RIP Jerry

Greetings from the skyscapes of the psychic neverland… another week hath passed, another 120 hours fighting the illusory power that the rest of the crows bow down to… insanity surrounds but love will let you escape. I had the pleasure of seeing a Furthur show this summer– a vehicle of continuation for the spirit light of the Grateful Dead (supplied by Phil Lesh, Bob Weir)– during a year which marked the 70th birthday (posthumous) of Jerry Garcia. I didn’t think much of the historical significance when I accepted a pair of blotters in the parking lot and ripped off my sleaves mid-way through the second set to prevent my body from sweating out the wet of its organs, but now, a month and a half later, reflecting on what The Dead stood for in their moment of cultural zeitgeist and who the individual members really were… I could not be more grateful. Though it is on it’s last legs, Furthur is the same creature that tore through San Fran in the mid 60’s and forced the world to reconcile the fact that things could be done right with a smile and concerted motivation, not for profit but for soul…symbiosis. A mindfulness of all, and more importantly, for all…

I want to share some links and a story today to celebrate the life of a great man who did nothing but good for the wasteland that has become America. August 9th, RIP Jerry… THANK YOU for another fearless pursuit of the truth… may we follow as , or God willing, more, dutifully.


I could see their father hanging onto the railing of (what was once) his porch. The grass had been cut, the flowers watered, the driveway blown free of debris… the scene clean like smoldering hypodermic needles… he sunk his head into his palms between rusted steel and his dying breath. His button up shirt untucked itself from his sagging paunch while the echo of tear drops and the desperation of a congested septum fluttered up to my window. I lit a cigarette and exhaled into the opaque madness surrounding me.

“Why? Why God?” The echoes, becoming cries and finally howls, began to compete with the encroaching thunderstorm poised to fall over both of our shadows in the 3AM streetlamp-starless haze. The rain hadn’t started but the asphalt smelled of damp earth and the cicadas had quit their swan songs. Most organized hunks of matter, especially the conscious ones, had crawled out of the open air… besides my neighbor. The cigarette smoke grew heavy and bit at my eyes, a million hungry fireflies, so I flipped the charred end onto the driveway that Mr. Christie slunk his soul into. I wanted him to see some fire.

His attention, though disemboweled and self pitying, caught the flickering end of ash just before the thorns of (what was once)his rose bush extinguished it. He looked up. I usually would retreat back into my room at such a tense intersection of time and space… lonely divorced man, thunderstorm, cigarette flipped across his driveway, smoke above the window, tears… plenty of factors to go remarkably wrong… but I held my ground. I had become enamoured by his pain. The last two weeks I had seen portions of his ritual… going over to his ex-wife’s, setting her kids up for bed (avoiding, at all costs, any conversation with the car mechanic she was currently sleeping & living with, in a house that was once his), taking the garbage out, washing kitchen windows, adjusting sprinkler systems and timers and automatic light sources, all while his family continued on inside… he would walk slowly out to the street and drive away, off to find a lonely bed and frozen television dinners… looking at old pictures taped onto his bathroom mirror, brushing his teeth and trying to remember the satisfaction from comforting his daughters after their bad dreams, and thunderstorms… I could see the rain weighing him down.

“Whose up there?”

I felt bad for all the kids who thought their parents were happy… sympathy for the impressionable bastards filled my mind, those misguided and misinformed suicide bombers, while my mouth smiled and spat plumes of grey and sick smelling death. “What does it matter man? Whose down there?” I flicked another expenditure of soot into the humid midnight, staring hard, staring down at the poor bastard. He looked like he could use a good swift kick in the ass…I could tell, as some one who never got enough.

He squinted through the confusion. “Your neighbor, an adult…just keep the cigarettes off the driveway.”

“It’s not your driveway, and ‘adult’ is a relativity-founded-bullshit-meaningless word. I’ll flip ’em where I fucking want to. Why don’t you clear out of that stoop before I call the cops and say there’s a strange guy hanging onto the front of my neighbor’s house.”

“But I’m… I.” He walked away to his car.

I finished my cigarette, unsatisfied.


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