Quadsville

I had just spoken with John a week or so ago outside the Bucktown Center for the Arts, which is, I believe, where I first met him about five years ago. I knew him as a runner and as a volunteer for MidCoast Fine Arts and Venus Envy, the annual women's art festival I help plan.

Of course, I knew his official titles at the United Way and the diocese. But John had little use for pretension. He was just as happy to help out a worthy cause by approaching a big wig for a large donation as he was by hauling tables and setting up chairs, which we did, side by side, many times.

Perfection Wasted

And another regrettable thing about death is the ceasing of your own brand of magic, which took a whole life to develop and market --

the quips, the witticisms, the slant adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,

their tears confused with their diamond earrings,

their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,

their response and your performance twinned.

The jokes over the phone. The memories packed in the rapid-access file. The whole act. Who will do it again? That's it: no one; imitators and descendants aren't the same.

Those of us who experienced John Kiley's "own brand of magic" would disagree with the poem's title. His time with us, though too short, was not wasted in the least. And although he was as human as the rest of us, his humble example was closer to perfection than many of us can hope to achieve.

He will be missed and mourned by many.