The extraordinary playwright and poet Ron Allen, from Detroit, author of the plays EYE MOUTH GRAFFITI BODYSHOP and x restrung cortex, among many other texts, died last night at a hospital in Los Angeles.

He left me a phone message on July 16, and in the extreme bustle that’s been happening, I didn’t call him back. The message is still on my phone.

“Dara Weinberg: Ron Allen calling. Wanted to (…) see how you’re doing, tell you how I’m doing, so give me a call when you get a chance.”

I had a chance–you always have a chance–but I didn’t call.

He had a stroke, was in a coma, and his family decided to let him go rather than to let him linger–which I’m sure was what he would have wanted.

Ron was a teacher as well as a writer. He taught young people, old people, people at rehab centers, monasteries, and prisons, in Detroit and here. He was someone whose life touched many, many, many people, through his Buddhist practice, his writing, his classes, and his love. I will be thinking of him today. I hope you will all take a moment to think of him, as well.