THE EULOGY
The Eulogy
The first thing I want to share is the eulogy that lit a match in me — the spark that turned a quiet mother into a hopeful disruptor. I was raised in the town I now raise my children in. Taught to be kind, to stay small, to keep the peace. But this eulogy felt like a double dog dare — to be louder, braver, truer.
It was delivered in a crowded pub, packed with people who, on paper, have nothing in common. She’s, they’s, and gays. Men with four decades of military behind them. By the end, there wasn’t a single dry eye. I watched tears stream down faces — hardened by war, now softened by loss.
All my love to Josh G, the brilliant mind behind those words.
And to Travis W, the only man I’ve ever believed to be cooler than me.
*All art included in this post was created by Travis W.
“I’m going to begin my remarks with an introduction
given by Maynard at the gaining of every stop on the “Conditoins of my Parole” Tour in 2011. I was mesmerized the first time I heard it and all these year later it’s as relevant as ever.
Sustainability.
And no, I don’t mean the word at the bottom of your menu next to “local” and “organic".” I mean sustainability as it pertains to — and intersects with — survival. Intersects in a way that metaphorically vaporizes words like “entitlement” and phrases that begin with the words “I deserve.”
At some point, during our human development, we became aware of our own mortality. This was no longer simply an inanimate pile of meat and bone lying before us. This was our friend, our companion, and they are no longer here.
So after the panic subsides, we ask ourselves, why? Why are they no longer here? What happened? And more importantly, what can I do to prevent what happened from happening to me? Or at the very least put off the inevitable?
It was at this point that we realized our very survival was contingent upon how creative we could be. Our instincts to fight or run were no longer enough. We needed to establish more effective forms of clothing and shelter, more consistent sources of food. We need to use every fiber of our imagination, every spark of our creative energy to stay ahead of this daily threat on our lives, otherwise, the harsh reality was that today could in fact be our last.
So here we are — clever little talking monkeys trying desperately to type “War and Peace” before the ink runs out. We began to observe, interpret, and chronicle the chaos until patters emerged. And then through trial and error, we discovered the appropriate responses to these challenges and daily threats on our lives. And we rehearsed these responses, these movements, these actions and reactions until they became skills. And we rehearsed them not only in context, but out of context as well in the form of prose, ritual, martial art, etc. So by day — we hunt, we gather, we cultivate, we build. And by night — we dance, we sing, we share, and rehearse, as well as celebrate another day of survival against all odds… all around a central fire.
This was the time when the artistic and the utilitarian were in perfect balance. A symbiotic relationship between expression and practical movement.
What is Puscifer? Puscifer is many things, but the cornerstone of what Puscifer is, is an attempt to reconnect with their seemingly lost balance, because we at Puscifer feel that life is too short not to create something with every breath we draw.
Life is too short not to create something with every breath we draw.
Every time I hear that phrase, I think of Travis. And I always will. I don’t think he walked around repeating that little mantra in his head 24 hours a day, but I think it was always swimming around in his subconscious, compelling him to create. I don’t believe that he was necessarily always in control of the timing and the flow of his inspiration and ideas. Observing Travis’ life and work, one of the primary conclusions I’ve reached is that it wasn’t a hobby. It wasn’t something to fill the time after retiring from the service. It was who he was at his core — an artist.
I still can’t believe we’re all here for this reason. But reality is no respecter of belief. I feel incredibly lucky to have been Travis’ friend. He was probably the most unique individual I’ve ever known and I doubt I will know another life like him. To quote a sketch comedy show that we both loved, “He saw the world wildly and in wild ways.”
If you knew Travis for any length of time you know exactly what I mean. The wheels of creativity and artistic vision were always turning in his mind. And I don’t just mean for the physical art he created, but in various daily circumstances. He saw the world artfully and he would deploy his creative gifts on demand when the moment called for it. Maybe it was commentary through his canvas on a current cultural hot button. Maybe it was wood, carved and cut up to build something functional and beautiful. Maybe it was some well-timed social subterfuge — a simple scheme designed on the spot to make someone laugh, make someone think, or get them out of their comfort zone — sometimes because they needed it and sometimes because he got a little bored and needed to just shake things up a bit. But all of it was artful in its own way.
