joined by coffee, bonded by words
Summer of 1995, I had been exchanging email with this person that I met on alt.gothic, who turned out to attend university only a couple of towns away in Worcester. We arranged to meet at a cafe and one of her first questions to me was, "so, your handle: c'ris ... is that handle a Dragonriders of Pern reference?"
Back in the early days of the Internet, before we all got used to using our real names online, and when everyone was using some kind of handle, I went by "c'ris". I don't remember who granted me that name, only that it was given to me by someone. A teacher, an editor at the college paper, a boss -- someone who was dealing with a plethora of Christophers and Christines and used that to call even further attention to the ways I was an exception-making pain in the ass. I told her, this new friend, that it wasn't a Pern reference, but she was enthusiastic in explaining to me the way characters in the books would contract their name after they bonded with a dragon and became an official dragonrider. That was the start of a conversation that rambled through literature, music, and the hell of school in the suburbs. I think at the end or beginning of that first meeting, I gave her a mixtape.
"I think you said you liked Leonard Cohen, right? I think you might like this guy, too. His name's Nick Cave."
We were born a day apart, and it may be tempting, for the purposes of a story, to say that she is the closest to a twin that I would ever have. We were in various similar positions in life: on the cusp of graduating from university, dipping our toe in the social whirlwind that was Manray, figuring out who we wanted to be and what we were going to become. Yet, it wouldn't be a service to her to say that she is my copy, or I, hers. We are our own people, complete and whole before we met each other. However, we have been touchstones for one another throughout our adult years.
We both moved into Boston after graduation, both got enmeshed in Manray, both watched as we got involved with other people, and both helped mend each other when those episodes didn't work out. In the fall of 1996, we joined this fateful trip to New Orleans where I would meet photiq, mishak and these other folks who, even at the time, I knew would become important later on. But, back then, before all of that was to happen, I still remember an afternoon spent in the Cafe Du Monde, where she introduced me to beignets, chicory coffee, and the avid, enthusiastic love that she had for that city. Even in that social swirl, when we were in a party in a strange house in a foreign city surrounded by new faces, we could find each other and be okay.
For a while, we made habit of regularly getting coffee with atalanta and _perihelion_ at some sidewalk cafe somewhere on Newbury St or Central or Harvard, and we'd while away the evenings talking, gossiping and snarking about life's peculiarities. I don't quite know how or why we stopped. It may have been mutual busy-ness. It may have been relationships that we were each getting into; the ones that were going to be significant for us. _perihelion_ and I still bring it up from time to time. How nice it was that we had that, for however brief it was.
The two of us had that habit over the years of going apart and coming together, pursuing the momentum of our lives in whatever direction they'd take us, but meeting again and picking up where we left off. Even after she left, moved to the West Coast and settled there, we'd still see each other when I'd head to the Bay Area. On this last trip, we got lunch with a few other Boston transplants, and at some point in the midst of it, I picked their brains about the challenges of moving and uprooting and resettling. I looked at my friend, and saw all of the years between when we met and where we were. I saw, again, how she had changed careers and cities, lost and found love, faced up to struggles in her life, and could come out of still being amazing and brilliant. I saw that strength, that hope, and that bright, shining enthusiasm for what life had to offer.
We could find each other and be okay.
Back in the early days of the Internet, before we all got used to using our real names online, and when everyone was using some kind of handle, I went by "c'ris". I don't remember who granted me that name, only that it was given to me by someone. A teacher, an editor at the college paper, a boss -- someone who was dealing with a plethora of Christophers and Christines and used that to call even further attention to the ways I was an exception-making pain in the ass. I told her, this new friend, that it wasn't a Pern reference, but she was enthusiastic in explaining to me the way characters in the books would contract their name after they bonded with a dragon and became an official dragonrider. That was the start of a conversation that rambled through literature, music, and the hell of school in the suburbs. I think at the end or beginning of that first meeting, I gave her a mixtape.
"I think you said you liked Leonard Cohen, right? I think you might like this guy, too. His name's Nick Cave."
We were born a day apart, and it may be tempting, for the purposes of a story, to say that she is the closest to a twin that I would ever have. We were in various similar positions in life: on the cusp of graduating from university, dipping our toe in the social whirlwind that was Manray, figuring out who we wanted to be and what we were going to become. Yet, it wouldn't be a service to her to say that she is my copy, or I, hers. We are our own people, complete and whole before we met each other. However, we have been touchstones for one another throughout our adult years.
We both moved into Boston after graduation, both got enmeshed in Manray, both watched as we got involved with other people, and both helped mend each other when those episodes didn't work out. In the fall of 1996, we joined this fateful trip to New Orleans where I would meet photiq, mishak and these other folks who, even at the time, I knew would become important later on. But, back then, before all of that was to happen, I still remember an afternoon spent in the Cafe Du Monde, where she introduced me to beignets, chicory coffee, and the avid, enthusiastic love that she had for that city. Even in that social swirl, when we were in a party in a strange house in a foreign city surrounded by new faces, we could find each other and be okay.
For a while, we made habit of regularly getting coffee with atalanta and _perihelion_ at some sidewalk cafe somewhere on Newbury St or Central or Harvard, and we'd while away the evenings talking, gossiping and snarking about life's peculiarities. I don't quite know how or why we stopped. It may have been mutual busy-ness. It may have been relationships that we were each getting into; the ones that were going to be significant for us. _perihelion_ and I still bring it up from time to time. How nice it was that we had that, for however brief it was.
The two of us had that habit over the years of going apart and coming together, pursuing the momentum of our lives in whatever direction they'd take us, but meeting again and picking up where we left off. Even after she left, moved to the West Coast and settled there, we'd still see each other when I'd head to the Bay Area. On this last trip, we got lunch with a few other Boston transplants, and at some point in the midst of it, I picked their brains about the challenges of moving and uprooting and resettling. I looked at my friend, and saw all of the years between when we met and where we were. I saw, again, how she had changed careers and cities, lost and found love, faced up to struggles in her life, and could come out of still being amazing and brilliant. I saw that strength, that hope, and that bright, shining enthusiasm for what life had to offer.
We could find each other and be okay.