Category: Spirit

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Thanksgiving 2021

NOTE: I typed the first draft of this post on my phone while lying in bed around 9:30 this morning. I apologize it has taken me over 13 hours to get around to editing it and posting.

The Myth

Like virtually all Americans of privilege my age, I grew up having been taught only a gauzy, feel-good myth about “The First Thanksgiving.”

In early adulthood (as I did with so much of the cultural container that came as standard for kids growing up white and male in the US in the 1950s and 60s) I moved away from the Norman Rockwell standard portrait of the holiday.

Instead, I came to redefine the day as an occasion to pause, reflect on my gratitude for the love and connections in my life, and celebrate these things with members of my family of choice and others dear to me.

That self-defined tradition was well established before I became fully aware (many years into my continuing education about the true backstory of my “heritage” in this “exceptional” country) of what a painful anniversary is observed on this day by many of my indigenous sisters and brothers.

By the time I began to realize that certain folks I considered close friends, who I loved and admired greatly, always politely but firmly declined invitations to our feasting, explaining they had another personal engagement that day, I was already well into the process of building my own self-defined customs, and was probably a little too self-centered to truly stop and ask for help in understanding what I didn’t know. [This story arc, I am sorry to say, describes so much of the privilege I’ve enjoyed all my life. But that’s a discussion for another day.]

To those reading this who count the fourth Thursday of November a National Day of Mourning I can only say: I see you. I respect you. I feel a tiny hint of the grief and sadness you must carry, and I have great shame and regret that my privilege rests on such a dark and evil history.

Painting by Karen Rinaldo, 1995

For me though, the tradition of gratitude must remain. Not for my material privilege, great though it is. But again, for the love and connections in my life.

Yoshimi and I have spent the better part of four decades now making a life together. And for most of that time, Thanksgiving Day represented a time to gather together the members of our Family of Choice, and others with whom we shared bonds of connection and affection around the biggest table we could find to spend an afternoon and early evening sharing company, love, and gratitude; for each other and for all the gifts, great and small, our lives bring us virtually every day.

There was a time, some years back now, when we were committed to opening our home and playing hosts to all manner of events and celebrations, be they Independence Day barbeques, New Years Eve and Superbowl parties,  or gathering a dozen or so of us in the old Hugus Court media room for a communal viewing on the (then huge) 36″ TV and large speaker hi fi system of all 14 hours of the Transatlantic ‘Live Aid’ concerts (a very fond memory for me personally).

We always felt it was part of our compact with the universe to share our ‘blessings’ with an open hand.

And it truly was our experience that in the giving, we received far more, filling our hearts.

But over the years, we have let the events go, one by one, as the doing grew more difficult, for multiple reasons.

The Feast of Thanksgiving was the last. Not quite as long a guest list in recent years as it had been at one time (I think our “record” head count one year was somewhere north of two dozen), but there was always room at the table for that last minute stray or two we might discover had nowhere else to be.

We have held on to this tradition as the others organically fell away.

And it seems right to me that would be the case since this tradition in our house and hearts was expressly about celebrating the gifts of our love and connections.

However, I am sad to say that the days of great feasting are behind us now.

Our last Thanksgiving gathering was two years ago (and one beloved who was at our table then departed from us in 2020—Pam, your memory is cherished, and you are deeply missed).

Last year, of course, the whole world was in lockdown. The vaccine was still months away.

And as the time came ’round this year to begin making plans, Yoshimi and I both realized that we have aged out of the ability to handle the physical demands hosting a feast entails, even  if, as we always have, we declare “potluck” and ask all who can to contribute something to the table.

We mutually agreed it is time for us to let this go. It’s just beyond our reach now.

If we, either of us, were a part of one of those large, blood related Families of Origin this would be the point at which the younger generation steps up to take on the mantle. “Starting this year, we’ll be having Thanksgiving at Mary and Bob’s house. It’s a reasonable drive for everyone, and they’ve got plenty of room there to host the whole gang.”

We would naturally slide into the role of elders, expected to show up and hang out in the living room keeping grandkids amused until time to eat.

But that’s not who we are. It’s always been Family of Choice, though that has from time to time included members of our Families of Origin.

At any rate, we find ourselves planning a little dinner for two here at home, and a sit down later to watch the first part of Peter Jackson’s Beatles project.

We’ve been invited to drop in at a beloved neighbor’s, which I expect we’ll do at some point for a few minutes.

