Dear Patrick,
I am stunned and saddened by the news of your passing. That it had long been rumored does little to quell my grief, and I find myself feeling pensive and nostalgic. Though you are no longer among us in physical form, I take solace in knowing you survive in the hearts and minds of all who are familiar with your work and appreciate your myriad contributions to the collective human experience.
Wherever they talk of the 50-year storm and speak in hushed tones about the system that kills the human spirit, vowing not to spend their days inching their way along the freeway in metal coffins; wherever spinning pottery devolves into tawdry love making; wherever chiseled, steely-eyed men rip out the throats of foes with their bare hands; wherever they refuse to put Baby in a corner; wherever ragtag groups of teenage rebels rumble against rival gangs of privileged young toughs or resist invading Russo-Cuban armies, you, Patrick Wayne Swayze, live on, your legacy having been inextricably woven into the historical tapestry of this country, moving us to dream, to thought, to action through the courage of your conviction.
No, you did not make dancing or mullets or wistful love ballads any cooler. And we all have our “To Wong Foo” moments. But that hardly matters. This is a love letter. I prefer to remember you as I first saw you:
Shot through the gut, your life slowly draining from your body, cradling a mortally wounded Charley Sheen in your arms, two young brothers dying heroically on a park bench in the snow, the commandant of the communistic invaders, his revolver trained on you both, letting his weapon fall to his side, having finally grasped the enormity of the moment and the triumph of the human spirit against seemingly insurmountable odds.
You will be missed. You will not be forgotten.
I am stunned and saddened by the news of your passing. That it had long been rumored does little to quell my grief, and I find myself feeling pensive and nostalgic. Though you are no longer among us in physical form, I take solace in knowing you survive in the hearts and minds of all who are familiar with your work and appreciate your myriad contributions to the collective human experience.
Wherever they talk of the 50-year storm and speak in hushed tones about the system that kills the human spirit, vowing not to spend their days inching their way along the freeway in metal coffins; wherever spinning pottery devolves into tawdry love making; wherever chiseled, steely-eyed men rip out the throats of foes with their bare hands; wherever they refuse to put Baby in a corner; wherever ragtag groups of teenage rebels rumble against rival gangs of privileged young toughs or resist invading Russo-Cuban armies, you, Patrick Wayne Swayze, live on, your legacy having been inextricably woven into the historical tapestry of this country, moving us to dream, to thought, to action through the courage of your conviction.
No, you did not make dancing or mullets or wistful love ballads any cooler. And we all have our “To Wong Foo” moments. But that hardly matters. This is a love letter. I prefer to remember you as I first saw you:
Shot through the gut, your life slowly draining from your body, cradling a mortally wounded Charley Sheen in your arms, two young brothers dying heroically on a park bench in the snow, the commandant of the communistic invaders, his revolver trained on you both, letting his weapon fall to his side, having finally grasped the enormity of the moment and the triumph of the human spirit against seemingly insurmountable odds.
You will be missed. You will not be forgotten.
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