoos up your leg? How many people (outside of Japan) even know that game exists? So I don't think we talked much that first night, but I did lay on your lawn and look at the stars for awhile. After I came back from Spain, our friendship intensified during nights of drunken board games Drabble and DRisk and DRClue. You always kicked everyone's ass no matter the game. When Sarah left for Arkansas and I found myself profoundly alone, you took me home and let me watch hours of Wonderfalls with you while I ate your shells and cheese (with hot sauce, of course). That night, like many nights,
I took solace in your comfortable company. It sounds so simple, but you were always there for me. Not in the cliche way people promise each other in yearbooks. You made sure I always knew that I had a place to feel loved and just be. Through the years, you helped me battle my own bouts of depression. If I felt sad, or mad, or joyful, or whatever, I'd come over. Then I'd request "Uncontrollable Urge" by DEVO. You'd set the needle on the vinyl and we'd bounce around swishing our glorious heads of hair, screaming "Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah YEAH YEAH!" One time when you, Kelsey M., and I played Mario Party Pirate Island, I was losing the whole time. Then during the award ceremony, Toad gave me the "nice try" star. That star tipped me into victory. YOU WERE PISSED. I laughed so hard, gloated so hard, and took another sip of Bud Light, I'm sure. I remember when you ran late for your Senior Seminar presentation and Dr. Betsy sent me to fetch you from your apartment (we both thought you had overslept! TYPICAL). I ran (kind of) down High Street from the Student Union... only to find that somehow we'd crossed paths and you were at your presentation already. You delivered an incredible paper about Japanese folktales (that you pulled together in three days. TYPICAL). One summer, I asked you to teach me how to bind a book. You patiently tried to guide me, gently collating stacks of paper. But I got as far as cutting the pages before I gave up because I have the craft skills of an untrained chimpanzee. You and Sarah made fun of me for that (also TYPICAL). After I graduated, I moved to KC for work and you followed me soon after. (We’ll pretend you moved here because of me). You would always tell me how much better St. Louis was than
WWW.QUEENCITYROCKCAMP.ORG
Kansas City because Kansas City was built on a grid system and didn't have the windingstreet character of St. Louis. It was an arbitrary reason, worthy of the flatface emoji, but I accepted the logic as yours. I could never convince you to get out and experience the KC I knew and loved, but that's ok. You're back in St. Louis now. In Kansas City, we basically resumed our college antics of drinking, playing games, and listening to highquality music. We continued our friendshiplong debate about which of the Decemberists albums is the best. I still stand by Crane Wife, while you always said Picaresque or Castaways and Cutouts. Who knows how many times you dashed into your living room, put on Picaresque, and surprised me with the ridiculously quirky intro horn sounds of "The Infanta." No matter the music, I loved every time you'd pull me up from a chair, leading me in a tilting offbeat dance step. You’d sing along so offkey that it almost sounded like harmony, especially when you sang with the Buffy musical episode. Last summer and fall, you tried really hard to get me into Magic and would get frustrated with me when I wanted to leave before the game was over (at like 1:30 a.m. on a Tuesday night, mind you). I still don't understand Magic. I bought cards. AND I TRY. But I prefer Sentinels of the Multiverse, as you know. HAKA SMASH! You also hated when anyone would quit Risk before you had destroyed us even when we could all tell you would take over the world. In the opening round, you invariably set your little troop dudes on Oceania and decimated anyone who tried to invade through Indonesia. Then you'd quietly build your army of troops, infantry men, and cannons, and soon you’d be threatening my men. ACROSS THE WORLD IN BRAZIL. It would always get down to you and one other person... unless we all ganged up on you to take you out early (which infuriated you). And then you’d almost always win.
