It is no great secret that I am a lover of many beautiful souls.
People often peg me as a giver – calling me too many nice things, like kind, or generous, and open with myself and my things and my dogs and my kitchen – and it could be true, but if it is so, it is all in selfishness! . . . My large heart is wide and insatiable, and it is only in the company of these souls with their bodies kissing my self and using my things and chasing my dogs and standing in my kitchen with wine and laughter that I feel content in this big, small world that I occupy with all the rest. I will give you whatever you want, my darlings, I will try to be kind and generous and open, only let me look at your faces and hear your voices and sniff your scalps and kiss your necks and cook for yins.
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Chris Faroe – my burly, curly, bus-playing, guitar-driving, bread-finding, coffee-giving, dog-walking, tea-drinking, rice-eating friend who has two green pairs of shoes – is one of the beautiful souls. He is shockingly creative, decisively determined, and is the gentlest giant I’ve ever met. He is a musician, and a wonderful one, and believes in a world of shared arts and passions. He is in love with my dog Boon (and also a lovely human named Kathy), and Boon is also in love with him, and the man has more than once described the dog’s scrawny, brindled frame as a “wonderland.”
Chris is often guilty of complimenting me when he should only be receiving compliments. For instance, a month ago in April, I was one of the lucky hundred to attend the release of his lovely and latest album “Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo”.
Yes, that’s eight buffalos; look it up – it’s a legit sentence.
The release show was held at the Brooklyn Society for Ethical Culture on a rainy spring night, and everyone packed together in the darkness, littered over chairs and floor, among candles and stained glass, hearts warm, breath warmer, fingers sticky from baklava made by mothers in-the-know. Chris played his whole new album, a few old things, and also invited other beautiful souls – The Sneaky Mister, Ladder to the Moon, and Plume Giant – to play with him for us.
It was stellar and every good thing. Time and time again while he played and sang, I smiled to myself – proud that I know him, proud of who he is, and so happy that he rolled like a tumbleweed through the desert to my trailer a year ago to sleep on my futon.
Chris, baby, your towel is in the closet. Your beet scraps are in the fridge. I love you. The pups do, too.