'Dear Ryan - my personal eulogy for a friend

Sometimes I write to help me remember; this artifact comes from the morning after I found out Ryan had passed. I wrote this letter to Ryan, thinking about the future and wanting to be able to have something that holds onto the past as I best remember it.

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When we first crossed paths, it must have been 2016 towards the end of the year. It's funny how paths cross, the old Sliding Doors reference everyone always makes about 'what if' and happenstance/luck.

You got me as a your secret santa at work that year, early into your tenure at The Muse. At this time I was buying records heavily. You got me a gift certificate to Rough Trade - a store I actually liked and could find good stuff in. It came in a gold envelope and to this day I still haven't spent it. There was something unique about the moment and the start of our friendship maybe subconsciously I didn't want to 'spend' or lose as backwards as it seemed.

We then made plans to immediately ditch the holiday party that was going on that night; we realized our two introverted selves would actually enjoy each other's company over almost everyone else's at the loud and stupid company event.

And so a friendship was born - we got into all sorts of conversations that night; you were sure to save some of the awkward and darker stuff for later but I could feel an ease or a happiness inside of you that I think very few people got to access and be privy to.

Over the next year or so at work we grew incredibly close, at least by my standards. I eventually cracked your code and managed to keep you employed there through several close-calls - who knew you could turn into a morning person? Spite is a hell of a motivation.

When the day was frustrating, we'd take a lunch walk down 37th street to GoGo Curry. We even had the 'regular's punch card to prove our loyalty and unlock a free lunch. I'd barely make it halfway through a cigarette, but cherished our walks around the block at work just to vent. I always got the pork katsu. We'd usually sit in the corner of the kitchen, avoiding everyone else accept for a few choice compatriots we'd allow into our circle (Meseret). There's an interesting thing that happens when you lose faith at an organization but have people there with you that feel the same way.

I came from a graphic and creative production world, as did you, and when we scratched any surface at The Muse, we realized it was spraypainted gold, with flimsy tin underneath. Somehow, someway, almost everyone above us was incompetent or creatively inexperienced and tried to drive us into the ditch regularly.

I realized a bit later on that this was because we both cared. Intelligence and personal investment can be a dangerous combination when you're embittered at work. I was better at letting go and being swept up in having a paycheck and flexible life. You had other struggles going on at this time, some of which I understood and others that even frustrated me that I couldn't make an impact. I learned a lot about your medical history and how scary your teenage years were. Some of your stories made me feel such pain and sympathy for your struggle; such anger at people in your life and of bullies-past. I've always kept a part of me just for the unlucky and ones in need of help in my life; I realized you needed me even if you felt like you were a loner or didn't deserve the attention.

Our friendship continued to grow, still in the green years - you came upstate with me to my parents house; I sometimes was absolutely astounded how grateful and kind you were to my them. It was a side of you I rarely saw in New York. We'd get up and go canoeing on the lake nearby. We almost always got some bass. Sometimes it felt like Calvin and Hobbes and we got to escape the madness for a bit and just be children again. I still crack up thinking of the time we went to a swimming hole near Bash Bish State Park and people were astounded just how white your bare chest was (it was funny, I promise!). It was on our way to our last misfit-muse-retreat where we snuck out to smoke on the regular. We roomed together and you got to hear me dry heave from drinking entirely too much sambuca on the first night. We took my parents Subaru and took the scenic route to-and-from. Man, what I'd pay for a little roadtrip to some swimming holes right now.

I got to take you to several of my most cherished places on the planet - the canal and steams on the reservoir system up in the Hudson Valley, Breakneck Ridge, Oliverea and the magical piece of property that Pierre and Michele so beautifully share with folks like us. You even jumped in the water at Otter Falls, a rare sighting of you smiling and enjoying the grigid waters. In hindsight, I didn't fully appreciate how special and fleeting those moments would be. That's life - speeding along with your hair blowing out the window of the car, smelling the summer air and feeling like a kid again.

Sunday night would roll around and we'd be back in the city and it felt a cruel reality when we'd have to get up the next morning and start it all again. We still had our own city escapes and jaunts; record shopping occasionally and hanging out over at each other's places - I even bought you a new record player when you got a new apartment with Matt. I still remember the afternoon I brought the projector over so we could watch Office Space and quote it relentlessly throughout the week at the office. When I stumbled across People Just Do Nothing - I nearly fell off my chair with laughter and knew it was going to resonate with you deeply. We laughed about Chahbuddy's antics and quoted him regularly - ultrapaneaur.

