June 30th, 2015 my father died. Or passed on or left his body for a more suitable environment to fit his spiritual well being. We see people through our own tunnel vision so I can say I saw him in a way no-one else did. Or felt him or an essence or two that may have stayed dormant into the grave. I’m not sure. What I do know is that he named me after Liberace. I didn’t ask him until I was 34 and were in St. Patrick’s Cathedral in NYC. I think I asked him there so I knew I’d get the truth. Not that he would lie. My dad wasn’t eloquent but he laid out how he felt.
‘He was a hell of a piano player.’ Given my yearning to play, and I have been starting to practice again, and the fact that he rarely listened to music, or encouraged it, or talked about it, I have to believe it was part of an essence of his that he took to the grave or he was divinely inspired and named me to kick me in the direction of where to go in life, as an artist. Liberace was a hell of a piano player.
When I first moved to LA in 2013, I had a numerology reading done on my name/birthday. The reader did a Chaldean reading, a more ancient and mystic type of numerology. My first name (full name Lee) is 13. This is, for the waking world, a bad luck number and he didn’t dig it either. He thought I should change my name and gave me a list to ‘improve my vibes.’ One was Lukas. With a k. So I could go around and date seven women like Dr. Detroit and lose count of my mansions and walk around and say ‘Hi, my name is Lukas with a K Barton. My vibes are tasty now, baby.’
I like my name. I like my father named me Lee and not Walter III. I like 13 because it means death, killing off those parts of your soul that hold you back. No way, no way, Lukas with a K.
So, on Father’s Day, I thank my dad for my name.