The Gwenzilliad

The year after keristor was killed, I purchased a guitar that belonged to him at the Filk Fund auction. It took me two and a half years to write this song.

Still not OK.

Lyrics below the cut tag

( Keris' Guitar )

It seems wrong to remain silent, having read all these tributes and posts, tweets and Facebook notes, about my friend Chris Croughton, aka Keris. My thoughtful stepdaughters rang filceolaire and me simultaneously on Saturday morning to let us know what had happened, and I'm so grateful they did.

There are not enough superlatives in the world to describe Chris. He was a friend, a confidante, a rock in times of trouble, a witty conversational partner, and a keenly talented musician and sound man.
I'm having trouble imagining a world without Chris, as I know many of my friends and family are now as well. It hasn't changed since Saturday. It is not OK that Keris is dead. It is not right. It still does not seem possible.

Despite his many awards and accolades, despite the number of things in which he was actively involved, my greatest sorrow is one thing Chris and I shared and talked about on many occasions: he had no idea how much people loved him. He just did what he did, served his community, made himself useful in part to counteract his profound shyness, and everyone who met him knew he was special. Nobody met Chris and then forgot about him. That would be impossible.

Dear Chris, I loved you and I love you. Wherever you are, if you are, hear my sorrow and the sorrow of everyone who ever knew you or wanted to know you, and know that your life touched so many people and made them glad. If you are not, may the dust, atoms, and chemicals that made you and gave you breath blow into other lives that they may be more glad for having a bit of you in them.