As your mental health declined, the fun and games lost their shimmering excitement. To occupy your time and mind, you began to fold 1000 origami paper cranes because the practice is said to grant your wish. You folded a lot, probably close to 100. They covered your table for a week after you died. You got so good at making the little wishgranters, I'd watch you complete them in around 30 seconds your fingers moving deftly as they created creases and shapes and ultimately, a tiny work of art. You offered to teach me how to fold one and I laughed at you and reminded you of the book binding fiasco. You laughed too and we went for a smoke again. You pulled out your red Pall Malls and I pulled out a cigar. Now I'm thinking about learning how to make the cranes. In addition to granting wishes, they're said to bring wisdom and help with healing. As I fold each little bird, I will wish that they will teach me how to heal from the heartbreak of losing you. I thought we had many late night game nights ahead of us. I knew you'd rewatch Battlestar Galactica with me. And maybe you’d finally sit me down and make me watch Wizard People while I’d be sober enough to appreciate it. I don’t think I ever had the nerve to tell you that I’m only soso on all things Harry Potter. But I could use some of his magic right about now. I wish we could have danced more and played more and laughed more. I really wanted to beat you at Mario Kart. Just once. And I need you here to take the controller when I play Earthbound and I accidentally eat a mushroom and it sits on my head and it fucks up the directional pad! What will I do now? I will wander directionless. The Sunday after you died, I didn't really know what to do with myself and my time and my thoughts. But I felt drawn to a Buddhist service. You told me you were a Christian, and I
think you knew that I'm a smorgasbord of religious insights. At the service, the monk discussed our humanly flawed understanding of reality as dual us/them, you/me, good/bad, here/there. I considered this interpretation and fell into believing that maybe the concept of "life and death" is a flawed duality too. Maybe we're always both alive and dead and actually beings that exist beyond the physical limitations of this world. Who the fuck really knows? We know so little about the universe, so I get to think that I'm right. I get to think that you're as alive as I am dead and vice versa. Because it all exists at all times. This concept brought me comfort. It explains why I swear you've been in my head and have made jokes to me. It also explains why I think I felt you touch my shoulder the other day to comfort me while I cried about losing you again. And maybe you intentionally showed up in my dream last night. In the dream, you were so TYPICAL you. You nonchalantly made fun of me while I flipped shit about you existing, alive, right in front of me. “Yes, Meg, I’m here,” you said. “I just went on a vacation. Why are you making it so weird?” Then you took a drag off your Pall Mall. ** If you can, please help the ones you love to heal. None of us wanted to see you leave so soon. But here/there we/you are. I love you so much, Aaron Roberts. I always will. Missing you for now, Meg
by Meg Burik
A Catastrophe of Unstrung Pearls My memories of you have remained scattered before me like a catastrophe of unstrung pearls. I’ve tried to gather them up for months now, through tears and gritted teeth, on my hands and knees, mad as hell and tender with affection. Squinting, I’d pluck one from the ground, then another, and another, and I’d look down and realize that I didn’t even know where to begin. I’d put two on a string just to watch them fall to the floor out of my grasp. So I started sweeping them off to the side, hoping that someone else would pick them up and begin the arduous task of restringing the narrative of you. I’d walk away and go about my day only to find one at my feet as I walked to class. I’d turn the key in the ignition of my car, the radio would play, and three more would appear on my lap. And as I’d edge down into the muddied waters of summer, up from the sand they’d rise to meet my fingertips. All these innumerable pearls manifesting despite my reluctance to look at or touch them. But there they were, all the same, greeting me at every turn, glimmering in polluted waters and reverberating to the songs of you. Between two white knuckled fists I hold you. I open my hands and suddenly there you are, a plume of smoke billowing out the corner of your mouth, leaning against the railing of a nondescript porch. Suspenders. Jorts. A mess of hair under a newsboy cap. Bud Light. Always Bud Light and that goddamned cologne you never learned to use in moderation. I can’t think of those summers without thinking of the particular scent of you; an intermingling of so many distinctive vices. You and I. Drinking and posing, artfully. We flash each other the knowing, condescending glances of the superior and painfully insecure. Dancing in basements; thrashing wildly without rhythm, putting two fingers up to our lips from across the room, and up we march to the humid cicada summer. We smirk between puffs and text one another though we’re only a few feet away. All our
secrets; cultivated and coveted and curated. You standing at the shore of Sever, squinting and cursing and telling me the chapter of your life that I missed since I last saw you. So rare that we see each other in sunlight, so hungover and overwhelmingly pale. “I can’t float” you say and I tell you that’s bullshit. You lay back in the waters and sink. “You’re doing it wrong,” I tell you. “Just relax.” You lay back and are pulled once again into the waters by some unforeseen force; a magnetic energy that can’t be explained. “Everyone can float, Aaron,” I say, in defiance of the evidence before me. Slowly I put my hands under you, bringing you back up gently. I hold you then as I hold you now, with such love and such exasperation. My heart sinking with the weight of you.
