"a self portrait that Peter sent me right before his death:"
Photo by Peter Haskell.
A LONG WAY HOME, Doriandra
"The first time I met Peter, I was in a drug induced fragile haze brought on by several days of recording discordant music in a studio in the middle of my cramped hovel house which was filled to capacity with beautiful broken machinery, plastic baby parts, horror imagery, way too many pets and an ill begotten collection of broken and mutated music instruments. Peter walked right in, gave me a hug that startled me from the morbid thoughts so akin to my everyday isolation and proceeded with great reverence, to film various pieces of my art, my mess - "it's all beauty" he said while calmly straddling the bathtub filled with broken glass.
"So time passed, 10 years or so..we grew up, fragments of time were created and discarded as it became apparent that the accidental grace and beauty of youth was soon to slip away. and it did. In 2008, Peter and I found ourselves individually isolated in different states, both rather heart sick from various decisions we had made. We began to vigorously communicate, attempting to make sense of the sad events that had occurred in the life of our dearest mutual friend, Thomas who was far away in Germany. As it soon became apparent that we could only save ourselves, we began to plot the progress back to where we knew there was both the maddening inspiration that only Los Angeles, the city of our collective artistic origins, could harbor. Peter embarked across the country late last summer in the trusty Saab, shortly before I packed up my fragments and left my safe little house in the middle of nowhere, sadly feeding the ravens one last time.
"I am grateful for the few shared sunset views from the last place he lived - laughing in the dirty hallway when the trains roared by, having to shout to be heard. Writing his name in used matchsticks on the floor and greeting the LA River homeless men with kindness, waving from the grimy window. Going downtown for fabric..I wish I could see the last pictures he took before he died, decaying mannequins on Broadway, dignified southern black men selling fancy suits, little immigrant women clutching children to their breasts, me threatening the miserable meter maid.
"All lost, like a life taken erroneously. You just have to wonder sometimes about the beauty in the world. And mostly about those people like Peter that can harness it, spin it with their own bruised fingers and hand it back to you as a fragile mirror to view your own greatness in. I'm hoping that the brightness you brought to those around you will be a light to guide you to wherever your new home may be."