All in all, a quiet, very different sort of Thanksgiving Day for us. A softer, more contemplative sort of holiday.

Of course, I mourn the loss of the gatherings which have been a central part of my annual calendar for most of my adult life.

And I must confess to a bit of resentment at the fact circumstances have deprived us of a final “sweet farewell” to the tradition.

“Not with a bang but a whimper,” as the poet said.

>>Aside: We did enjoy a mini-event of sorts this past weekend. Over the past year or so, four of us who initially connected on the Zoom machine for reasons too complicated and not relevant enough to spend time on here have been having “virtual coffee” together every Saturday morning.

This past Saturday my three coffee buddies, two of whom I’d never met in three dimensions, gathered themselves together from disparate locations around Northern and Central California and presented themselves here at the Red House for lunch in the warm November sun on our back patio. Nobody called it a “Thanksgiving gathering,” but it was, in microcosm, exactly that spirit of fellowship and love that has held the day at our annual Thursday feasts for so many years. And although we’ve hosted a couple small dinners for one or two local friends, it was the first time I’ve enjoyed this sort of physical proximity here at home with people I love since the Before Times.

So thank you my Rock Dropping compadres for bringing the party to us!<<

It’s a bit melancholy, I must admit, finding myself in what a friend of a friend has called ‘the short seasons of life.’

These days I seem to be living in an endless river of losses and departures as deaths, changes of circumstance, and evolutions of people, places, and things proceed apace.

It remains my job apparently to continue to find the beauty, the joy, the love, that moment that is embedded somewhere in each day I’m granted the opportunity to participate in.

And that’s not a bad job at all when you think about it.

So, for those who mourn today, my heart is with you. For those who celebrate, I join you in gratitude and express my profound thanks for each of you these words reach, and the part you play, have played, or will play in the arc of my life.

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Remembering Jerilyn

I first met Jerilyn Brandelius when she came to San Francisco from Southern California in, I think, 1969. Someone (she told me once, but I forget who) introduced her to Chet Helms who was, of course, in dire need of a personal assistant/factotum to ensure follow up and follow through on all manner of business items, and keep the office on track and focused.

This was right around the time Chet had acquired the lease on the old Beach Pavilion building out on the Great Highway, across the road from Kellys Cove and comfortably tucked between Playland at the Beach and Sutro Heights.

In the weeks before we opened, as we got the building ready to do service to Chester’s vision of creating a space somewhere in between a dance hall and house of worship where people, music, lights, the Pacific Ocean could all come together and create magic(k), I had managed to find enough ways to be useful to create a full-time job for myself as Head Hey–You. Did everything from take tickets at the door, to help with stage managing and sound, to cleaning out perennially clogging toilets in the restrooms and sweeping and waxing the dance floor after shows.

So, Jere and I were “work colleagues.” But of course, when you worked for Chet Helms, it was never “just a job.” We were all “family.” Mates in that same ongoing effort to help Chet create something special that might lead—well, who knew where? And I learned things about who I wanted to be in life, and made connections with people that would endure over the years (even when we found ourselves out of contact for decades).

Jerilyn was one of those people. I loved her to the bottom of my heart then, and always have. And she WAS one that I lost contact with for many years. After the Family Dog on the Great Highway went under, I moved on to work for several bands, one of the Bay Area’s few (at the time) sound reinforcement companies that had the equipment and knowledge to work rock and roll shows, and several clubs and other music venues.

Photo: ©Ed Perlstein

She, meanwhile, ended up in Marin County in a relationship with a musician from a well-known band, and got focused on raising her two kids, along with a tribe of other children associated with the “family” that surrounded that band—Oh, I’ll go ahead and say it. It is somewhat integral to the story, and no secret. After the Family Dog family broke up, she was absorbed into that vast amoeba which was the Grateful Dead family in the 1970s.

One of the reasons that becomes important at this point is that part of the legacy she leaves is a whole second generation of “Dead kids,” now in their 40s and 50s, who grew up more or less as a free range pack of young ’uns airing it out across the acres of various ranches and other properties scattered across Northern Marin County. In many ways, Jerelyn had stepped up into the role of fierce mama bear, not just for Creek and Christina, her two children, but for all the kids rattling around. More than one has told me that growing up in that somewhat ‘fluid’ scene, they always felt secure in the knowledge they could seek out Jere for her counsel and guidance; or just to have their backs. She became in some respects the most reliable adult in their world.

