Americana on a timeline
Such a long long time to be gone
And a short time to be there...
I was never a Grateful Dead fan although I appreciated the concept. I love the idea of a continuing Americana. Not cowboys so much as troubadours. Wide open landscapes and the security and safety of owning a plot of land that as far as the eye can see is yours.
Lately I've been thinking of moving out of California, the same way people are thinking of moving out of New York. The pandemic has caused a shift in thinking. I want to be around fewer people, not more. Keep them at arms' length, if my arms where a half mile long. Cleaner air, free from smog. Streets free from litter, syringes, and homeless long since neglected by mayors who believe it's more compassionate to let them die on the street than encourage them to seek treatment for addiction and mental illness.
In the decade I've lived in L.A., the problems have gotten exponentially worse year after year. Covid has made everything worse, obviously.
But life is cyclical. In 1968 the Hong Kong flu pandemic also coincided with massive cultural changes. I don't know how deep the correlation is, but it is still fascinating to see. And as tons of people on social media pointed out, Woodstock took place during a pandemic. Granted, it's nowhere near as deadly as this one, the population wasn't nearly as much, and international travel wasn't as widespread.
Regardless, I'm reminded of that lyric from Box of Rain. We're a blip on a timeline. It was never something I used to think about. Now that I have a kid though, it's a recurring theme. On one hand it's unnerving, but on another, it fills me with resolve to make the most of what time I have.
On July 9th, the dead played their last show, twenty-five years ago. This was the final song they played. The story goes that Phil Lesh was wanting to write something he could sing to his dying father.
I wasn't with either one of my parents when they died. In fact, in both circumstances, they died alone. But in a way, we all die alone at that last moment since no one else goes with us.
The ultimate disconnection is death's cruelest prank. You're left with a DNA inheritance, a living reminder of who once was, and now who no longer is. They vanish from the planet, while you are left to carry on, keep their memory alive, and the tradition going.
I am still sending out query letters for the latest novel, hoping I can get some representation this time. So far, 13 rejection letters, and 10 non-responses That leaves another dozen or so to go. I should probably start compiling a new list and sending more out, but all of a sudden things have gotten busy on the work front, which is good news for a change. And not a moment too soon as I've hit a moment in the pandemic where I'm tired of talking about Covid and need a new topic.
Aren't we all.