Today’s installment of #MyHeroes is an
especially personal one, and clearly this blog posting strays from my usual
subject matter.
The name Brad Johnston may not mean
anything to many of you, however any regular readers of the Australian gay
press between approximately 1990 and 2005 will have read Brad’s work.
And in so doing you will no doubt have been
inspired, entertained, edified, delighted and sometimes shocked by Brad’s own
very special brand of genius, in which “Andy Warhol met Truman Capote” – so beautifully
coined by Cat Burke.
Brad died on Friday, 31st
August, 2012.
Aged 41.
We had known each other since 1983 and for perhaps
15 years since about 1985 I would have described Brad as my best friend.
Through his courageous self-determination
he inspired me and gave me the strength to own my sexuality, and come out not
only to others, but to myself.
His innate compass for all that was cool,
stylish and witty pointed me in directions that my young unadventurous self
would never have found on his own.
He encouraged me to write, with an
enthusiasm beyond that of other friends and family, and through his influence I
had my work published for the first time.
And on numerous occasions thereafter.
Brad introduced me to the person I was
meant to be.
Indeed, without his influence I may never
have truly acknowledged my self. I may very well have remained constrained by
my upbringing and my perceptions of the life I ‘should’ be living.
Brad was diagnosed as HIV Positive in 1991,
a time when such a diagnosis was still widely perceived to be a death sentence.
Not only by the wider community, who were largely ignorant and scared when it
came to all matters AIDS related, but by the gay community as well, who had
barely come of age, yet had been facing a horrifying death for the best part of
a decade.
At one time Brad was the longest living HIV
patient in Australia, something he had not expected.
He did not expect to survive past 30.
All concept of a future vanished.
And with it any plans.
He just awaited death.
Not in an accepting way.
Well, not at first anyway.
He faced it though.
With an embittered heart.
A caustic wit.
And a black perspective.
Cigarette permanently in one hand, drink in
the other.
Miraculously still finding a hand to type
with at all times.
Firing his acidic bullets with every tap of
the keyboard.
And although I had always known Brad to be
in constant battle with his demons, the torturing of his soul intensified over
time.
Yet it never hindered his talent.
And those who knew Brad know that writing,
although his most widely known gift, was by no means his only skill.
Illustration, photography and all things
fashion.
He excelled at them all.
But I feel compelled to mention one other
talent, which for me, is a defining one.
Brad could dance.
Like, really dance.
Like nobody else.
And, just to be completely clear, I’m not
talking ‘liked a bit of a boogie, and had a little bit of rhythm’ dance.
I’m talking stop-onlookers-in-their-tracks-clear-the-floor-this-guy’s-totally-going-off-dance-like-a-black-man
dance.
James Brown.
Michael Jackson.
Beyoncé.
Same league.
Same league.
It was truly joyous to behold.
And truly sublime to join in.
I spent much of the weekend on a youtube
nostalgia trip, reminiscing over some old school 70s and 80s disco, another
shared love for Brad and me.
Below are links to some of our favourites,
which when played, over and over, brought a shimmy to my shoulder, a song to my
heart, and a quite considerable tear to my eye.
It had, however, been a long time since I’d
danced with Brad, the last time being in his beloved Liverpool St studio.
It had involved several litres of beer,
copious joints and a bottle of amyl.
One of the best nights ever.
At least 10 years ago.
And he moved from there over three years
ago.
I never saw him again.
Our lives had been heading in different
directions for quite some time.
And our bond weakened with that distance.
We spoke on the phone sporadically and
awkwardly.
There used to be some pretence at
salvaging the friendship, pretence even that things were still the same.
Eventually we both just acquiesced, silently acknowledging that
things were not in fact the same.
And that we no longer understood each
other.
He had changed, and I didn’t like it.
I had changed, but he couldn’t see it.
And all the while I felt this tremendous
guilt for not reaching out more to someone who had once been such an important
figure in my life.
Especially once he was diagnosed with
cancer.
Yes, cancer.
He had been a heavy smoker for at least
twenty years.
For which he blamed me.
I introduced him to his first cigarette.
Possibly his first alcoholic drink.
And first illicit drug.
I’m good like that.
I don’t know about the booze and the drugs,
but he finally quit smoking.
Completely.
His HIV viral load was undetectable.
Perhaps he was finally ready to accept that
the virus wouldn’t kill him.
That he may live a ‘normal’ life.
He may even embrace life for the first time
since contracting HIV.
Four months later, mouth cancer.
Direct result of smoking.
He underwent chemotherapy.
A sign that he was not ready to die.
The chemotherapy won.
At first.
But regardless of its powers of good, it is
an evil poison.
Particularly on a compromised immune
system.
And besides, the cancer came back.
Early this year.
I actually only know this last piece of
information from his blog.
Which I stumbled upon yesterday.
While googling his name.
Below is a link… if you bother to read,
please do start at the beginning.
And give it the time it warrants.
I understood from reading this that Brad
had finally found peace in a life that I hadn’t understood.
With his loving partner Mick.
Just outside Maitland.
And from speaking to Mick today I learned that Brad had found acceptance as well.
Neither HIV nor the cancer won.
He just chose to stop taking his medication.
Knowing what the outcome would be.
But gaining control in that choice.
And while some of his former friends from Sydney
had been mourning supposedly wasted talents and a life beset by tragedy, Brad
had found the true love that eludes so many of us.
And those talents, far from being wasted,
have resonated with all who ever met him.
A life cut short, yes.
A waste, no.