We didn’t have much occasion to connect, unless we happened to run into each other backstage at a show. While she had gone North, I had elected, post Dog, to remain in San Francisco and dig in to the more urban scene there.

Eventually I dropped out of the music business and moved down to Santa Cruz County, losing touch with her completely.

I later learned that after her relationship with that band member went the way of so many rock and roll pairings in that era where a good looking guy spent much of his time on the road being the center of the party while his “old lady” kept the home fires burning, Jerelyn easily transitioned into an office manager role for an East Bay chapter of the Hells Angels MC.

Because she was just that centered and secure in being Jerelyn Brandelius that there was never any doubt about her competency to take care of the myriad threads of necessary bank account management, tax reporting, regulatory compliance, and all the other things a fraternal organization that size is accountable for—especially one that’s a highly visible target for every investigator and prosecutor out to make a name for himself.

Photo: © Lilli Heart

Of course, despite the fact her romantic relationship had gone south, her ties to the Dead Family always remained strong. The relationship held value for her, and for them, and she could be found around band (and family) related events right until the end.
Jerelyn’s profile in the broader universe of Deadheads exploded after the publication in late 1989 of the Grateful Dead Family Album, a massive coffee table book with cover art by iconic San Francisco artist Stanley Mouse offering almost 250 pages of photographs, many of them behind-the-scenes candids shot by Jerelyn, accompanied by text of her reminiscences and often droll observations on the scene over the years.

But I’m getting too buried in the biographical minutia here. I need to circle back to how it is that she rests so deep in my heart, a half-century on from our first association.

I guess it was maybe 15 years or so ago that a young friend of mine from down here in Santa Cruz County—a second-generation Deadhead if you will, phoned me filled with excitement after a trip to the Bay Area for a show.
Seems he’s been manning the Wharf Rats table (a subset of Deadheads in drug and alcohol recovery) when Jerilyn stopped by. He’d heard me tell tales of our history when he’d gushed about the Family Album book, and he mentioned to her that he knew me.

Remember that, at this point, we’d probably been out of touch for a couple of decades. Well, she was apparently excited to reconnect, giving him her phone number to pass along to me. So the kid came home feeling like a minor rock star.

That’s how we finally got back in touch, so many years later. We managed to get together a few times over the next couple of years, but I wasn’t at a time in my life when I was getting to the City much and she only occasionally came south, usually to support friends playing a gig somewhere in the Santa Cruz area.
Then the damned liver thing happened. Among other qualifying hoops they make liver transplant candidates jump through is a requirement they abstain from alcohol and drugs. I was able to add my voice to others from within the family in assuring her there is, indeed, life after recovery. That doing this deal clean and sober actually turns out, in a lot of ways, to be the most colorful trip of all.

Scared the hell out of me when word came she was going in for her transplant; I’d had a few other friends receive organ transplants and knew, at least in a general way, what a major deal it was. Of course, if I allowed myself to feel concerned, I wasn’t reckoning with just what a badass Jerilyn has always been.

As expected, it was a long, difficult, post-transplant recovery period. But sooner than you’d think we were making the pilgrimage North, groping around Ft. Baker in the dark, trying to find the Presidio Yacht Club. Once we finally stumbled in, we found the place packed with folks, both famous and obscure, there to celebrate Jerilyn’s first return from the dead.

In recent years, it’s become easier to keep in touch with the rise of social media. And, as my life focus shifted, I began to make it up to San Francisco a bit more often.

Photo: © Rosie McGee

As it turned out, liver failure couldn’t hold a candle to the next gut punch the universe had lined up. In January of 2014, Jere’s daughter Christina (who I’d had the opportunity to amuse from time to time in the Family Dog days when she would hit that fussy spot little kids do when they really need some attention—just at the same moment her mom was engaged in an important long distance phone call nailing down next week’s booking) died far too young, succumbing to an asthma attack.

Possessing the terrible qualifier of having walked through the death of an adult child with my spouse, I like to believe I was able to be there for her in a way few others could be. We didn’t spend a ton of time together, and there wasn’t a lot of conversation. But our connection deepened in a way that’s beyond my ability to find words for.

This past half-dozen years or so, we stayed in consistent touch even though the 90 miles or so that separated us meant we still didn’t manage to get in the same place at the same time more than maybe three or four times a year.