by Maurine Pfuhl
Classic Aaron Roberts Empty packs of Pall Mall Reds.
Everywhere.
Attempting to bring VHS tapes back to their former glory. Boasting, without irony, "You know, I probably have a larger collection than most small town libraries." Passionately stressing the necessity of dipping pizza rolls in ranch dressing. Coercing everyone into watching Jesus Christ Superstar ...And Reefer Madness ...And Dr. Horrible ...and Repo! The Genetic Opera ...and the musical episode of Buffy Sending Ambieninspired texts in the early hours of the morning Using a typewriter to label everything “Wallace is a DICK!!!” Emphatically stressing the superiority of classic gaming systems. Telling everyone that anarchy is his idealized form of government. Citing Chumbawamba’s discography. Having a lengthy cometoJesus talk about Scott Pilgrim with every person he met. Annihilating most everyone at Drabble Always ensuring that his shirt cuffs were meticulously on point Unapologetically loving big hits and onehitwonders Laying out three separate outfits and asking “Which one do you think?” then “Well here’s what I was thinking…” Compulsively dusting off each record before it was played
Becoming obsessively involved in DIY projects that often consumed him ...like the desksanding debacle ...or the cinderblock bookcase catastrophe ...or the everpresent, neverupholstered chair ...and numerous successful (therefore less hilarious) projects Insisting that if you didn’t like [insert band/musician here], your friendship was on thin ice Listening and dignifying
We and a PopCulture Menagerie Mourn You I am writing you. I am tasting my own memory, wringing it like an orange for the pulp of you. The pulp of your copticstitched natural soulpaper, where you write down things like “spidergoddess” and “love” and extremely raunchy updates of Dr. Seuss. The pieces I wring free taste like lakewater, like frozen pizza, like that 2liter of pepsi we trudged through a blizzard for when your car was broken. They look like gesturesthe sweep of you, beer in hand, finger on chin, pressing against the scandalized mouth, the knowing mouth, the wry mouth. Gloriously natural and instantly familiar. Such gestural exuberance; such fun! The fun of you and the passion of you, both glinting like mica under your thin skin, occasionally moving in tandem, occasionally at odds. I imagine us all standing in a row, your mourners: the teenage mutant ninja turtles recalling the primo notion of you; Dr. Horrible singing a dirge; Jack White, pale and stricken, screeching after your departure; members of Chumbawamba knocking back whiskey, vodka, lager and cider in your honor; Buffy frantically invoking Osiris in your name; Alfred Butts counting off the five measly points that your signifier would earn in a game of drunk scrabbleand lamenting that the worth of you, the signified, the flame, the irreverent giggler, can never be matched in scrabble points (though in life you sure racked up a hell of a lot of them). Next to the fiction, we stand. Your friends, your family, your lovers, your acquaintances; left with the reality of your absence, we have no recourse but to juice our minds daily for a stale taste of you who was always indomitably, unshakably, eternally fresh.
