Frank Crist, February 23, 1973 – October 17, 2007 October 20, 2007

Frank was my friend. And now he’s gone. He’s presumably floating around wherever atheist anarchists go for the rest of eternity.

The first time I met Frank was on the first day of a class we took together. I walked in and saw him–all lanky, sexy and messy–and thought, “Who is this guy with the tattoos up his arms and the boots so broken in it’s like they’ve been on his feet since the day he was born, and the red beard and the long blond hair?” And the first time something of mine was read in class and I saw him listening, and nodding, and then he turned those twinkling, open eyes on me, and the look told me everything–that he knew nothing about me yet accepted me completely for who I was, sitting there across the semi-circle from him. I’ve adored him ever since.

There are a few things Frank taught me in the way-too-few years I have known him. Among those things are that it’s okay to believe that writing and breathing are nearly the same thing, and that it is as important to write as it is to breathe, and being true to one’s self is really fucking hard, and can be painful at times, but in the end, is far better than the alternative. And also, that spending an entire day attempting to brew beer in coffee pots is a perfectly acceptable way to pass time.

To know Frank was to know an uncomplicated, uncluttered, unselfish kind of love. My heart is broken, but the memories remain. I will never forget you, Frank.