I don’t have any kind of “sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past.” The concept of “the good old days” is just another of our culture’s biggest lies. Propaganda, really. But, speaking only for myself, I find it necessary to remember my past, in order to continue to break free from it. Much of our current behavior was long ago defined by our reactions to, and understanding of, past experiences. In Bikram Yoga, we say that we use our daily practice to identify ‘bad habits’ and create new ‘good habits.’
In pop psychology, personal growth is largely a process of peeling back the layers of our ego in order to rediscover our authentic self. But even this is a kind of lie, albeit a possibly useful one. Language is so lacking its ability to communicate human experiences that we have always had to use stories—analogies, metaphors, myths—to try to understand each other and the world.
I’ve talked before about creating a “time tunnel” between my 10 year old self and my 40 year old self. The memory is visually clear, even if only because I’ve re-imagined it often. While standing on the sloping grassy yard of the house on Partridge St, I thought to myself, “I wonder what it’ll feel like to be 40?”
I assume it was summer because I remember feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin. Come to think of it, the warmth of sun on my skin is associated with several other memories from that time… possibly, it was the only warmth I knew…
A second question followed the first, “I wonder if I’ll remember this moment when that day comes?”
I did. I experienced these two far-apart moments as if they were the same, but it was a conceptual experience. I didn’t ‘feel’ any kind of emotional response or connection. Still, it was a key moment (or two) that contributed to my sense of self.
Am I the same? Obviously, no. Too many other moments have changed me. But there must be something… a core… a thread… Certainly, there is, or I wouldn’t have memories. Such is the stuff of meditation. Lots of thinking along these lines.
I bring this up, because I conducted an experiment a few nights ago.
On April 25, 1990, I saw (heard, felt) Kitaro performing at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta. I know the date because the concert was recorded that night and, years later, I bought the CD. Everything about the concert was astounding. There were more than a dozen Taiko drums on stage, many of them very large. At a peak moment in the concert, all the drums were being played at the same time. The sound was incredible but it was the vibrations I felt that I remember most. I felt the concrete floor vibrating under my feet. The arms and back of my seat were vibrating. I could feel my entire body vibrating.
No drugs, maybe a glass of wine beforehand, and it was a psychedelic treat. I felt connected, through the vibrations, to everything. The physical space, the air, the lights, the audience, and the people on stage. We were all thrumming at the same frequency. I felt gravity fall away and we all were floating together. But not just floating… I also felt like my body was changing, transforming on an atomic level. I thought, “This is magic. He is changing physical reality with his music.”
Peak moments. Lucid moments. Insight. Understanding. Clarity. Enlightened moments. What fun.
Listening to the CD was not like that. I appreciated the recording, very much. I still love to hear it. It moves me, emotionally, mentally, and even physically. But it doesn’t transform me. It doesn’t change me.
That was only tangentially related to the experiment.
From the age of 17 and for a few years after, I saw the Grateful Dead in concert several times. I wasn’t really a follower, but a couple friends were, so I hitch-hiked around New England to see them perform in a number of different settings. One of those concerts is part of my larger story, my journey through the past to make sense of the present. Because my nemesis was there. The dark figure from my nightmares. The Prince of Darkness.
I don’t know how, or why, it came up, but I casually mentioned this concert to someone at the yoga studio a few days ago. I didn’t say anything about the significance of the event (for me), or the reason I remember it so clearly. Just that I had been there. He told me that, among Dead Heads, it was a fabled concert, one of the greats. My old paranoia was sparked just enough for me to think, “of course, because that’s the one I almost didn’t come home from.” October 28, 1979.
I was there with two friends, and we were all tripping. They insisted on going down on the floor to try to get close to the stage, but I was always a back of the room kind of guy. From the time of first or second grade, whenever given a choice, I always sat in the back of class. Then, when I started gong to concerts, plays, or movies, always in the back. Even in restaurants, I sit far away from, and facing, the exit.
It was instinctual. Well, that’s what I used to think. I understand now that it was learned behavior. Common among survivors. It’s about safety.
I also have never felt comfortable in crowds. It’s too suffocating. Too dangerous, in case of… anything. The floor at the Cape Cod Coliseum was an ocean of bodies. So, no floor for me. I felt safer being alone, upstairs, on a walkway looking down. I was fine for most of the concert. My trip was easy, some feelings of euphoria and minor visuals, some trails, here and there.
I felt someone slap me on my shoulder, not hard, but hard enough to know it was deliberate. I turned and saw a young hippie couple, my age. They were smiling. They asked if I was enjoying myself. Yes, I was. Then they asked, “What song did they play just before this one?” I didn’t answer.
I wasn’t familiar with any of the Dead’s song titles. I became insecure, unsure what to say. Was I expected to know? And they looked like obvious Dead Heads, shouldn’t they already know? Was this a test? I mumbled, “I don’t know.” They walked away and left me ruminating.
