The Journey Home
Sometimes, the more serene emotional landscapes of my life have come after great internal stresses and tensions. Entheogenic journeys are like this, too. Untying the Gordian knot inside one's head is no easy feat. Sometimes, entheogens prove to be like Alexander's sword, severing the blockages with the edge of Occam's razor. Earth-shattering epiphanies can be as simple as the realization that one need only be grateful for health and love.
Still, we sometimes create our own hells. Trey was eager to remind me of this on night two in Berkeley, opening the show with Olivia's Pool. Whatever transgressions against self and universe had taken place, they were in on the emotion and poked my eye. However, the healing had already begun thanks to the previous night's journey (and a little help from my friends). Some time after 11 am–fortified on the still good New York bagels Jeremy brought from Staten Island–we headed up the hills to find the Nimitz Trail in the Tilden Nature Area.
This walk was inspirational, and, as an East Coaster, mind-boggling. Yes, we all know that West Coasters have access to amazing public parks right from their doorstep. Little, however, prepares an Eastie for the vast expanses of public land available. Just a few miles from my Air BnB, here was terrain that stretched for miles. The areas were vast enough that it is conceivable that a broken ankle or wrong turn could prove costly, very costly. Signs warned of mountain lions and spotty cell service, and the amount of public land surrounding us easily exceeded the size of Catskill Park or the White Mountain National Forest. Nice.
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| Tilden Nature Area astonished this Eastie. |
The wet winter made the hills verdant. Wildflowers dotted the meadows, and I had a moment of acceptance. I could have made a life for myself on the West Coast back in the 1990s. Portland, OR was home, and Mt. Tabor provided a wee taste of what Berkeley was now flashing. Still, the walking and the air and the sun all helped me relax and flow. The vast expanses of the Western landscape can be reassuring, a good reminder that "[t]here are more things in heaven and earth . . . [t]han are dreamt of in [our] philosophy" (Hamlet.1.v.). We are but small players on that stage.
By 2:30 or so, Jeremy and I were itchin' to hit the line. We thought that maybe there was a chance that the mad rush had died down a bit. After being dropped off, I walked back down La Loma to find that I was situated rather closely to the Greek. Not bad. I found Jeremy waiting on the corner of Hearst and Piedmont, a long, long way from the gate. At least this afforded time to pop down the hill and grab a bhán mì. This was both lunch and dinner, and the line was slow. When we started moving in, at least the feeling was more relaxed, having been sated the previous night. The nitrous mafia was out in full force, and (naturally) there was copious cannabis smoke. Folks were not shy about drinking, either, and at one point, I bought myself a Heady Topper. It had come all the way from Vermont in a cooler.
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| It's difficult not to be impressed in Berkeley. |
Having chilled and hiked and gotten our ya-yas out the night before, the upper bowl lawn seemed fine. No need to clamor for the rail. There isn't a bad seat in the Greek, anyway. Seriously. By the second set, we were at the "rail" of the lawn, a perched vista taking in the whole scene. The Campanile poked above the skyline, and the Bay was visible in bits and pieces, reminding me of an old Greek poster from 1983. We were free to boogie, and the songs were imbued with the very reflections I was still mulling from the previous day. After Olivia's Pool, the serene Seven Below from my favorite LP Round Roo, helped open and calm the heart. The messaging is in the pacing and temperament: reminding one to keep it all on the down low. Trey's and Page's interplay defined this as a distinctly 2023 sound, and my chest was the cavity in which it echoed. All heart.
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| A classic view of the Greek with the Campanile. |
Never one to simply leave calm resolutions, Maze was up next, another reminder of my angst, abuses, and thinking traps. Spinning round and round, stuck in a labyrinth of my own making, the message here is clear. You won't get out, so why not let all obstructing emotions go? Easier said than done, and Berkeley has been at the center of such healing arts for more than half a century. Somewhere, in a backyard down that very hill, Japhy Ryder extols the virtues of Zen Buddhism and meditation. Somewhere, in a backyard down that hill, Japhy Ryder prophesied a backpack revolution of Dharma Bums seeking enlightenment far from the material ladders their 1950s peers obsessively climbed.
I thought of the Ishmael Reed poem I had stumbled across in the midst of my angst despair on Saturday on Addison Street, not too far from Ellsworth St.
