August 9th is the anniversary of the worst day of my imaginary life.
That day in 1995, Jerry Garcia died for the second and final time, taking my psychological safety net and a sliver of my soul with him into the grave.
For
most of my prior life, I knew that if work, studies, or life got too tough, I could
always drop out and disappear into the sea of “Deadheads,” the drifting fans
and followers of the Grateful Dead.
The
option of being a Deadhead was always open to me. I was not committed to any particular kind of
music so the Dead’s mix of rock,
country, jazz, folk, and other stuff made a perfect track for my imaginary
plans. I didn’t mind sleeping on the ground, my hair
was always ready to grow too long, and I didn’t want to do anybody any harm. So, I
knew that when the time came, all I’d have to do was walk down the road until I
caught up with the Dead in concert.
Having
this kind of fallback plan meant I never faced the claustrophobia of despair
that visited the innately serious of my generation: those people who stressed
out, burned out, and seemed bummed out all the time.
I
thought that I had it made.
Then,
Jerry died in a persistent way, the Dead diminished, and the daydream started
to dry up, flake, and, finally, float away.
I
was left with the hard reality of a life trapped in the real world.
It
was unsettling and grim. But a strange
thing happened. Under pressure, I
started to look harder at my problems and recognize the root curled back and
pointed to me and my daydreaming ways.
Where once there was the smoky haze of drifting contemplation, I saw
solutions and need to act.
It
changed me and my real world life dramatically.
I haven’t given up on becoming a Deadhead; I have chosen not to be one.
Yeah,
August 9th – Sad - but it’s kind of like a birthday for me.
(I still love the music - and You gotta love Colorado Street Musician Mark Flynn above).
(I still love the music - and You gotta love Colorado Street Musician Mark Flynn above).
