Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To


jerry what? donna

Try this: hold your thumb up, or your phone, or your pet’s remains up to the screen and cover up the left side of Garcia’s face. Your left (unless you are standing behind your computer or viewing it upside down or via a mirror or you are a six-dimensional being from three realities over and experience direction as color, in which case you should cover up the mauve half of Garcia’s face.)

Do you see the Old Campaigner–that man of twists and turns who knows sorrow and infinity and infinity’s horrible twin exfinity? (Infinity is everything that ever was, is, or will be. Exfinity is the stuff that wasn’t, isn’t, and won’t be. Lot of early potential in exfinity.)

Keep covering that left side, continue the face-ectomy: Garcia can see forever, but knows that forever’s a mighty long time. And he can tell you: there’s no such thing as an afterlife. Shit, most people barely have lives to begin with.

There are rocks, then water, then money, then water, then rocks; and then it starts again: we are all the Buddha because we’re all full of shit. And then we try for holiness and fuck it all up. We’ll do it together.

We’ll do it together this time or not at all.

Now cover up the other side: that Garcia has no clue what city he’s in.

1 Comment

  1. “…when the green gels came onto the band, they all looked like they were made of fish skin.” It gets scarier. Trust me.

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