In the past few weeks I have heard people talk about Peter, more than any time in my life. I am surprised, because often it isn’t the Peter I knew and loved. The Peter I knew was more sensitive than brutish. He could barrel over my sensibilities sometimes. Give him ten minutes and he would say he was sorry and we would discuss the issues at hand. He was rarely sentimental-that was hard for him-but neither did I doubt for a moment that he loved me. His intuitiveness was so acute, it bordered on spooky.

He visits my dreams nearly every night. I imagine scenarios, play out conversations we might have had, still rage at the stars, at the sickening tragedy of his murder.

Sept. 21, 2008

Still recovering from the memorial to Peter, which was rather like a wake, a celebration of his life, which is fine and good. I had felt drained all morning, knew I had to get my ass in gear and go shopping for some items to bring. Finally, I left the hotel, picked up Jhim Pattison on the way. Jhim, Byron Baker, Peter and I go way back, all the way back to 1980 when Byron approached me at the Hong Kong Cafe to say hello because he has a thing for redheads. The three of them had been hanging out together quite a lot lately, Peter sending me news.

Well Jhim and I went to the supermarket to buy flowers, candles, wine, cake and some salmon for the grill. I said, “Hey Jhim, this is something we have never done before, isn’t it?” Trippy.

Driving the hills of Echo Park was hairy; the GPS giving us convoluted directions and sending us down steep hills nose first. I couldn’t see over the hood at one point. We unloaded and I prowled around in search of a space big enough to park the monster. It looks like a gangster mobile-low, tinted windows, fat tires. Gracious host Amanda Sherren’s place was the quintessential and lovely Echo Park house that reminded me of past gatherings, past lives. I asked for a vase for the lilies and told her I used to live in the neighbourhood, in an apartment above a shoe store at the corner of Sunset and Alvarado. I had roof access, hosted tar beach parties where we watched the fireworks from Dodger Stadium on the fourth of July each year.

There were many people in attendance including dear friends SA Griffin and Doug Knott and some I hadn’t seen in years like Byron and Michael Mollet. I embraced the new friends as well, people I have been corresponding with online about Peter, Tyler Waxman, Bob Moss and Gina Lamb, though I’m pretty sure I met Gina long ago as she is a friend of his from Baltimore. Peter and I visited that city more than once and it was always a wild time. I was pleased to meet cool peeps from different periods of his life-Zuade Kaufman for one-and there were a few other art-school-Baltimore friends there too including the charming Susan MacAdams. It’s amazing actually, thinking back, on how much traveling Peter and I did together despite a dearth of cash. We made a trip to Canada once too, to visit my parents. My mom liked him a lot, his height, bearing and humour reminded her of her brothers Doug and Reggie. Continue reading →

Life is very strange! I mean, more than usual. Another death. Last night I received an email from the sister of my ex-husband Peter Haskell. We were married at New York city hall many moons ago. I remember waiting in the queue, the fleeting, breathless ceremony and Inga, one of the women from the Baby Doll-the bar where I worked-in attendance as our witness. I have pictures, including one of us in the hallway posing with the license.

Apparently he had been shot dead! Murdered. My first thought was No! Then, maybe it’s another *Peter Haskell.* It is so unreal! Horrible. Impossible to fathom. We had exchanged emails only a few days ago regarding a mutual friend’s novel, how Peter was working for him and helping to promote it. I had sent him some leads and information and was waiting on a reply.

How do you assimilate news like this? His poor mother! Can you imagine a coroner calling you up in the middle of the night to ask which funeral home to send the body? Later I found out that the mutual friend is the one who killed him, then called 911.

Still reeling this morning, shock, grief mixed with anger, reading his emails, scanning photos of him and ones that he took. He used to carry this funky, old dinky little camera with him on all our travels and take pictures of anything and everything. He’s in my novel and he was a character. Shit. I’m referring to him in the past tense. I can’t believe he’s dead! “The victim.” Turns out “the shooter,” our mutual friend, is an ex-boyfriend. I met Bruce when my band the 45s had arrived in Los Angeles. That means my ex-husband has been murdered by my ex-boyfriend. WTF? And I met Bruce in LA before I met Peter in San Francisco. I knew he was odd. On our first date, he took me to his hot, stuffy apartment in Hollywood and introduced me to his pet cockroach, Ralph. I did not know he was capable of murder. It would never have occurred to me, he seemed mild-mannered but I do vaguely recall something about wanting a revolver for his glove box and a fixation with explosives. Was it our second date when he took me to the Veterans Administration and a re-enactment of the Civil War where he donned a Confederate uniform over his street clothes in 90 degree heat so he could blow off one of the canons? Might have been the third. I haven’t had the pleasure of reading his book but I am told that the protagonist, at the end, goes out and shoots someone. Writing on the wall or coincidences? A friend said oh, we all are capable of it, why she kept a gun in her house in LA but self-defense is different than murder and Christ, isn’t the proliferation of hand guns a big part of the problem?

Guess I better get used to it. People dying on me. Yes, me included. No one gets out of her alive but what a way to go! I had every intention of seeing Peter the next trip to LA and had thought I would *interview* him, ask what he recalled of our life together so long ago. I have forgotten so much; feel like I want to retrieve whatever I can of the past. Now of course, I’m remembering all the things we did together, the band, the zine, Rattler. We had a brief, tempestuous marriage but remained friends, kindred spirits.

This is a nightmare! I hate guns; hand guns especially have only one purpose. I am pissed! Guess I’m lucky not to have wound up in the crosshairs. Hard to function, to focus. I keep going over it in my mind, trying to fathom what has happened. What a horrible way to die! Poor Peter. What he must have gone through . . . I feel so bad. I took him for granted, took for granted we would see each other again.

I dreamed a of man in the street carrying a big batch of carpet samples. He took offense when I moved out of the way of the protruding handle, then pulled out a gun. I heard a lot of screaming. It might have been me, must have been me.