by Jahnavi Delmonico
Letter to Aaron Aaron
—
It’s been 4.5 months, and I still can’t go a day without thinking of you. People say the pain of grief fades with time, but I’m not sure that’s true. In the past 4.5 months, I have spent hours at your grave and hours reading our aim correspondence in hopes of finding closure. Yet, I think I have finally arrived at the truth: There will never be closure. This realization is a blessing and a curse. What started off as an intense, borderline codependent friendship ended in an acquaintanceship. I think that haunts me the most. A part of me thought that we had all the time in the world to pick up our friendship—we were just taking a break for a season. Ironically, I live five minutes away from your childhood home—it’s just across the highway. My daughter goes to daycare just blocks away from that house: the first spot I visited in St. Louis. Several times throughout the years you have been less than five miles away from me, but we never followed through with seeing each other. Our text messages over the past four years have been broken promises. I used to drop everything to see you…how did we get here? Most of our aim log is Q&A, and I loved asking you one question: If you could have dinner with anyone, dead or alive, who would it be? Sometimes the answer was a writer, a musician, or an actor. One time it was Jesus, because you wanted to know if He existed. Well, my answer to that long ago aim question is you. I don’t want to go back in time to undo the past. I simply want to spend a night getting to know you. As I reread our conversations, I see our friendship in a new light. Honestly, I am not sure if I truly knew you…I most certainly didn’t know myself…and maybe you were on the road to selfdiscovery, too. If I could have one dinner with you, I’d ask for a list of
books to read. Truthfully, our styles in music and movies don’t really line up (I tried so hard to like your favorites), but we always enjoyed the same books. I’d ask you about your Kansas City life—I have bits and pieces that I can’t quite put together. I’d ask for a list of things to do in St. Louis—we’d probably argue over my distaste for STL. I’d ask how I go about getting my tattoo touched up, and I’d probably voice that I wish you could be there with me. You are the only person to be present at both of my tattoos, so I don’t plan on getting another one: memories just for us. I’d apologize for the Weeds debacle—I can’t watch that show anymore without choking up. I’d tell you that two weeks after you left, I walked the halls of CHall hoping to find peace…or maybe your ghost haunting the place. I’d tell you that I put flowers on your grave on the 14th of every month—maybe I’m atoning for the lost time. I’d tell you that I brought Shane to your grave—I know that would make you smile. And of course, I’d tell you that I love you—years of separation haven’t changed that. I will never be able to reflect on our dysfunctional friendship with you, and it will take years before I can truly accept its value. And I know you will never read this, but I hope that somehow you know that I regret not pursuing a friendship with you after graduation. I had my reasons, which are frivolous now. You will forever be by my first college friend…my first kiss…my friend who encouraged me to not give a damn about what others thought…my friend who wanted me to push my limits for new experiences…I cannot thank you enough for that. I hope that you have found what you were looking for. hope that we will be able to have that dinner in the afterlife.
And I
L
by Laina Porter
Curated Tweets of the NewAge Retro Hippie TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 13 Oct 2012 Me cutting my hair looks a lot like scenes from Edward Scissorhands. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 16 Oct 2012 I wish I was watching Biden rip out and eat Ryan's heart again. #VPdebateplease TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 18 Oct 2012 I love heat that feels like you're wading through it. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · Everyone only wants money for revenge.
23 Oct 2012
TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 26 Oct 2012 How do I become a TV judge? I'd be good at that. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 26 Oct 2012 Or the announcer for a TV judge show...I could do that too. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X Or a TV bailiff.
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26 Oct 2012
TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 26 Oct 2012 I should be a TV judge OR a TV lawyer OR the actors who portray them. Who's hiring? TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 27 Oct 2012 Who knew going to a bday party would pull me in such varied directions...professionally speaking. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 29 Oct 2012 Moving load 1/??? done. If I don't survive this remember me as I am...filled with murderous rage. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 11 Nov 2012 Going to go shoot guns! After a flea market! Great day! #countryliving TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 29 Nov 2012 This is the most horrendous cough I have ever experienced. Debating cutting out my throat to get rid of it. To hell with the "consequences"!
TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 11 Dec 2012 Anyone who gives me an endless supply of pistachios will have my endless love...and endless debt. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 12 Dec 2012 My tongue hurts from too many pistachios. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 13 Dec 2012 Eating sugar cookies in bed was a great idea! Now I get to eat the spilled crumbs. This cookie just keeps on giving! TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 26 Dec 2012 First time ever: wanted to go home and home wasn't Saint Louis...it was wherever @bingomaru was. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 26 Dec 2012 If I were home I'd be chain smoking. Or is it I would be chain smoking if I were home? TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 28 Dec 2012 Explained what bukkake is to my parents tonight. #cardsagainsthumanity TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 28 Dec 2012 I'm really sad my family has to leave in two days. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 1 Jan 2013 It's the new year...why hasn't my resolution come true? Resolutions are wishes right? TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X Home is whenever I'm happy.
