In 1989 I was staying in the Sands Motel, researching Sam’s life and interviewing people, including Katy Haber, Sam’s mistress and right arm on several pictures. One night I was lying in bed, exhausted, trying to read. A mosquito came by my face. I could hear it, but I could not see it. I could not get rid of that little pest—it wasn’t there, but it was there! I kept thinking, “Am I nuts? Am I drunk?” It wasn’t the latter for sure—not a drop in days.
I called Katy. I said, “Katy, there’s a goddamned mosquito right in my face, right in my ear, but I can’t see it.”
She said, “It’s that son of a bitch Sam. He does that a lot.”
I took her at her word and said, “Sam, you get out of this room right now.”
And it was gone. That was the last semi-mystical experience I had with Sam Peckinpah—and he’d been dead for about five years.
From Goin’ Crazy with Sam Peckinpah and All Our Friends. Told you it was good! I’m gonna post some more of the mystical stuff because it’s all wonderfully weird and funny. Lynchian, rather than Peckinpahesque. With a touch of BARTON FINK, I guess.
The image is William Blake’s The Ghost of a Flea, something Blake saw, though his friends couldn’t.
