Third Shoe

Well, the third shoe in my triumvirate of death has dropped with the loss of Jakov Lind, my crazy bohemian painter auntie's long term love. Jesus. On a pogostick and with a crutch, and so on, and godspeed and fare thee well and the last time I saw Jakov was about 1993 or 4 in the Chelsea Hotel in New York. We sat and drank some wine and smoked a little and, ah fuck, another funny, smart, interesting guy gone. I'll try to scan a truly wonderful picture I have at home tonight and put it up, of he and Annie sitting at a party, smoking, being hippie glamourous.

It's tough to lose people like this; people you meet when you're young and admire, people 30 and 40 years older than you. Michel was a father and a dear friend to me; Michael was a teacher and a lover; Jakov was my uncle, really, and gave me mild uncle-y shit and dinner now and then and told me stories and why I shouldn't be a writer. I guess this loss is natural, this is life, a progression for my age or my generation as we begin to lose the people who are our parents, our guides: the generation and a half or so before us. It's sad to lose them and even sadder, in a horrible way, to think that this is just the beginning, and then you get to the point where my mother is, attending a funeral every week. The lucky ones get there, anyway. Lucky is a funny word.

Why do things happen in threes and fives and sevens? What weird numerical practical joking gods send waves of loss in kabbalistic code? 2007 is shaping up to be a banner fucking year.

Coda & post script: Here's the promised picture. Annie & Jakov from I think the late 70s, in fine form and amazing clothes, as I like to remember them. My scanner died some time back so I took a digital picture of my 1980 scrapbook, the year I lived with them and they tolerated me. The blue on the bottom is from a carton of Ducados, my Spanish cheap cigarette.

I hate time and loss and mortality and change. I hate them and this whole entire thing is some kind of sick fucking joke.