Magic And Loss

The name of the album is "Magic and Loss." At one point in my life, it was my favorite Lou Reed album. Released in 1992, it was a meditation on the death of his friends Doc Pomus and Rotten Rita. It came into my life as I turned thirty, and began a new life in California. It was full of clever thoughts about surviving in a world where being an adult meant dealing with Magic and Loss. Like these: It must be nice to be steady, it must be nice to be firm

It must be nice never to move off the mark
It must be nice to be dependable and never let anyone down
It must be great to be all the things you're not

As I listened to Lou's matter of fact delivery of his words, I took heart. This hard-living survivor of Warhol's Factory was still willing to admit his vulnerabilities. His fears. When my father died, I turned to this record once again and the wisdom: No there's no logic to this - who's picked to stay or go - If you think too hard it only makes you mad. I knew there was no logic. It helped me to deal with the frustration and sadness. Knowing that such a rugged soul struggled with these same questions gave me comfort. This gathering of death coming at the end of October makes some sort of metaphorical sense to me, a fan of Stephen King and monster movies since I was far too young to imagine why all this fascination with the other side might have crept into my mind.

Now it is Lou Reed to whom I say a fond farewell. I don't mind that most of his songs don't rhyme. Even that one line in "Walk On the Wild Side," where he rhymes "head" with, well "head." It wasn't singing along with Lou that made him so good. It was thinking along with Lou. 

In that song, "No Chance," he regrets that he didn't get a chance to say goodbye to his friends. I get that. That's why I'm taking this time to do just that: Aloha, Lou. Thank you for making it easier for me to say goodbye.