Attention! The following is a strange but true story. I really did perceive the things I have written. In fact, much of this was written quite some time ago though I finished off a couple of rough edges before I posted it. I left in a lot of stuff that reflected some of my old attitudes towards the nature of reality. Road Dog… Meadow… If by some strange chance you read this, please e-mail me. You can e-mail me through my profile here. Sometimes I wonder if you guys were spirits temporarily garbed in flesh. I thought of all this recently when I found a tape of the show mentioned in the story below at archive.org. All those rain songs! Hilarious! Without further ado… Chattanooga, TN… 300,000 people, but it seemed like one decent-sized school gym could hold every freak in town with some room to spare. But this was before Nirvana… Before we were a demographic… I had just graduated high school not that long ago, and in many ways, just in the nick of time. I was not up for hanging in there much longer. I was really quite lost. I had recently found a group of people practicing ceremonies inspired by and sometimes directly drawn from various Native American ceremonies. They had a lit a spark back up in me that some fairly heavy drug use had almost extinguished. Still… I was pretty much dead in the water, and my heart was barren. The previous summer a mysterious bout of weeping, a story in it’s own right, had alerted me to the depths of my emptiness and despair. And still… I could not or would not shake off the endless grayness of my life. The stink of my life was no longer noticeable to me, or better to say, that I had convinced myself it was the smell of roses. But these ceremonies… Something in them spoke to what was left of me. Of my more or less immediate circle of friends, I was the only one sticking around town. Most all of my buddies were striking out on the road: getting vans and travel mates and going to Grateful Dead shows. I had many commitments I was not willing to break or put aside by going on a trip that could lead anywhere for anylong. Every once in a while, some old buddy on the road would drift through to rest up and would leave behind assorted mind candy: stories, dreams, and other sorts of treats. But they were fables for me, I was taking care of my business. I was going to school and praying more and more in the Native American ceremonial tradition that had found me. I had a lot of homework and a lot of ritual commitments. I told myself I just could not leave my ceremonial brothers and sisters to take that fantasy trip into the unknown America. The inipi and the mystery of the canunpa were too important to leave right now I told myself. And my school grants… If I left out in the middle of a semester, I would owe a bunch of money. But more than all that… I was just plain scared. Scared of the unknown… Scared of everything… Sometimes, I wondered about the magic that lured my friends away… One fine day, my step-sister asked me out of the blue if I would like to go to a Dead show. Of course, I wanted to go. I was already somewhat acquainted with the magic my ceremonial circle practiced, and I wanted to try this other flavor. As I contemplated the upcoming adventure, I thought of a strange and wonderful fellow I had met in the forest four, maybe five, years previously who was the first to make me think that perhaps there were other ways to live that had nothing to do with strip malls and plastic. I was going to camp out near Edwards Point with a friend, and after hiking a couple of miles, we happened upon this really hairy and friendly man. He had told me he was part of the Rainbow Family, which meant nothing to me at the time, and was going state to state turning himself in to various authorities who had an interest in him. He told us crazy stories about taking care of himself in jail, and then, disappeared into the woods. He came back some time later with some sassafras root and wild strawberries and brewed us a couple of batches of the best tea I ever had. I had not at that point ever met anyone like him. It seemed the Dead shows and the culture it was a part of were some kind of spring that poured out such strange characters, such novel ways of living, and pure magic. I was excited to say the least at the prospect of experiencing a little of it. I did not have a ticket, but my sister seemed to think that would be no problem having been to a few shows herself. I did not know any of the people I was going to travel with except for my sis, but I did not care. I was on a mission. One of my closest friends had been following the Dead from town to town for a few months already. I really missed him and wanted to see him. I wanted to know that he was doing well. I prepared my intent to find him before the trip by purifying myself ceremonially and making many prayers to the spirits that I would be able to find him. I prayed, “Tunkashila (“Ancient Ones Dear to My Heart”), help me to find my friend, Brad. Most of all, help me to be open to what you want to happen.” And furthermore, I made a commitment to the spirits themselves that I was coming back to Chattanooga no matter what may happen, that I would not go off on some half-baked (no pun intended) journey to God knows where. Buckeye Lake, Ohio was our destination. Anybody who has been to Buckeye Lake knows that it is a remarkable venue. The parking lot is miles of rolling, grassy hills surrounded by trees, and Shakedown Street seemed to stretch out forever. Shakedown Street was the village