Since I was a little boy in Buenos Aires, trains were part of my life. We lived in a neighbourhood called Coghlan, named after an English railway engineer, as the Argentine train system was built by the English. I think about the cavernous downtown Retiro Station where I would end up with my parents when they took me to the movies on that movie street that was Lavalle.
A recurring dream for me in these 2021 days is that I am on that train bound to Retiro. At each station people get off. When the train finally arrives I find that I am the only passenger.
There is a Canadian connection with my concept of death. In earlier times in Vancouver, I seemed to suffer the expensive consequences of having Italian cars (two Fiat X-19s and one Maserati Biturbo). My mechanics would tell me, “The clutch might go tomorrow, next week or in a year. I cannot tell you when that will happen.” To me, then, death is driving to Calgary with a slipping clutch and getting to that destination when the clutch finally fails.
Nine months since the death of my Rosemary, she is not only in my thoughts constantly but I try to rework in my mind stuff related to death.
Today marks the third anniversary of bassist Randy Rampage’s death. I have been invited (I attend all of these Rampage gatherings) to be at the Mountain View Cemetery at 3. I will go.
I do not believe that there is anything important of what was Rampage’s under his tombstone. He is not there.
So why am I going?
To share, in a location that celebrates death, the memories of who was Randy Rampage with his living friends and all who loved this scary looking man who would not have ever hurt a fly.