I was certain it was a test and I failed. I felt humiliated and small. Then I looked at my shoulder where one of them had slapped me. There was a sticker on my sleeve. “Cosmic Wimpout,” it said, under the face of Wimpy, the character from Popeye. Wimpy’s big line was, “I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday, for a hamburger today.” Which reminded me of a line from The American Dream. The Edward Albee play was one of my first, in high school. I think it was spoken by Grandma, “Is it Tuesday? I’ll kiss you if it’s Tuesday.[1]”
It’s odd, but a tiny little synchronicity like these two disparate lines converging in my brain, can act as a trigger. My paranoia mode had just been activated. This whole thing was a setup. This moment had been foreordained. This was my nightmare happening in real time and space. Every moment of my life, every experience, every person, every song, every coincidence, was a signal, a warning. A trap. I had been manipulated to get me here. This concert was the ritual I had been screaming myself awake from all my life.
Peak moments. Lucid moments. Insight. Understanding. Clarity. Enlightened moments.
This is exactly how it felt. Every time it happened, whether in a dream, in a bad trip, or simply watching a movie. The entire universe, and everything in it, was an illusion, a charade. It was all just a big fat cosmic joke, with its sole purpose being my murder. I was to be ritually sacrificed, by knife.
When I’m in that state, it feels more real than me sitting here now, writing this. (It hasn’t happened in a long time. I think I’m cured of this particular malady.)
I paniced. Time to run away. I’ve escaped before, maybe I can again. I’m not dreaming this time, so screaming isn’t going to help. I’ll just have to escape. I walk quickly down the hall to the stairs. As I descend, I can see lights from the parking lot shining outside the door below. I feel hope… but then… Fuck! He’s here! It’s him! He’s guarding the door. He’s in his Biker outfit, but it’s him. It’s definitely The POD (as I affectionately refer to him in my notes). I run back up the stairs, down the hall the other way, to the next exit. Fuck! He’s there, too. Back up, in search of a way out.
Somehow, eventually, I don’t remember how, I made it outside, to the parking lot. This part isn’t clear, but I manage to find my two friends and frantically convince them we have to leave, now! I can’t go through with it. I’m not ready.
For twenty five miles or so, I hid in the back seat of a Volkswagen, curled up on the floor, hiding. Every few minutes, I’d peek out the window, and when I saw something familiar, a sign that indicated we were indeed heading towards my home, I’d relax just a little more in relief. I had made it out. I’ll be safe when I get home. There’s no place like home. And we did, and I was.
It just occurred to me, when I learned a few days ago that this concert was a legendary one… “I wonder if I can find a recording of that concert…” Dead Heads record and share all their shows…
Finding it was a weird experience. I was actually nervous. Was I really going to ‘visit the scene of the crime’ all these years later? Was this a good idea? Shirley, this was a bad idea. I was definitely going to listen to it.
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But not right away. The timing had to be right, the circumstances. If I was going to listen to it, with an intention of… remembering something new… evoking something… recreating some sense of that night… I’d have to find the right time. The right frame of mind.
I did it late one night, when I was awake alone. I smoked a little weed.[2] Had a half glass of wine. Lay down on the living room floor on my back, eyes closed (one of my happy places), put on my headphones, and listened. And fell asleep.
I realize this story is about as anti-climactic as possible, but that’s pretty much it. I tried again the following night, when I managed to listen to just past the drum solo, so more than halfway. The only thing I have to report is that it was pretty boring. I only made it as long as I did because I fast forwarded a few times. I felt nothing, remembered nothing new, and evoked doodly-squat.
So, what’s the point? I don’t know.[3] I’m fascinated by how the threads of my life form patterns that span decades. Looking back at some key memories, and how they might relate to each other makes me think of Queequeg, in Moby Dick. He said something about the large abstract tattoo on his torso being a map to his true home. (I’ll look it up later.) I had that same feeling on another LSD trip. That the tattoos that I had been haphazardly etching on my skin, were a kind of spiritual map of my psyche. That there is some kind of secret meaning to them, secret even from myself.
I’ve reached an age where I no longer feel a burning need for answers, or even understanding. Not in an intellectual way, I mean. When I think too much, I get lost or confused, or frustrated at the shortcomings of mind.
I used to think I had to have a plan. I used to think that all my dissatisfactions came from never having decided what I wanted to be ‘when I grew up.’ I’m finally figuring out that my real issue has always been more simple than that. Frankly, I just never wanted to grow up. All I have ever wanted to do in my life was to let go of needing, and allow myself to fall into imagining.
The original title of this was, “The Comfort of Strangers,” but apparently, that’s another story, for another time. It had something to do with not liking being in crowds…
- I remembered incorrectly. The line is from, “Aria de Capo,” by Edna St. Vincent Millay, a play which sounds familiar, but I don’t remember performing in it.↩︎
- Long story about how I had to quit weed, because paranoia, but now, during my second adolescence, I can enjoy it again.↩︎
- One point of the Kitaro story is that AI will never be able to create anything remotely human.↩︎