Years of tripping acid has Bob Weir forgetting the lyrics of the songs he wrote, but it’s okay, because I can’t remember the next line. Swaying in some semblance to dance, the pauses of switching picks and forgetting words are quick to fill. She puts the song lyrics as her picture captions, and wants to be in the counter culture. But she can’t tell me why “cherry garcia” is a funny name for an ice-cream.
Bootlegged albums with hand-drawn covers sound the same as my Dad’s big green van doing 90 through the mountains, with dancing bears plastered on the windshield. Us? counter culture? My Dad answers that with a quote by his favorite philosopher – “I went to a show to find counter culture. I found neither.” In a hasty attempt to not be a molded American, she refuses to say the pledge of allegiance and yells at pro-lifers, loudly entering the same miserable society. I’m jumping of bridges I should be burning, she’s off taking a slightly more sinuous path to sameness.
I want to love you night and day, You know our loving wont fade away. People are screaming “Bobby, BOBBY” and my Dad notices his hand shakes a little on the guitar strings – years of hard living ends you with an unsteady grip and a microphone. Eyes wide and shiny, grasping a lighter back and forth, the flame seems a little too close to the curtain. I don’t hold my breath. There’s wonder in watching something beautiful burn.
By and by the morning sun will rise, but the darkness never goes from some men’s eyes. And in waking up, I’m partial to honesty and three letter words – there’s no room for romance. But in her mass of complications, she says she’d rather call it making love. Butt all I love is poetry and throwing stones, and if it isn’t feeding those curtain fires, what’s in it for sticking around?
Ashes to ashes all fall down.