Here is an excerpt that Kim sent me from his journal. It is something he wrote after the tragedy of September 11th, 2001:

It's just that time at night for me now when all things are surreal. I take stock of my surroundings and look at the sky with wonderment. My heart is hopeful, but steeped in sadness for all of my brothers and sisters. In this kind of solitude and lonely quiet I search for God. When I walk the streets in daylight I seek kinship in the eyes of others. I share smiles with strangers, and sometimes I share their pain. In times of such unimaginable horror, as we have witnessed of late, where can we find the answers we need to heal one another? Some look for justice; others, comfort. We grieve in our own ways. A friend mentioned to me that perhaps my swollen tear gland was a symbol for my stopped emotions. My body has begun to show many signs of wear. I have come to realize that perhaps my body has become poisoned with the blood of the world. Perhaps I cannot grieve the way I need to to begin my healing and help others around me. Are we not sensitive to the elements in ways unexplainable through science and predictibility? I have always believed so. Perhaps in this belief I can find God and touch others around me. I looked for peace today and it eluded me. I put my peace in a girl and she went away. I thought I'd lost it, until I asked for more; and now I want to give my peace away to everyone I meet. Please little girl, have some more...

Hi Kim,

I went on the Internet tonight and found the lyrics to "Letter From Home" by Pat Metheny (lyrics by Noa):

----------------

Hey, there ..
Tell me what's going on
It's hard for me to feel you when you're far away.
You know I worry ..
Are you sad or all alone again?
I would do anything just to know - are you happy
Where you are?
I would do anything to be there when you need me
And hold you close
And to kiss your hair
Sit on your bed
Now count to three
Open your eyes... it's me.

Hey there ...
Everyone says "hello"
I try to keep them posted on your whereabouts
But all they manage is to be polite
And send regards
I want to scream and shout
Do you know there's a crater in my heart?
I want to scream and shout
Do you know I've perfected the painful art
of an empty space
Sit on my bed
Pick up the phone
Hear your voice say ...

I'm home.

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I read your two pieces "Mischief Embodied" and "Bio" on your web site. They certainly are beautiful!  Your parents must have been very proud of you, Kim.

I don't really remember you except from emails and that one phone call we had.  But I'm learning about you from your web site. I wish I had known you when you were here. But it wasn't meant to be, I guess.

With lots of love from your Aunt Mary.

Here is something Kim wrote to me on May 31, 2003:

I saw the most amazing thing the other day on the field where we ran a couple of times......12th and vine....specifically on the western-most baseball diamond. I was walking along the path towards it and right before me a twister of sand was born. It was about 15 feet high. It danced about collecting sand and, as per usual, noone else saw it. It's as if it was just for me. How lucky I am! If it had not been on the sand I think I would have missed it. I tried to follow it as it left the diamond, but it became more and more difficult. It became an invisible force collecting and tossing various items, like plastic bags, clothes and so on. It reminded of mischief embodied. I smiled....

Whirling sands

Bound in a careless dance

Embracing and discarding in graceful momentum

Twisting winds

Dance across the stillness

Mischief embodied

Embraced and discarded

Kim Riordon was a bastard. A hard-living, wise, honest bastard and we loved him for it. I think that early on in life Kim took a look around at the crew of misfits that would become his lifelong friends and wisely deduced that there would be no brain surgeons or rocket scientists among us. But that didn't mean we shouldn't have any fun along the way to becoming whatever it was life had in store for us. That would require a leader...and Kim would definitely have to be the brains behind the operation. He knew the best teacher was experience, and that whatever insane plan we would come up with for spending our Saturday nights would have to be carried out, simply so that we would all agree on its stupidity at the Sunday morning post-mortem over eggs and coffee. "Sure Steve, that sounds like a good idea", with a wry smile & sideward glance that said to anyone quick enough to catch it - "This is going be a spectacular screw-up." If there was trouble to get into, Kim would get you there. In a limo. On time.