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| East meets West. |
Though it had little to do with the poem, the sentiment made me feel content for having chosen to go back to Maine all those moons ago. East. And just as I'm letting these thoughts go on the breeze, Mountains in the Mist appeared. Linked to an ineffable longing connected to my summer 2021 break from previously locked thinking, the Trey and Page December release both saddened and reassured me. Pandemic grief, my own slow growth, the fits and starts. Like a puzzle piece, it kept the meaning flowing.
(Anastasio/Marshall)
© Who Is She? Music, Inc. (BMI)
several times unconsciously I've stumbled on the path
and seen a mountain in the mist
rain falls on my shoulders, sun rises in the east
I'm worn and bruised but I am here at least
I guess I'm just an obstacle, a thing to overcome
if I can sneak around myself again I'll know I've won
the moment seems to hand and float before me with no end
till I'm released, awaken beast, I'm on the road again
but now I'm soaring far too high
A speck of dust up in the sky
where tiny clouds go sailing by
pull me down today
pull me down today
woven in the fairy tales we fabricate each day
are little golden strands of truth that glimmer in the light
the colorful material you hold a certain way
can keep us from the cold and help to get us through the night
but now I'm soaring far too high
A speck of dust up in the sky
where tiny clouds go sailing by
pull me down today
. . .
The last line of the first verse shatters me, and I can rebuild my understanding about sneaking around myself and tricking the soul (no matter how deep that fallacy). It's a beautiful melancholy that I feel as though I can live with for some time. Hike, mist, view, water, respire, accept. Is it possible? Did Han Shan reach a state of stasis and contentment? It is daily practice, daily practice, daily practice I repeat, muttering on repeat. Letting go of desire.
OK, it is true: I am among those "who love to take a bath," and the goofy joy of Bathtub Gin makes it all fun. Afterall, that's why we're here right? It's a dance party everywhere you look. The Greek doing what the Greek does best! Bliss. Friendship. Warmth. Movement. Knowing through kinesthesia. Smiles. Scattered bits of talk and laughter. A stray clap. The sounds of feet in dirt. Sun setting. This is why we came. The rest of the set simply works that way.
Set two night two continues my ruminations. The Kill Devil Falls-> Fuego-> Light trifecta carries meaning, more than may meet the eye at first glance. The first song, a reflection on the consequences of binging and lacking enough empathy to see its impact on loved ones, propelled me into a joyous letting go in that I'm not alone in experience. Many of us have traveled these pits. Trey has traveled these pits, dragging skin and soul across the broken glass barnacles of self-induced despair. We heal, too, though. Fuego, for me a celebration of all good things 2014 and my evolving version of adulting, takes a nice journey into the Light. It's something to be mindful of, to step into the light, to walk the bright side of the road.
In the end, for many, this can be a Lonely Trip. Mind meld. The show and my mind are one at this point, and it's mostly the dancing that congeals the experience. Phil gives me a big hug on Numberline (we're logging 40 years of friendship as of this year), and it feels like celebration. We've pushed through darkness and travails, and here we are: stars, lights, color, happy feet dancing in the grass. It's a great reminder, too, how the athletic side of the dance is sometimes enough. And I don't know how I hear it, but Ghosts of the Forest sounds are echoing all around the bowl. The Greek catharsis is mourning loss and celebrating life all in one.
Day three, we all woke late. I ate a huge breakfast and drank coffee while overlooking the Bay. (I could do that every day.) We walked around the campus. Waited on line. Read. Soaked in the sun. It was finally warm, the weather I'd been hoping for from California. Met up with people from here and there. Sneered at the balloons littering the beautiful streets. Ate something, nothing too memorable, and found our way back to a similar spot on the lawn far earlier than we had been on previous days. I think that they started opening the gates earlier and earlier each day. By now, we were in the zone, spaced and patiently waiting for whatever would happen. The band opened with I Never Needed You Like This Before, and it was an expression of truth. I needed the scene: the fans, the smells, the sounds, the circus, friends, and music.
The second set was equal parts joy and reflection. I was feeling the contentment that comes from a sense of not needing. Anything. So when I heard the first strains of Beneath a Sea of Stars, I pinched myself. It was a song I had predicted, oddly, and it delivered what I needed. It's an expression of our gathering, spinning off on that cosmic dust of whatever it was that exploded outwardly in 1965 from this very land, Muir Beach a mere 25 miles to the west, and the Harmon Gym a snowball's toss away. We were Emerson's transparent eyeball, the wavelengths passing through, feet grooving. Dust between the toes feels like a good filth. Earth.