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15 Jan 2013
TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 4 Mar 2013 Accidentally pulled an allnighter watching John Wayne movies with my grandma. #perfectnight TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 7 Apr 2013 Libraries are a reliable Google search. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 9 Apr 2013 So many people I am excited to see this weekend at #TomThumb !!! TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X
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14 Apr 2013
Pretty much the perfect weekend. So many people I love so much all together for a wonderful time. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 20 Apr 2013 Woke up wanting to build a Skeeball game, then realized I'm crazy. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 20 Apr 2013 When I have a house, I'm gonna build so many games...skee ball, shuffleboard, etc. Basically I want to live in a Chuck ECheese. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 20 Apr 2013 When I was a kid I built a claw game out of cardboard, duct tape, and saran wrap. I charged my sis Jaroo money to play. Yes, it was rigged. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 20 Apr 2013 Every time I cut my hair it's a multiday process. Aka: I fix it until I don't like it, them let it grow out. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 30 Apr 2013 I think I'm in love with everyone. Related: I hate everyone TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 1 May 2013 There's not enough time to be with everyone I love. I need more. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 1 May 2013 I honestly have the best family. I love them all so much. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 24 Aug 2013 Oh, THAT'S how @AARONCARTER beat Shaq! Makes so much more since hearing it from him in person. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 24 Aug 2013 Just realized my Twitter presence is just me bitching about shit and tweeting ridiculous things from my life. Hmm. TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X Batman Forever #AddaWordRuinaMovie
9 Oct 2013
TheNewAgeRetroHippie @theYEARis199X · 20 Jan 2014 I both locked myself in an attic and escaped an attic today. What did you do?
Aaron Last week was terrible. I stopped drinking soda, didn’t eat any fast food and it was the week before my period. My body felt rough. Because of some things I don’t really want to dive into now, my emotions were all over the place. I felt like staying in bed every day and having minimal human contact. On the way home from work Tuesday night, the ARCH played Chumbawamba’s Tubthumping. That was the last straw. I was sobbing in my car driving up 170. I took Philosophy of Anarchy in college. On the first day we went around in a circle and gave pretentious reasons for taking the course. Mine was something along the lines of, “Well, I am a poli sci major and I find the different concepts of the social contract fascinating.” Yes, I was a douche. One by one we all tried to prove our smarts or subversiveness, until Aaron was up. He smirked at the class and said he wanted to take the class because the members of one of his favorite bands, Chumbawamba, were all anarchists. About a month ago, I went and saw Fast and Furious 7 in theaters. It was a fun, dumb movie until the final scene. A creepy CGI Paul Walker is on a beach playing with his daughter as his friends look on, saying that he is out of the criminal life. This was the movie’s way of paying tribute to Walker after he died in a tragic car accident. The actors’ tears were all real. Before I realized it I was sobbing and I couldn’t breathe. These people will never see their friend again. I will never see Aaron again. I was too embarrassed/couldn’t move. The theatre cleared out with people taking their final glimpses of the hot mess girl. Jordan rubbed my shoulders and said, “Those people think you are the biggest Paul Walker fan.” I started laughing and thinking about how dumb Aaron would have thought all that was. He would have liked the idea of people assigning the wrong meaning to my reaction. One night I spent 6 hours in Aaron’s dorm room playing with
