Today Vaclav Havel died.
It's strange, isn't it, to feel bereft when a stranger has died? I never met Havel; I know very little about his personal life, his likes and dislikes, his quirks and complaints, what he loved and what he loathed on a quotidien level. But I do know what he loved and what he loathed in the cosmic sense. I know about his decades of resistance under the communist regime in Czechoslovakia; I know his published work; I know his political career and his commitment to individual freedom; most of all, I know that when it mattered, this ironic, Frank Zappa-loving playwright did the right thing. Again and again and again.
So, I won't apologize for the fact that I, now and again, have erotic dreams about Vaclav Havel. He was one extraordinarily sexy guy. I imagine he'll keep appearing in my dreams. Damn, I hope so.
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