There are so many things I cannot say in this blog, nor in polite company, which is why I write poetry and keep a journal, sometimes on paper, sometimes on my MacBook. Tonight, I set out to write a poem about my beloved friend Peter (Haskell). It’s been two years since he died and that’s about how long it takes for me to assimilate anything but especially death. Even more difficult to assimilate is how he died. A violent death, his family and friends believing he was murdered, the LAPD and the DA’s office calling it self-defense and in any case, tragic would be an understatement. In fact there are no words and I felt frustrated all night, trying to convey not just how I felt about Peter but how to authentically portray him.

Coincidentally, or perhaps not, I had expressed my condolences to the family of our mutual friend Jhim Pattison who died last summer. I managed to contact his sister Marsha at last, to tell her how much he meant to me, that it was a privilege to be his friend, which naturally made me think of Byron and Peter, so intertwined were our lives. I had sent along a photograph of Jhim and I. She’d found a copy in his stuff and included it in a collage for his paddle out ceremony and memorial. Understandably it’s been a very sad time for the family and she misses the conversations they enjoyed. He was brilliant, always ignited me with his encyclopedic knowledge of myth and art.

I called Byron, asked him how he was doing. “I’m an asshole.”  Guess that’s how chauffeuring celebrities around Los Angeles can make you feel. He’s a limo driver, said he wanted to smack one guy who kept telling everybody on his cell phone that he was jealous because his girlfriend got to meet Sarah Palin. Bryron told me about Jhim’s memorial at the beach in Santa Monica, how another mutual friend of ours, Thom Burns paddled out for the ceremony while he remained a landlubber. “That’s Thom for you.” He embraces new experiences. Wish I could have been there. These rituals help us so much. Byron and Thom have plans to publish Jhim’s writings, some of which Peter and I published in our poetry zine, Rattler under his non de plume, Geisha Sails.  It will be a lovely way to honour his life.

Writing became grieving. I realized there was no way I could write the poem in one night. These things can’t be rushed. Like a baby… Ah, the circle of life. I was pleasantly surprised to find out yesterday one of my artist friends is pregnant. She didn’t think she ever would and I told her I had felt the same way. We never know what’s in store for us, do we? She’s nervous but excited, looking forward to motherhood. I’ve found it liberating in a way. I don’t suffer nearly the amount of angst over my art. It’s helped to put things in perspective. Our loved ones matter most.