market for the ever morphing tribe that was the Grateful Dead and their music. It was the lane down which the many vendors ply their wares: hemp necklaces, veggie burritos, patchwork clothing, T-shirts, the beautiful pyrex pipes with colors revealed by the resin collecting inside, beer, water, falafel, drugs, grilled cheese, fucking everything a hippie could wish for! And since the Buckeye Lake venue is a private lot, there were no uniforms to be seen. Oh surely, undercovers galore… But blues… Not a one in sight… Inhibitions are quickly shed and magic is born readily in such a fearless environment. I had never seen the like. Hippies were everywhere. Colors, drums, shouting, laughing, smiles. My friend though was nowhere to be seen. In that throng, it would indeed take divinity or blind, idiot chance to find him. I had picked up a ticket from a scalper as we rode in. That ticket was a piece of shit. I walked to the entrance with my sis and her friends. I gave my ticket over to some official-looking guy who said in a robotic and profoundly disinterested tone, “Counterfeit.” Before I knew it, two moderately muscly guys had me by both arms and had escorted me away and out of a side entrance of the chain link fence we had passed into. I was dumbstruck. At that moment, it conveniently began to rain. My first show... Already, I was standing there by myself in the rain with no clue what was going on and no hopes of actually getting in or finding the people I came with. I was pissed off. I was shy, too. The mass of people writhing around me was terrifying to someone as socially inept as I was. The first thing was to get out of the rain, so I got under a standard Wal-Mart blue tarp that was serving as an improvised restaurant and sheltering people making and selling tuna melts. Lo and behold, there was the hairy, friendly Rainbow guy who had made me tea a few years previous. I was shocked but too sheepishly angry and pathetic to greet him. It was a good sign to run into him by “chance” though I did not consciously recognize it at the time. The rain petered out mostly, and I walked about aimlessly. I went back to our car and sat around. I grabbed a rattle that had been through many a ceremony with me with the thought that it might come in handy in some drum circle somewhere. I started walking around randomly again. It was absolute chaos in that lot. I ate some surprisingly potent ganja goo balls along the way, so I was starting to really drift… Sun’s gone down, but who can tell in the clouds and the wet… I am walking, walking. Self absorbed… Restless… Not excited at all… Three, four hours or so ‘til Sis gets out. Ain’t nuthin’ happening really. Don’t wanna talk... Quite high… Just lookin’ around… I about trip over some fella on the ground… Leanin’ over some girl on the ground… He’s shouting, “Brothers! I need a light. Does anybody have a light?” I do gotta light, and I tell ‘im, “I gotta light.” I flip my bic and a globe of dim flame shines on this guy leaned over some girl, an angel really, and he is ?!?buttoning her pants?!? He finishes, says, “Thank you, brother.” I am walking again. Man! That was strange. Sobered me up on contact… Stop! Look back! I stop, and look back. The fella on the ground, he’s standing up. He is glowing white like a star! I can see him in the dark! He is giving me a thumbs up. I am walking again. I am high but not that high. Confused... Stop! Look back! Do not walk away! I stop, and I look back. The fellow is slowly walking towards me with the angel on his arm. She’s not walking really. Stumbling… If he let go, she would fall. I walk up to him. “Is she okay?” I ask. “My name’s Road Dog, brother. I found her like this.” “What’s her name?” “I don’t know, but I would die for her.” Yeah… I think I would, too. Hmmm… Road Dog? Solid. Tall. Round. Fleshy but real. Impressive. Clothes not unusual… But I feel like he is a ?bard? And the girl… I am staring. Beautiful, dark, and pale. Five feet tall. Not more than five feet two… Her head is rolling back and forth. She can not hold her own head up. But still… my heart stops beating on looking at her. She is way fucked up. Talking gibberish… Maybe dangerously fucked up… Overdose? She doesn’t know where she is, who she is, who we are. Road Dog looks at my hand, says, “Shake your rattle, brother.” I look at the rattle in my hand. Nobody in the world but us three… Thoughts flee. A hush in the middle of chaos… The proverbial eye of the storm… We are in it. Hell, we are it. I shake the rattle. In one infinitely thin long quiet aching moment she is yelling, babbling then lucid, clear, like you or me or anybody. “Cuz eyes us canna and uh can why helna uh yi- My name’s Meadow. What’s your name?” Shocked. My mouth hangs open. Someone elses mouth… The rattle lays in my hand limp. Someone elses hand… Can’t believe it. They are tricking me. What is going on? They are after me. Road Dog is looking at me curiously and asks, “Is this going to be a wordless conversation?” The bubble pops. I am trying to answer, “I, uh, my name… is Daniel.” She is looking at me. My soul is unclothed before Meadow. Can not think yet… Thank God she can now cuz she smiles and asks, “Are you by yourself?” “Yes.” Could I be this lucky? “Do you want someone to hang out with?” “Yes.” Oh my God, Yes! “I’m Road Dog, sister.” Introducing himself, Road Dog also has a ready smile. “I need a belt.” Meadow’s pants are staying on only because she is holding them up. Road Dog is our fearless peaceful warrior guardian, and as he royally