New York is really mean to people by its nature. It spits you out and almost everyone you interact with come off as an asshole and disingenuous. It was really nice to meet and connect with someone who would listen and just be willing to hear you out. You taught me a lot about Tarot and an entire web of mysterious and underground books and thinking. I got to see your incredible brain power at work in so many ways; not just in front of a computer and technically/creatively - also in the way you saw relationships between not just people, but energy and philosophy and approach to life.

You were always welcome in my homes, I always wanted a brother growing up and it felt good to have another 'collected brother' in the house. It's always been a pattern of mine. I always have to have a 'project' or someone that I'm taking under my wing. At times it was difficult and scary - you had a habit of unpredictability and sometimes being unreachable. My worry got the best of me several times but I somehow always got lucky and bailed out; you'd pop back up with a new phone number or pop up from a manic episode.

The last time we hugged and touched was in 2020. Feels like forever ago and just yesterday. You came upstate, in early August, and spent your birthday with me and Meg in High Falls. We took one of my favorite drives through the Catskills that day, just for fun. I can still remember the mild frustration when you demanded we stop 40 minutes in for a cigarette. I'd pay a lot of money to have another drive like that again and just tell you how much I cared about you, regardless of flaws and perceptions. Whenever we'd 'go deep', you would express how much you disliked mirrors and pictures of yourself. A missing sense of self-worth or acceptance that you mattered and that people cared about you. I just did. I didn't need a reason, and for every dark corner of a room there is a window of light. I tried to be your window and your bridge. It's hard to feel like I failed you now looking back, even though I know deep down that I tried really hard and everyone has limits. You did have a unique knack for 'wearing out your welcome' and I had a unique trait of always showing back up and knocking at your door, checking in with you and making sure you were still hanging in there.

I knew that you were better off leaving New York, we'd talked about it several times. It just punishes you relentlessly for not adhering to its ruthless insistence on high rent and personal sacrifice. It made it harder to stay in touch sometimes, and we'd go months at a time without much back-and-forth. But us August babies, like clockwork, we'd check in with each other on our birthdays. You were in rarified air - I rarely last more than 10 minutes on a phone call and we almost always went an hour plus- sometimes almost 2. I didn't want to hang up, I wanted to just be there make you feel like you mattered in that moment, as fleeting as they became. Sardonic jokes always brought us together - gallows humor - but I knew deep down you were a really nice, sweet, good natured person. They get stepped on in NY. I'm happy I found that piece of you though, as hidden and tarnished as it was some weeks.

The last thing you texted me was a beautiful birthday message in 2023 and I'll hold onto that one for a long time. I'm angry at myself for not messaging you more often and being a reliable shoulder to lean on as things got harder and more isolated. I'm angry at myself for not making a trip to Mendocino like I promised and taking you away for a weekend to camp and flyfish, hike, just be in the wilderness. The anger is selfish, and it will pass. It's hard when you are having to let go of the rope of hope and the optimist's gift of 'what if?' and 'we still have time, and there will be more'.

I knew it wasn't my 'job' or my place to, but I always worried about you and would be relieved when you'd reach back out or I could get a moment of levity and light out of you - landscaping, plants, bonsai, lay lines, tarot, the meaning(less)ness of life, what idea you had for a stop motion film or creative endeavor, a new song or instrument you had picked up. I lost track of how many times you mentioned All That Jazz and some of your favorite cinema moments.

I will miss those moments of relief and connection with you. It's why I write many of them down now. I will hold onto those photos and those clips of our time together dearly, knowing that I can't make any new ones. I always struggled to get you to believe you mattered and you were loved, that people deeply cared about you even if through complicated pathways.

But I don't have to struggle with that now; you were loved. I still love you like a brother. I will celebrate you in my life and take solace in the things you taught me. And while they feel sad at the moment and are things that bring tears of sorrow - I know that is temporary. There will be a time when I can simply smile. Those places that we went together take on a special meaning to me now and I can be true to my word about spirituality and belief. I will carry part of you with me forever. As much as you wanted to be forgotten sometimes, I refuse to do that. You mattered, you made an impact, you counted. You were not "less than", you were more than enough. I'm glad I got to listen to you.

You're the closest friend I've ever lost. Just writing it seems odd and surreal still.

You always got excellent gifts (we had talked a lot about our penchant for giving things to others in one of our buddhist tangents). I still have the small knife that was of Hawaiian origin in my kitchen tool drawer at home in High Falls. While dull and perhaps underused, I will keep that blade sharp from now on in your honor. You could be so sharp, so cutting, so present and witty. That's how I choose to remember you, Ryan. I'll keep it sharp for ya. I fuckin love you. You're at peace I hope, and I'll get there too.

This website is my gift to you.

And until Google cuts me off, I can still keep sending you emails whenever I think of you, and imagine you're just taking your time getting back to me or in one of your dour moods.

Cheers, you will be remembered.