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| Searching for life. |
Weekapaug grooving got me fired up all over again, sweating away the night with the right tempo. Abandon. Joy. But wait, Cool it Down comes next, a standard favorite from the Velvet Underground's Loaded. This is a song that I never thought I would see, and yet it was perfectly placed. Emotionally, cool it down, man, bring that energy down. They were speaking to me, "lookin' for Miss Linda Lee," needing "to use up the night." Still, man, you got to slow down, "cool it down," hide your love away, one could say. Put that desire and wounded need back where it belongs, even though "it makes no difference."
Does this make me a "genuine asshole," or just someone struggling to keep up? "Unhead the knee!" Sometimes, even the absurdist humor hits pain. It's like throwing darts or seeing what sticks to the wall, but this first hearing of Don't Doubt Me felt like a celebration of all things modern Phish. Absurd and poignant simultaneously. Sadness imbuing psychedelic mind-meld with confused nostalgia. What year is it? Where am I? And just like that, a switch is flipped, and I'm being admonished to Set Your Soul Free. Damn. It's a sober message. Let go of desire, the root of all suffering. While I wasn't hearing a message about the Eightfold path, Japhy Ryder was nagging me about the four noble truths.
“I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution thousands or even millions of young Americans wandering around with rucksacks, going up to mountains to pray, making children laugh and old men glad, making young girls happy and old girls happier, all of 'em Zen Lunatics who go about writing poems that happen to appear in their heads for no reason and also by being kind and also by strange unexpected acts keep giving visions of eternal freedom to everybody and to all living creatures . . . ” Jack Kerouac
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| "The darkest hour is just before the dawn." |
In a very peculiar fashion, WTU? basically suggested the cut of both sides. What's the use in sobering up? For what? For whom? What is all this cosmic joke? On the other hand, what's the use in trying to escape the inevitable? It's all right there in front of us. Maslow knew. Our needs are simple. We can be whole with very little as long as we change our minds. Waste your time, why not? It's not like someone's going to give it back to you; "you don't get a refund if you over pray." Come out and play. And it's not a waste, really. Remember, it's all about love, and we don't need that much. "Just one drink, and I'll fall down drunk." Doesn't take much.
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| Such a lovely place. |
On Thursday, we were weary, happily weary, and we drove to Outer Sunset. Again, my East Coast defenses were down, and I could see how absolutely magical this neighborhood is. Phil's cousin had a house with a view of the surf. When the waves are right, just amble on down. Wow. I know of nothing like it. "Unhead the knee," indeed. And just like that, SFO looms. An afternoon of airport ambling, feeling far less fancy than all the tech nudnik's buying lattes. Unable to read or process, a stunned sitting and waiting, Chicago, and from Chicago, Bangor. It's like a study in contrast.
Bangor, like a glorified bus station, embraces the 70 or so passengers who arrive. The TSA guard monitoring the exits says, "Welcome to Maine." Clearly, I don't look like I belong. It's mid-morning the next day, one of the first warm mornings of spring, and the ground is greening up. The trees, bare, look so different from California that it's difficult to process. Winter has been here but not there? The mud at home is thick, and the recent construction is finished on our foundation. I inspect every inch, celebrate the return by sitting in the sun and reading Blitzed by Norman Ohler. There's a WWII elective on my roster for the fall. Sleep is elusive.
Friday, wide awake at 5 a.m, I need to psych myself up for the coming crush that is the end of the school year. The barber up the hill, Stacy, has an open seat. She kneads my scalp a bit and asks, "The regular?" All I have to say is, "Yup." We chit chat as she trims, and then she slows and pauses. "How well did you know Drew?" Suddenly, it's back to me, the world I left before stepping on that plane one week ago. Drew. Dead. Suicide. "Really well," I try to say. And then the tears come.
It's been one week since I left home to visit friends for some shows in California, and I'm sobbing in the barber's chair. It all flushes out in one grand push, and she's astonished but not surprised. "That well, huh?" she asks. When I compose myself, she shares the manner of death, the time, what was happening between Drew and his wife, their families. It all came out, and I went home and showered, thinking that maybe, just maybe, I was ready for students to return.