tarot cards. He kept making me ask them questions. I was out of ideas after the 1st hour, but he kept pressing me to dig deeper think farther into the future. My butt was numb from sitting on the hard dorm floor and I was ready to go home and go to sleep, but something made me stay. I don’t really know if he knew how to read them, but they always seem to say exactly what I wanted to hear. He went out of town on a vacation. I never left Kirksville, so I said I would watch Wallace. He asked me to sit in his apartment for a few hours with Wallace since he was a kitten. After looking through all his DVDs, I landed on X Files and then was too scared to walk home. So I looked through his books and texted to let him know I had done a dumb thing and was terrified. Aaron texted back a lol. During the summer, Aaron had a party at his house. We sat in his room, as we did so many nights, and talked about what we needed to be happy. At the time the list was very short. Good friends, good drinks (really just available drinks) and no work the next day. He picked record after record. We sat in our jorts and tank tops in silence for most of the night, except when he would murmur something about, “this is my favorite part.” I would nod, take a swig of my 40 of Miller High Life and smile. I really couldn’t see past the next few hours, but I knew I was happy just being in that hot stuffy room listening and watching Aaron talk about music and books. Aaron was there for me when I was heartbroken over a failed relationship that was all bruised ego. Aaron listened when I had spats with my family. He supported me when I felt like a failure and wanted to go hermit, and he offered to go buy the beers. Aaron saw something in me at times when I felt invisible and unimportant. I truly loved him. It has been nearly 3 months since we lost him. The day I heard about Aaron I immediately went into friend/big sister mode and wanted to make sure everyone around me was okay. The funeral, that whole weekend was surreal. I was barely a human. There have been random outbursts of pain when I am
in the shower or sitting at my desk, but I have been putting off processing this. Tuesday there was no more waiting. My head hurt, I was pissed off and I wanted to climb into bed. I was mashing the buttons on my radio looking for anything that wasn’t Chris Brown and there it was. The familiar chorus starting in: “I get knocked down, but I get up again. You’re never gonna keep me down.” I was done for. I was sobbing and singing and cursing. I have been sitting in this feeling for a few days and can’t say that I am feeling better. I don’t know that I will ever “feel better”, but at least I am feeling something about it again. It has never been easy for me to stay long in my feelings; I bury things deep down and only poke at them from time to time. When it comes to this though, not staying in the feelings means not thinking about Aaron. It means burying all that good he did and said. I don’t feel right doing that. So here I am sitting in it, man. It fucking sucks and hurts and I want turn it off, but I won’t do that anymore.
by Stephanie Howes
Parts of a Recommendation Letter Aaron is a thoughtful, inquisitive and caring young intellectual. His quiet wit caused the other top students to gravitate toward him, creating a network of very bright friends who remain connected. Aaron's careful reading prompted rich discussions of both the art and the issues involved in “war literature” from the Iliad to the latest issue of the Air Force Academy's online Journal of War, Literature, and the Arts. He proved to his classmates, for example, that ethical questions raised in the Mahabharata were still being debated, albeit often by bloggers instead of bards. Aaron was fascinated by the connections possible between art and activism, between poetry and propaganda. He was especially good with structural analysis, with gender sensitive readings, and with the Sanskrit rasa approach to texts. Thus it was not surprising that he headed toward a World Literature concentration within an English major, specifically toward Asian literature, or that he maintained a special interest in philosophical issues and issues of gender, or that he stayed essentially interdisciplinary. He proved an excellent student in my Asian Lit course, working indepth with Ramayana images and with several contemporary Chinese films. In ENG 365 Folklore he turned in a slightly different direction, investigating campus ghost stories. He enjoyed the challenge of finding ways to work with a divided audience, to avoid offending either those who claimed personal experience with ghosts or those who believed such claims to be nonsense. He read accounts and interpretations of accounts, then interviewed and surveyed and even planned an experimental “Halloween in the Devil's Chair” at a local cemetery, and finally he put together a presentation which pleased everybody. Aaron is capable of enormous tact; his teachers, employers, and coworkers will benefit from his ability. It's been a privilege teaching him. I know he has much to contribute. by Betsy Delmonico
A Note on the Binding Aaron and I shared a love of art. We both understood its value and found the process of making art cathartic. One afternoon, Aaron invited me over and showed me a bunch of books about Japanese足style binding. He had read all of them and became my enthusiastic teacher. Aaron was very patient and kind, even when I had to start over several times. I had forgotten about that afternoon until I was asked to bind The Book of Aaron. I am honored to make this contribution in his memory.
Hand bound by Allison K. Sissom