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26 september 2000

in memory of pat storm

I received news this weekend that a friend of mine died last week.

In the middle of August, I spent a week writing about my involvement in Poetry Slamming, and about the 1995 National Championship Team I was on with Danny, Ted and Pat. You never saw four more different people. We all came from completely different backgrounds, and to look at us. . .well, let's just say we got a lot of second (and third) looks when we went anywhere together. We were one motely crew, and definitely not what people expected to come out of little Asheville, North Carolina.

In particular, Pat stood about 5' 10" tall, had long red hair, and was a big guy. Like, don't-mess-with-me-or-my-friends big. His voice was best described (as Mike Henry put it yesterday) as a "growl". Think Tom Waits, with a fire lit under him. That was Pat. And the outfits he could put together sometimes...wow. He's the only guy I know who could pull off a public appearance in batik / plaid pants and a tie-dye shirt. Sometimes he accessorized with a tasteful do-rag. Unless he was going onstage, we didn't really care because I'm sure we all had style points of our own. Pat looked very Pat. That was good enough for us.

He was an incredible writer, because he led a life people needed to hear about. Raised in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, Pat's life was the kind that most people don't get through with much success. In fact, many of them don't even get a chance to start out. They lose themselves in all the stuff that people throw at them --- the substances, the fights, the transient loyalties. You get through a day with your skin intact, and that's the victory. Anything else is a bonus point.

Circumstances led Pat to Newport, Tennessee, a small town on the NC/TN border. He travelled to Asheville and became a regular fixture at the monthly Poetry Slams. His work was varied, but one current ran consistently through his writing --- in spite of the sometimes brutal content of his work, there was never a sense of resignation. Poetry got him out of there, and helped him find a surrogate family with other poets and artists who cared for him a great deal. No matter how hard he chose to live his own life, Pat showed us early that he would have done just about anything for his friends, and we would have done the same for him. He was worth it. This was a guy who lured kids out of gangs by teaching them how to write and perform poetry. Not only that --- he raised wolves. Like, as pets. Amazing? Yeah, we thought so. And yet one of his favorite movies was Harold and Maude. He wasn't always what we expected.

Some people talk about making this place better. Pat actually did the work.

When I was in New York City during the SlamAmerica tour, Danny and I went looking for Pat on my birthday. (A couple of years ago, Pat more or less disappeared from Tennessee, but we later learned he had returned to New York.) We didn't have a lot of time between getting off the bus and our show, so we had to move quickly. A friend of mine had e-mailed me earlier to tell me that Pat had had a mild heart attack, but survived and walked out of the hospital a day or two later. We went to Thompkins Park, adjacent to Greenwich Village, and were lucky enough to find some people who knew him. We doubted that he would get the message in time, but we left a note with someone named Roger, inviting him to the show later that evening.

And he showed up. Roger had found him, and Pat was there as we'd hoped. He actually didn't look a lot different --- a little more worn than before, but certainly not like he'd had anything serious wrong with him. It was good to see him again, good to have such a great night of poetry in his presence, good to be able to let him know we hadn't forgotten him. We didn't ask a lot of questions as to how he'd spent the last couple of years. It was just nice to see him again.

I haven't experienced the death of many people in my life; I guess I've been lucky in a way, but also unprepared for when it does happen. I'm sad that Pat is gone. We've lost a valuable voice. But something tells me that, in a way, we lost Pat when he returned to New York. For whatever reason only he knows, he came full-circle as so many of us do. I remember once that Pat told me he didn't believe he would live a long life, and unfortunately he was right. I don't think he was even forty yet.

At the risk of sounding cliche, I hope that Pat is at peace now. It is the one thing he deserved most in his life that I don't think he found very often, if at all. I hope he knew how much he mattered. Ultimately, I just hope he knew that he was a good guy.

We do.

Click here for a selection of Pat Storm's poetry.