There’s a cerebral node probably about the size of a lentil, I think, that keeps track - subconsciously - of people you love but nevertheless expect to outlive. Parents, grandparents, unmedicated diabetics, pack-a-day smokers, and so on.

But never in the blackest depths of my worst nightmares did I ever expect to bid Chelsy Shillington a premature farewell.

We were inseparable almost to the point of lesbian rumours right from the first day we met, on a field trip for one of our soils classes. That same afternoon, we went out for coffee and I told her truths I had never before told anyone. I loved her to distraction, and we always made sure to tell each other how weird and delightful it was that we were friends.
We studied together, ate together, skipped class to go to West Edmonton Mall together, DJ’d for Terra Informa, ran around the river valley like crazy boreal monkeys, hung out at Roots arguing about organic juice, taught each other the myriad secrets of eye makeup and origami, swapped anime shows, zipped up and down Whyte Ave, cried over boys, planned unlikely road trips, and sat in CAB for hours on end just talking. I would never have passed ENCS 201 if not for her patient and relentless drilling, and she wouldn’t have passed ENCS 352 if not for my notes, frankly. (Also, I’m surprised either of us passed PL SCI 221 - my notes from that class are covered in her chicken-scratch, much of it along the lines of ‘What time are we going to the Plant?’ and ‘Should I tell that guy that I’m just not interested’?)
I had never met anyone like her before - someone with such a genuine knack for happiness. And I had never met anyone who cared so ferociously and passionately for the people in her life. She loved and worried about her siblings the most, and after a month of friendship I knew more about her brothers and sisters than they probably did. It was Chelsy who guided me into the marvelous, if pungent, world of the hippy - of mellow dreadlocked people who worried that I was ‘gender-misidentified,’ who could tell you stats about the rainforest, who knew exactly how much water was being drained out of the Red Deer River every year, who actually thought about and cared about the state of the world and society. Her friends were some of the most brilliant and concerned people I’ve ever met, and I would never have known that if not for her.

The last time I had word from Chelsy, she had just announced her intention to visit me in Calgary after a trip to Whistler where she planned on telling a good friend some not so good news. Now I’ll never know if she told him. She always did that, though - put other people first. She wasn’t worried about how she’d feel, only how he would feel. That was Chelsy all the way.

It is almost impossible to accept with equanimity the violent death of someone whose postcard from St. Lucia is still stuck to my fridge door. It is not an easy thing to accept the loss of the light that burned brightest out of all my friends - the loss of someone so vigorously innocent, so adventurous, so singular. This is a blow that knocked all the air out of my body, and I feel as if I will never breathe again.

I could get melodramatic and say that I don’t know what I will do now without her. But actually I do know: I will try to remain the person she loved, and I will strive to become someone she would be proud of - responsible, open-minded, and free.

P: You know, that black glitter mini-dress? doesn’t really scream ‘opera’ to me.

M: I bet she’d be annoyed if she knew what this song meant.

P: Oh?

M: Yes, it’s about Lucia’s lover Edmundo, or whatever. He dies at a fountain. I looked up the translation.

P: Dies at a fountain or from a fountain?

M: At, I’m pretty sure.

P: Well it’s pretty hard to die of a fountain, I suppose. Unless you’re at Yellowstone and fall into Old Faithful, which is really more of a geyser than a fountain.

M: Sorry, what?

P: Nothing.

M: See, listen - ‘fontane.’ Fountain. She looks so happy though.

P: Yes, that’s why people shouldn’t look up opera translations. Ignorance is bliss.

It’s up!

Yes, it’s up.

The era of SodaCraze has begun. The multi-author blog (the subject of many harrassing and cajoling e-mails since last, what, December or whatever?) is on the inner-net. It’s up, and it’s brilliant. Ish. At any rate, you should go to it. Um, I can’t guarantee anything - that it will be a ‘best of’ comprised solely of the multi authors’ greatest material; that it will be educational; that it will be unbiased, rational, amusing, or supa-fly is also up in the air right now.

The main thing is that we, and by we I mean Mark , did it. Now all we need are more authors, comments, posting ideas, a new graphic for the header, and a good tagline. Also perhaps fewer characters from angsty 80’s coming-of-age movies.