August 9, 1995.
I sit here at my computer, my door is closed, "Saint Stephen" on the radio, tears in my eyes. He's gone. Grief assails me, words fail, I have to share this moment with those who know. It is impossible to put it into perspective what impact the Dead have had on my life. Even now in my illustrious position I am reduced to quivering and insubstantial flesh. I feel as though a close personal friend of mine has died. He's gone-- all that's left to do is smile, smile, smile. August 9, 1995. The end of an era. Our lives forever changed. No further prospect of seeing shows together. "Eyes of the World" now on the radio. Jerry's kids, the world around share these moments of intense grief. Indeed, we are the eyes of the world, we have seen the light, we have known the ecstasy, the pure joy they brought us. The strength their music brought us during those moments of uncertainty-- All we have to do is play Workingman's Dead, and all is well again. But now, He's gone. All that's left to do is smile, smile, smile... Blessed be.
Now, an interview with David Gans. As he says, we are all stunned. What is your foremost memory? One of a hundred musical moments...The reason we are Grateful Dead fans is the music... The music will always be ours to keep the flame burning-- 53 is too damn young to die. Like L. George said: "rock and roll hours make graves with out flowers," But this grave will be heaped with roses. Now, the radio plays "I Will Survive" light a candle, curse the darkness-- I will get by, I will survive.
I am having a difficult time dealing with this. Sitting here crying my eyes out, my inner sanctum offering me this moment of peace. Death knows no mercy in this land. Solace comes from the minds eye, seeing them in all their glory, feeling those unique moments equal to any religious experience ever had by anyone ever, I have known that joy, that pure feeling of utter enlightenment, all else falls away, no troubles to haunt me, no hunger to pang me, no pain to gouge me, just the moment of sheer delight. And now, a feeling equally as intense-- pure, raw grief. It hurts. It brings back the grief of my mother's death, August 4, 1969; the grief of my father's death, August 13, 1982. August is a good month for spirits to sail. The dog days approaching, no threat of cold winds blowing, the peace of days longer than nights, Autumn on the horizon, yet the garden just beginning to yield its bounty. My father died on a brilliant blue sky day in Colorado, the sky shinning with a glow as the heavens opened to receive his spirit, now free from his failed body. He joined the spirit essence of my mother who became the Earth to me. Their ashes joined in the mountains of my home. And now another August death refreshes that old grief I have borne for so long. Then news of my stepmother's failing health, the awareness of the beginning of the atomic era, all at this time of great cosmic upheaval.
He's gone- all that's left to do is smile, smile, smile...
August 10, 1995
I went to the candle light vigil last night at Cricket Hill in Montrose Harbor. I took my Taos drum with a red sash slinging it over my neck. I pounded drum in the communal circle, it was a spiritual experience. Primal. Connected to the core. There was hugging, candle burning, singing, some wailing, but mostly it was a somber sort of party. In my journal I carried along, while sitting in the light of my candle lantern, I called this experience the last parking lot. I had prepared for the venture as though going to a show. I imagined it as the last Dead show, but alas, that had already been. But true to form, and typical of the parking lot, people were cruising looking for buds and beers. I played the drum for 45 minutes until my arms ached and my hands were swollen, then I strolled around absorbing the energy of the masses. A young Deadette gave me a rose. Another turned to me and hugged me while I stood watching the candles. I sang along to "The Weight". I signed the banner that is to be buried with Jerry "get your name on the banner, be buried with Jerry" the huckster chimed. I stood looking out at the crowd, some 1000 at its peak, but by midnight it had dwindled to some 200 or so folks. This guy walked up to me and started to chat. We bonded. He is about my age, Dead since 1980, so I have a good decade on him show wise, and he listened with reverence to the story of number one, Folsom Field 1972, and to the lore of the Red Rocks shows. The Uptown theater legacy, we shared, we had been at a show together, I had hitch hiked from Boulder, and he was seeing his first. Now, 15 years later, we stood together at this vigil. I took his card and intend to call him sometime soon. After he left, I sat and by the light of my candle lantern. I pondered the enormity of this event, and let the words form based on impressions gathered in the wind. I sat pondered long and deep, an unfocused gaze in the direction of the downtown skyline. A beautiful young girl, long flowing hair and white muslin gown walked to me and said "Hug!", she bent and embraced me, long and hard. She told me that though she was young, and hadn't been to more than 9 shows, the Dead had profoundly affected her life and she knew how I was feeling and wanted to share this moment with me (obviously a grizzled veteran dead head old fart). She bent to me again and we embraced with even greater ardor. Then she drifted off. I felt blessed somehow. I put the rose in my ponytail, my old 1977 dead shirt (skull and roses, Red Rocks) though thread bare, was seeing my through. A moment of magic. My final act at the vigil was to place a candle at the alter. I stood and watched its flame lick the wind as a storm blew up. Great lightening and thunder. The skies open the eyes about to cry. I wandered off toward the car, then acted on an urge. I mounted the wall and dropped down to the beach. The waves breaking on the breakwater and lapping the sand. I sat in Dandasana, let my yoga spirit ascend. the posture, the tranquillity, sitting at the source of all life on earth, the great lakes, a part of the earthly oceans. From whence all comes, thus why we are drawn to it. A sense of completeness, of triumph over grief, a great tiredness assailed me. As I walked to my car I could see those still gathered on top of the hill. The drums had resumed. In the flickering light, the dancers cast the same silhouette that ancient druids dancing at Stonehedge cast. The continuum. Jerry Garcia is bigger than life, and gone beyond it now.
August 11, 1995
I was recounting some of the story of the vigil to Karen late last night driving home from work. I told her about the flute player and guitarists, excellent musicians, and the various tunes they played. I sang along on "The Weight", and "Uncle John's Band", then drifted off to my own space, when I heard an impassioned group rendering of "Know You Rider". Upon telling Karen this I was overwhelmed with this realization: I will never be standing at a Dead concert again, hearing Jerry sing "if I was a headlight on a north bound train, I'd shine my light through the cool Colorado rain" with tears streaming down my cheeks, having one of those joyous religious experiences of the refugee, away from his home, but connected to it by the musical moment. Oh anguish! Now that is gone too. I fell silent during my spiel, and Karen knew that I was once again stricken, our love sees me through this. The resolve ever more redoubled, now, I must return to the land of mountains and sun so that my headlight will shine through that cool Colorado rain.
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