strides through the crowd, he shouts, “Brothers! Sisters! I need a belt. Does anyone have a belt? Do you have a belt?” Meadow and I walk behind him arm in arm in a timely but unhurried fashion. I feel warm and in awe at the presence of this young woman next to me and at the grand circus spread out before me. Vendors are all around us now and still no belt. I know my eyes were popping out of my head like those of a country boy on his first trip to the city. Road Dog plants himself firmly in front of a beer stand and asks in a warm voice that carries across the noise, “Brother. Do you have a belt?” “No. Wait…” The beer man looks around. “Here is this piece of rope. Do you have a knife?” The rope is tacked on the side of the beer stand somehow. And Road Dog is yelling again, “Does anyone have a knife?” A healthy looking but wild-eyed young man emerges from the crowd and unfolds a ludicrously large, fold-out, hunting knife, fully 8 inches from hilt to blade, and says in a spaced out reverent voice, “I have a knife, brother.” We cut the rope off the beer stand and said various thanks. We were laughing at ourselves as we strung this rope through the belt loops of Meadow’s pants. It seemed gloriously odd that a piece of rope could be such a miracle. On completion of our little quest, we began our slide down Shakedown. I say “slide” because Shakedown had turned into mud during the rain. Arm in arm, we undulated through the vendors more than walked. Meadow in the middle with Road Dog and I to either side, we stumbled, slid, glided, and flowed down the way where any one of us alone would have ended up on our ass and in the mud almost immediately. It was the most ridiculous and unplanned but perfect dance possible. I was looking down in perplexity at our feet when I heard Road Dog say, “It weebles and it wobbles but it don’t fall down.” I thought the sky had split open and Buddha was talking to me. And laughing… Always laughing as these two special people showed me the light in the lot, the magic that had spoken to the hearts of so many. Firecrackers bursting on the ground and in the air around us… Road Dog laughing and pointing at the sparks hopping about us, “Ooooh look! Pretty!” And he knew everybody! Even people he did not know! He knew them anyway! And always the lovely, graceful, earthy Meadow with deep eyes looking into mine. Holding my arm with hers… Laying me bare with the merest whisper… Many, many more sights and sounds were shown to me that night. The sound system van blasting crazy jungle techno… Sitting quietly in the green, green grass… The maze of tents and cars… The strange dramas and thirty second performances happening all around… Being at home everywhere and everyone being family… It was perhaps the strangest world I had viewed. And finally, the show was over, and people were coming out in droves. I knew I had to find my sister soon. Meadow knew, too. We had shared miracles. We did not know what had happened to us. Some magic so shy, so timid had blessed us, that to breathe too hard, be too anxious for a moment, would blow it away and seem nothing more than a memory of something that never had been. As understanding overtook us that soon we would part, we looked at each other. Though there were hundreds, even thousands, of people within a stone’s throw, we were in the center of an empty circle perhaps fifty feet across. At that moment, I looked into Meadow’s eyes and held her in my arms. An intuitive understanding entered me in the space of a moment. I knew that somewhere in the desolation of suburban neurosis, the emptiness of a culture of pathology, my heart had died. My inner landscape was no more than an old vacant lot in a dying city. The soil of my life lay fallow. And I also knew that a powerful spirit had used this woman before me to breathe life back into it. Or perhaps some benevolent force had empowered her to plant a seed in my long forgotten soul. Let a philosopher decide. I realized that I had been deeply asleep for a long time, probably still was, but my heart… My heart was awoken just a little more. Something human had been revitalized in me. “Let’s go to Oregon,” she said so innocently and naturally that it seemed like the only thing that could have been said. My commitment that I had made to the spirits to come back home and fulfill my commitments no matter what reverberated in my mind. I would not go with her for those and other reasons destiny revealed years later. I gave her my address knowing well that she likely would never use it. We embraced once more. She kissed me lightly and lovingly on the neck. It was in many ways the sweetest kiss I have ever received. And we turned and walked away from each other. Back to each our worlds… Though mine was never the same… Magic is real. Road Dog. Meadow. Whatever happened that night, the effects on me were real. I love you guys. I hope that your life has been full of blessings. I pray that love born of creativity fills your hearts and blankets your lives. Wherever you are, thanks. Thank you for giving me longing, a nostalgic longing for something I cannot define. Something that keeps me going… In some way, you reminded me that night of a very special rule. Never, ever give up.
I meant to write that the show above was in 94. To be exact, 7/29/94. I apologize for this "bump". It won't happen again!
Wow man thats some deep literature right there! Sometimes life can be the craziest and most insanely profound trip of all can it not? Thanks for sharing that with us friend
