Organizing your writing life

In Memoriam: Christopher Jason Siddons

I found out last night that Chris had lost his battle with AIDS on Sunday. He was only 32. Chris and I met in 1992 at auditions for a play I was directing for Script, the now defunct theater company in Jonesboro, GA. We had instant chemistry and briefly dated, but discovered we were better as friends. We shared some lovely moments, including crying our eyes out over Fried Green Tomatoes and going down to visit the Whistle Stop Cafe. He had an amazing voice, was a talented artist and dancer and I distinctly remember him playing Kate Bush's "Running Up That Hill" on his keyboard when we lived together. We went on road trips, wrote poetry together and had many, many laughs. I will never forget him singing along to Annie Lennox or the soundtracks from Miss Saigon or Phantom of the Opera, or holding my hand as we sat in the old Garden Hills Cinema watching Howard's End thrilled by Emma Thompson and all that English rain we had never seen. He especially loved The Rocky Horror Picture Show and I can't remember how many times we saw it together.

We had a big fight after we finished starring together in an exhausting -- both physically and mentally -- psychological drama set in a mental institution called Outcasts Always Mourn by local playwright Grant Jerkins. Doing those rehearsals every night, coming home and living with those characters, holding down jobs, being so young. I'm surprised we didn't kill each other. Chris moved out and we lost contact for a time. The apartment felt empty without him.

Four or five years went by, until he called one day and said he was starring in a play in Atlanta and wanted me to come. He was happy and well and I was thrilled to see him again. We stayed in touch and saw each other out at clubs on occasion. I remember watching him teaching line-dancing at a club here in Atlanta called Hoedown's one Thursday night. He really knew how to dance in all styles and was clearly enjoying himself. That was the last time I saw him. We lost touch again.

The first poem I ever had published (in Welter in 1993) was inspired by him. I'm not even sure he knew that, and I will regret never thanking him. Several poems in Better To Travel were inspired by Chris and I have a notebook full of awkward poems written during our time together that may never see the light of day. But those words were a turning point in my writing and voice. Chris made that possible.

Firewater

Back door, old house,
snow melting faster
than paper burns.
And some child is
running in the woods.
He is at my side now.
Kissing my face,
holding my hands.
Bitterly cold, he
half naked.
I lead him to the
couch, lay him
down, smother him
with my body.
Kisses, apologies,
promises…forgotten.
Ghost.
He melts through my
veins like firewater.
And passes through my
soul as winter does.

Thank you, Chris, for helping me find my voice. I hope you are at peace. You will not be forgotten.