It is often said we should
celebrate the life that one has lived and cherish the good times. After
he has transcended this earth to a place where they hopefully serve
kuska and butter chicken, today, a year after his departure, the rest of
us must make some time to remember him.
I met him first at a gig where I think I was playing a few notes on the keyboard which we all hoped would compensate for the lack of a bass player. It was that grating Staind song about being outside and looking in, or some similar junk which I feel too old to recollect now. He was playing with another band - some power metal type sound. After the gig, he came up and started talking to me about music - turned out we didn't have a single band in common - and thus began the frantic exchange of CDs and hard disks.
I realised quickly that he was smart - in an understated, unaffected way. He had a mind that broke down things into little bits - he was completely logic-driven and I was at the other end of the spectrum - completely emotion-driven. Which is why I ran to him for relationship advice and he saw me through lots of ups and downs on the graph, even (somewhat unwillingly) playing mediator at times. We spent hours talking earnestly about life and its meaning like most almost/early twenty-somethings do.
He was a man of few words. But when he said something, it made a lot of sense. How many of us sought him when things went wrong? And he would calmly listen, smoking his Gold Flake and grinning that lopsided grin. Sometimes you could hear him grin that grin on the phone. How many of us remember that song he composed on the guitar? He'd play that over and over again, the main tune neatly worked out, but always getting stuck at a point, always looking for lyrics, always ending up looking frustrated!
We had a crazy friendship - we called each other names, we judged, we were hilariously sarcastic (okay, he was), we were tough. I'm reading some old chats now and they make me laugh out loud (me: hey I got a raise! he: you're a rich bitch). He knew exactly where I went wrong. He would skip all the in-betweens and get straight to the point, forcing me to step back and find fresh perspective. He never told me what to do - he left it for me to decide, except when he got tired of my whining. But he said what he had to say, and I have to admit that he was mostly right.
Six years he formed an inseparable part of my life, a constant part. Steady in between months of no contact, when priorities changed, when we lost touch with other friends, when we had a hundred other things to do. But at the end of the day, we made time for each other, we stayed connected, and that's what makes a beautiful friendship.
Rest in peace. Your favourite Extreme song.
I met him first at a gig where I think I was playing a few notes on the keyboard which we all hoped would compensate for the lack of a bass player. It was that grating Staind song about being outside and looking in, or some similar junk which I feel too old to recollect now. He was playing with another band - some power metal type sound. After the gig, he came up and started talking to me about music - turned out we didn't have a single band in common - and thus began the frantic exchange of CDs and hard disks.
I realised quickly that he was smart - in an understated, unaffected way. He had a mind that broke down things into little bits - he was completely logic-driven and I was at the other end of the spectrum - completely emotion-driven. Which is why I ran to him for relationship advice and he saw me through lots of ups and downs on the graph, even (somewhat unwillingly) playing mediator at times. We spent hours talking earnestly about life and its meaning like most almost/early twenty-somethings do.
He was a man of few words. But when he said something, it made a lot of sense. How many of us sought him when things went wrong? And he would calmly listen, smoking his Gold Flake and grinning that lopsided grin. Sometimes you could hear him grin that grin on the phone. How many of us remember that song he composed on the guitar? He'd play that over and over again, the main tune neatly worked out, but always getting stuck at a point, always looking for lyrics, always ending up looking frustrated!
We had a crazy friendship - we called each other names, we judged, we were hilariously sarcastic (okay, he was), we were tough. I'm reading some old chats now and they make me laugh out loud (me: hey I got a raise! he: you're a rich bitch). He knew exactly where I went wrong. He would skip all the in-betweens and get straight to the point, forcing me to step back and find fresh perspective. He never told me what to do - he left it for me to decide, except when he got tired of my whining. But he said what he had to say, and I have to admit that he was mostly right.
Six years he formed an inseparable part of my life, a constant part. Steady in between months of no contact, when priorities changed, when we lost touch with other friends, when we had a hundred other things to do. But at the end of the day, we made time for each other, we stayed connected, and that's what makes a beautiful friendship.
Rest in peace. Your favourite Extreme song.
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Cool new blog
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