2009 saw a lot of loss in the world of celebrities.  It’s nothing new, of course, as every year brings its own toll to the weight of the world, balancing another set of souls on the scales of the angel of time.  Between all the promotions and speculations concerning the deaths of superstars, the life of Jim Carroll went out in September, and some of the elegy music was lost in the shuffle.  Even some of his diehard fans wouldn’t know about the passing until weeks, or even months, after, but it does weigh in now as a tremendous loss, as well as a remarkable opportunity to mark his incredible contributions to culture.

New York just wouldn’t look the same without the echo of his words and music.  At its best, Manhattan hotel life was seen in a spectacularly poetic light, full of all the gritty realism and exceptional observations of human nature that characterizes a true visionary.  He was old before he was old, discovered and even nominated for major literary prizes before his 23rd birthday, and had all the sensibilities necessary to survive the mean streets.  He also did very well at negotiating that particularly perilous road of fame, maintaining an integrity and a voice that never gave in to the temporary demands of the moment.

Jim Carroll was also eternally young.  Even at 60, when he had the heart attack while he was writing at his desk, he still had the same boyish good looks, with a generous patina of hard edge, to make him interesting to watch when he was performing.  He wrote punk rock lyrics that were every bit as good as his poetry, and he was able to go back and forth between forms with a deftness that was stunning to behold.  I remember being taken to another world when he was performing poetry with Patti Smith in the 90s, speaking about wars that no one else dared talk about in public, and there was a sense that the world had become much more deep, and our commitment to living in it, much more necessary, than the moment just before.