I am Christian's cousin. My name is Pierre and I'm living in Montreal. I always had a close affiliation with Chris because of our philosophy of life. Actually I smoke my first joint with him, at my aunt's place in a high rise near the twin towers. Boy was I stoned!
He came and visited me in Montreal a few times. He was such a sweet and unusual guy. Always loved him. I went to crash at his place in Brooklyn a few years back. Around midnight as I was trying to get some sleep, a band started to jam right above his apartment. It went on for hours...the drum, electric guitar; it blew my mind. Next morning I ask Chris what the fuck was going on upstairs, how did he managed to find sleep under all that noise and how come nobody complained? He told me they were russians that recently moved in and they dig music and in the building there's sort of an unwritten code allowing everyone to do as they please. It was perfectly normal for him. Good thing I didn't travel with my mom because she would have raised hell. Still that was Chris to me. Live and let live. He had the kindest smile. I'll miss him.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Monday, March 17, 2008
reflections from brother Peter
I realize that Chris was very special to a great number of people; family, friends and acquaintances alike. I must confess, I am a little jealous of his popularity.
I know that Chris preferred to look at life with a sense of irony and a humor all his own. Although I've always suspected he experienced occasional loneliness, Jocelyn's sharing of his letter brought this tragic fact home for me and I'm just sorry I didn't know enough as a brother to reach out to him more decisively. God knows I had every chance.
I could not have asked for a more amazing older brother. He and I existed within an arms reach of each other for a span of some seven years. Sometimes I called him, and sometimes he called me. The calls were few and far between, but always a great yearning went out from my heart toward him and for the untried relationship that now can only be a spiritual one. He and I shared many interests, chiefly art, but also movies and music. Not a day goes by when I am not haunted by the expectation which I know Chris had for me to master my creative instincts, as I have all of his paints and art materials.
'To be like Chris' I think it is the secret fantasy of a great number of us. Obviously, there can never be another like him. Who could possibly fit that mold? Yet cosmically, karmically, I know of no one else who lives so deep inside the heart of so many.
It often alarmed me to see how skinny, even frail, Chris always seemed even to me (no fatso myself). Even the material circumstances of his life were embarrassingly spare. The irony is that his character was so robust and full.
Even in terms of the anarchic Punk culture which he so admired, with its credo of "Live fast, Die Young" he seems to have made good: I still remember what for Chris must have been memorable times ( they are for me ) in Boston, where he began his career as a muralist. He was so euphoric about the Punk scene and he would play me these battered, recycled looking cassette tapes that lived on the floor of his AMC Eagle without a single case, all while tearing around pre-Big Dig Boston at illegal speeds. It was all so deliciously random. Small wonder he later broke the axle of his car. Well, I feel certain he must have a white and gold Porsche in the Spiritworld by now.
I know that Chris preferred to look at life with a sense of irony and a humor all his own. Although I've always suspected he experienced occasional loneliness, Jocelyn's sharing of his letter brought this tragic fact home for me and I'm just sorry I didn't know enough as a brother to reach out to him more decisively. God knows I had every chance.
I could not have asked for a more amazing older brother. He and I existed within an arms reach of each other for a span of some seven years. Sometimes I called him, and sometimes he called me. The calls were few and far between, but always a great yearning went out from my heart toward him and for the untried relationship that now can only be a spiritual one. He and I shared many interests, chiefly art, but also movies and music. Not a day goes by when I am not haunted by the expectation which I know Chris had for me to master my creative instincts, as I have all of his paints and art materials.
'To be like Chris' I think it is the secret fantasy of a great number of us. Obviously, there can never be another like him. Who could possibly fit that mold? Yet cosmically, karmically, I know of no one else who lives so deep inside the heart of so many.
It often alarmed me to see how skinny, even frail, Chris always seemed even to me (no fatso myself). Even the material circumstances of his life were embarrassingly spare. The irony is that his character was so robust and full.
Even in terms of the anarchic Punk culture which he so admired, with its credo of "Live fast, Die Young" he seems to have made good: I still remember what for Chris must have been memorable times ( they are for me ) in Boston, where he began his career as a muralist. He was so euphoric about the Punk scene and he would play me these battered, recycled looking cassette tapes that lived on the floor of his AMC Eagle without a single case, all while tearing around pre-Big Dig Boston at illegal speeds. It was all so deliciously random. Small wonder he later broke the axle of his car. Well, I feel certain he must have a white and gold Porsche in the Spiritworld by now.
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