Make no mistake; he did more than his fair share of instigating. We all have our Booner story, and if you ask around, invariably, to a man, they will all begin sometime around 11PM and end with the sun rise and the wonder of how they both managed to get home unscathed, semi-sober and un-arrested – I credit fast feet and good running shoes. Usually there was a woman involved, or at least the pursuit thereof. Wine, women & song. Some of us excelled at the first or the last, but Boon's priorities were always dependable, and he was way better at getting their attention than any of us. I am probably not alone in setting the blame of un-laid teenage years squarely at Booner's feet. It was simple mathematics. If Kim was around, whoever she was, she wasn't interested in you, and neither were her friends, not even the fat one ("...but thank you for rum & diet Coke"). All you could do was get a fresh cold one, try to keep up with the conversation, and figure out how the hell we were getting home (Booner and I were never that good at planning ahead – he once walked from Knowlton to Cowansville, and while catching Z’s in a farmer’s field got his ass bitten red by the ants whose nest he crashed out on…in retrospect we should have just brought camping gear every time we went out on the piss). I spent whole summers keeping the fat one busy and I still wouldn't trade one of those evenings for a Booner-less pub. It just isn't as much fun and doesn't seem right.
I will miss that bastard.

Today I received a copy of the obituary for Kim, from his hometown local paper. Kim's Dad was left with the task of having to put into words, what could possibly be a parents worst nightmare.

I read the column. I looked at the picture and read the column again.

And yet, I still sit behind my computer and expect an instant message to pop out at me from Kim, with some "just for fun" jab, or an obscure reference to something we did together with Seann years ago.

Now that I have read the column, perhaps you would like to read it also:

I remember we used to go down there a lot when Kim and Seann were little. Jimmy, Sheila and probably Charlie too, used to play with Kim and Seann and the many neighbourhood children that used to play there.

It was always "open house" and there was always something for all the children to eat and drink.

The house and yard were large and well back from the road and there was a lot of room to run around and play in, both indoors and out.

Life was free and easy then at Kim's and Seann's big stone house.

Your feet touch down gently as you take our shape. Not more than a stir in the leaves and you are born again from the crisp night air. You are gentle to look upon, not the fierce killer we have met in our dreams. Such refined features, a timeless appeal of beauty and presence mocked only by Death's kiss, yet flattered by it's stillness. You walk with the night as your bride, a silent affection for a cloak, which serves and binds you, but never leaves you. You are a shadow, and a specter, haunting humanity and drinking its blood. You are a flutter in the treetops, the peripheral stalker, and the shivers running down our spines. Romance has blessed you, and kept you in our minds. We feed on you as you feed on us. You are a necessary lover, an intoxicating legend and sinister piece of us all. We are seduced by your charms, and captivated by your gaze, all at once aroused and afraid, but unable to refuse your touch. It begins with a kiss, and ends in rapture.

Can machines think?

The ambiguous nature of this question leads one to first ask for the definition of a machine and for that of thought. For the sake of clarity and brevity I shall run by the guidelines that Alan Turing ascribed to any machine that is capable of passing what is now known as the Turing test. Simply put, should a machine be able to fool an interrogator asking a series of questions by making him unable to distinguish the machine from another human responding to the same questions, then this machine is conscious. Whether this test provides proof of consciousness is for a large part the answer to this question. If one accepts the Turing test as an adequate identifier of consciousness then the answer is yes. If, however, one does not then the Turing test is no more proof that machines can think than religion is proof that a god exists.

Shadows of this prison are etched in my mind; I see shapes on the walls. My eyes have grown accustomed to the pitch of solitary blackness. Having spent too many sleepless nights alone I have manufactured sounds to scream across this steady black canvas. They are rich and horrific - Mostly shrieks of realization like fireworks alight above a prehistoric canopy.
Water pools on the floor…a face dancing in the shallow tempers of light. I catch images, soft and fortunate - remedies for a moment’s awakening.

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