Death-A-versaries: The Annual Mourning of Seedy Wofford

Last week I started to feel numb. I realized I was feeling off and couldn’t figure out why. And then, it clicked. Clay’s death-a-versary. This is the third year since he died. And I’m horrible at dates. I can’t remember people’s birthdays. I never know anniversaries when I’m dating someone. I never bother to pay attention. So why would I remember a death-a-versary? But my body knows. My body mourns and reminds me of the great loss of the weirdest, coolest, most annoying, most awesome person, Clay Wofford, aka CD Wofford, aka, Seedy Wofford.

And of course, this day reminds me of the deterioration of his body and mind. And subsequently, the deterioration of our friendship. For years after we broke up, we remained friends. We were in weekly contact: at some points, daily contact.

still mourning + missing writer + friend C. D. Wofford, a year later

 

A flyer Clay put together for a benefit for his zine called Bleeding Hearts. The event was called A Streetcar Named Clitoris

I was preparing for his death for so long that when he died I wasn’t surprised. A bit relieved. I shouldn’t say that. But I knew it was coming, and I always worried about it, waiting for the phone call, then worried I wouldn’t get one. When his step-dad died, I knew his mom would die soon. She did, and then I cried for days because I knew it was only a matter of time until he gave up living. All his friends knew what that meant. Friends for over a decade, we knew.

I just loved him so much. It was too painful to watch him die slowly, drink by drink, day by day. And yet, all I feel is regret. I don’t know what I could have done. He was having delusions, with all the booze, solitary living, unhealthy food. In every possible way he was poisoning himself.

Book Borrowers Council Announces New Book Borrowers Contract

Book Borrowers Council Mission Statement

The Book Borrowers Council (BBC) advocates and initiates safe environments for books to be borrowed and lent. The Council encourages reading and respect for the printed art form. There is a secret labyrinthian library for those deemed worthy. In it coffee is constantly brewed, plush chairs abound, there are views from every window, bookshelves nine feet high that never topple every book you will ever want to read in alphabetical order is arranged by genre by the gentle ghost of Kafka’s cockroach. Unfortunately, the BBC knows nothing of this place.

Banned Books Are the Best Books

It’s banned book week! Or rather, it was last week. . . .Time to celebrate those books that have been challenged and banned. Many classics that have been a part of the literary canon for decades have had their merit questioned. We have days to commemorate what happened. And we have Banned Books Week to remind us of what could have happened. We could have lost so much art if brave publishers and booksellers did not protest censorship. Books were banned for their language and content. Anything remotely sexual was considered pornographic. Racial slurs used to indicate a racist society were challenged. Something slightly bawdy was banned. And books that reinterpret religious texts were burned. Why? They are all merely ideas. They are all just musings, just observations, just words. But people become so caught up in their personal beliefs that they want to force them on other people. It seems strange to me that books are still being challenged and banned to this day.