Masso, Kevin, Dan B thank you for putting this on. Means so much. KUCI and Clay made a beautiful pair. I feel he would be very touched by this
I found this note today, looking through old books. It was in a Videohound Guide to Groovy and Psychedelic Movies, which he bought for me when he came up to visit (perfect book to find this in) We toured Powells books together and he picked up many treasures and offered to buy me “at least” one book because thats the kind of guy he was. I like this note because I don’t know what it’s about. I think I’d title it “People I Love” because everyone on here were people he loved.
Clay bought these lights for me for Christmas. They are made from bamboo leaves and came tightly bound and required me to spritz them with water and uncoil them because they were “alive” even though they look like pretty lights, it’s actually leaves on a plastic string. I love them. When a friend came to watch my daughter, the day he died, she noticed them as she was leaving my apartment. She had been there many times but chose then to say “Nice lights. So beautiful and delicate” Having to say “Thanks, Clay gave them to me” felt like carpenter nails coming up my throat. I realized most of my life is somehow imbued with him, my sweet Clay.
He sang this to me constantly, changing the lyrics to “Poo-nuts on my shoulders make me happy…” It took me a couple years before I realized it was a legit song modified my Clays silliness.
Night Moves
Every night class I ever took since the start of my college “career” I called Clay. I’m terrified of walking alone at night, especially in parking lots or any place dark, secluded, or featured prominently in horror films or Law & Order rape scenes. The second I’d feel unsafe I’d call Clay. He’d almost always pick up and just shoot the shit until I got to where I needed. Sometimes the conversation spilled over into a long sprawling one. Other times he’d just repeat fart noises and strings of nonsense words. They felt the same. His voice was like a big security blanket, warming me through receiver of phone, radioing past the 1,000 miles that separated us. For the last 8 years I’ve called Clay on the regular. Tonight during summer school I walked to my car and felt the weight of that phone call I could not make. The sting of not knowing anyone else to call to make me feel safe, even if it’s for a moment, even if I have nothing important to say. One more moment that reminds me he’s really gone, but my pain certainly isn’t.