Regardless of what he produced or the outcome of his effort, it was never dull with Travis. He gleefully danced around the boundaries of beauty and vulgarity in art and life all in the service of discovery. Travis had a ceaselessly curious mind. He had to experience. He had to see things for himself. He never stopped craving adventure. He traveled and lived many places in his life, but I think on some level he could have spent a thousand years traveling and living everywhere on planet earth and he would still have a yearning to discover more. That thirst steered the course of his life.
At a tender age he made the life altering decision to enlist in the Army. He wasn’t in trouble. No deal to be made with a judge between incarceration and service — just a desire to break out of [this town] and as he would succinctly put it, “See some shit.”
And “see some shit” he did. I won’t even attempt to give a complete rundown of all of his military accomplishments, but rest assured they were many. He also shared many stories with me that I hope some of his military brothers will tell about pushing the envelope with his superiors while remaining a reliable, dedicated soldier. A little chaos, a little mayhem. These were occasional goals for Travis and I believe he achieved them swimmingly.
In the end, though, he chose to return to [this town] and make it his home. I think he truly loved the town. He knew what it was and what it wasn’t Anyone who lives here knows that there’s something about [this town] that just screams “ordinary”. We have a few notable enterprises here and the university, but beyond that it’s hard to pin a lot of deep significance on the town. And that’s no slight because I love it too. But I think Travis almost saw the town as a blank canvas — in its infancy, culturally. A fertile soil he could dig his hands into and plant the seed of beautification — to turn a gray little town technicolor.
The pub is where that seed was ultimately planted and over the last few years we’ve all watched as he watered and nurtured this space until it began to bloom with colors and textures that created an entirely new life for the brand and the community.
In the face of loss you can’t help but imagine different futures in which Travis is still here carrying on his great calling. I can’t help but imagine his talents being eventually recognized by a wider audience and seeing his art valued by the marketplace rather than the dime store prices he put on nearly everything he had for sale. From the earliest days we knew him, we told him he should ask more for his art, but he wouldn’t even consider it. He wasn’t doing it for the money and we all know that — but we placed so much value on his talent that it was almost painful sometimes to see some of his great work sell for so few dollars.
But between his punk rock ethos and the joy he took in seeing other people excited about his work — higher prices were never in the cards. That uncompromising approach to his art is something I will always deeply admire.
No one could even come close to replicating Travis’ artistic style so we lose out on getting to see a wider world remade by him, but we can carry on his legacy of standing up for and helping others — whether it’s our veterans, those less fortunate, or the most vulnerable or marginalized members of our community. Anyone can volunteer. Anyone can give their time. We can’t all be artists, but we can all be givers and helpers.
Travis gave himself. He gave to his country for 22 years. He gave himself to family and friends. He gave himself to the pub. He gave himself to the town. He gave himself to the world.
For me, Travis represented the possible. He represented a different way of seeing the world, a different way of living. He represented a different way of engaging with the space and the people around you. As a kid who had a very strict, sheltered upbringing, I reveled in Travis’ rebelliousness. I often lived vicariously through him. He had the guts to do things that I didn’t. He had the heart of a punk and could be a bit of a bastard — and I say that with as much affection as possible. I mean the good kind of bastard. His defiant heart was always scratching at the door, trying to break free. He found constraint disagreeable. He found convention monotonous. It just didn’t sit well with him.
People these days love to label themselves “disruptors" but that’s just flowery bullshit. You want to see a disruptor? That was Travis. It’s hard for me not to be bitter and angry about losing him because the world needs disruption. It needs to be pushed outside its comfort zone. I need it just as much as anyone. And I’m grateful that he was gloriously suited to the task.
Travis was a prism — refracting white light from the cosmos until it separated into its constituent wavelengths, creating a spectrum of colors. The prism is gone. But the colors he cast remain — around us and within us.”