Deborah Grabien, Sam Cutler, Jerilyn Brandilius Photo: Holly Howard

But I believe there remained a level of love and connection between us that continued to deepen, without the need to speak of it, on each and every occasion we spent some time together, whether she had drafted me for chauffeur duty, giving her a ride to or from a gig someplace or we turned up at the same soiree—more often than not one of the legendary get togethers at Chez Grabien, where the company, the food, and the music were always exceptional.

We could usually manage to get ourselves off to the side someplace for a while where we could just sit and share space and unspoken history. Might be 15 minutes; might be a couple of hours. Usually, little was said once the initial check-in business was out of the way. How’s your health? What are you listening to lately?

For several years, there would be the obligatory quick catchup on John Perry Barlow (songwriting partner with Bob Weir, and later in life the visionary who birthed the Electronic Frontier Foundation); she was principally responsible for his caretaking over several years at the end of his life.

Because, you see, that was a thing Jerilyn did. I think I mentioned her being the rock at the center of the world of a whole generation of Dead family kids. She did the same thing for Barlow. She had also spent a period of time back working for Chet Helms again in what turned out (to everyone’s surprise) to be the last few years of his life.

Jerilyn was fierce. Fiercely loyal. Fiercely protective. Fiercely supportive of those she loved. And if one of hers was in trouble she was there to hold steady with them in the storm.

Of course, that fierceness meant she could also be a world-class pain in the ass when she was fighting for something. That could, on occasion, rub ‘outsiders’ the wrong way. And, if I’m totally honest, it would on occasion drive those who loved her up the wall as well.

But it was never born of malice, always passion.

After her stroke a couple years back, Jerilyn once more pulled out all that fight and determination. It pissed her off no end to find herself physically compromised, and she threw herself into all the recommended physical therapy, dietary guidelines, and lifestyle recommendations (at least as best she could make them fit her world) to regain a huge percentage of her capacity.

I think she fatigued quicker. And I’m sure (though we never discussed it in detail) she was finding herself carrying a greater and greater pain load on a daily basis. Hell, we all live with chronic pain at this age; especially those of us who ran our bodies so hard when we were young and heedless.

But, as somebody pointed out the other day, there was a part of Jerilyn that never fully came back after Christina died. There never is really, is there? The death of a child cuts a chunk out of a mother that can’t be healed or filled in. And she loved as fiercely as any mother I’ve ever known.

It’s funny. There’s that word again. Fierce. Absolutely, Jerilyn was one of the most badass, determined women I have ever known. And she walked through enough shit for any three people in her life, with her head up all the way. So, yeah. Fierce.

And yet all my memories of her are tender, sweet, infused with love. No, we didn’t spend a lot of time together. We never had, really. But she has been a part of my life since the earliest days working for Chet, when I was beginning to figure out who I was going to grow up to be. How I would carry myself in this world.

So, going forward from here for as long as I remain, I’ll carry myself in a world now missing one of the touchstones of my life. We were never married; we were never lovers. I don’t think we ever even intentionally got high together. Dosed at a few of the same shows, I’m sure. But that hardly counts around that rolling circus.

I am grateful that the closest inner circles of family were able to be there as her body wound down and her spirit departed. I know that Betty was there. I understand Weir was able to come and sing her home as the machines stopped and it all finished.

I am going to miss the hell out of her. I already do. This has been such a bastard of a year, for everyone. I suppose it even makes a certain amount of sense that this would be when Jerilyn finally reached that point where she had to lay her hammer down.

I will get my head wrapped around accepting it, same as all the rest of this year. Because we have to, don’t we? But I don’t goddamn like it. And I shall, indeed, feel her absence the rest of my days.

“Fare you well. Fare you well. I love you more than words can tell.”

Photo: © Rosie McGee

Plans are in the works for a virtual gathering on line to celebrate the life and memory of Jerilyn. I will post an update here, and on my Facebook page when details become available.

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On Turning 70

Been quite a long time since I wrote anything here (and apologies for that—my bandwidth is limited these days) but last weekend I turned 70 years of age and it does not seem right to let that pass without comment.

“Last weekend I turned 70.” That is a statement I never expected to make. Even aside from the cancer, given my family history, the ways in which I beat the crap out of my body for most of my life, and my lengthy laundry list of chronic maladies, it doesn’t make a lot of sense that I’m still here.

And yet, I still am. So, what to make of that?

One of the great benefits of receiving the “upgrade” of my cancer to Stage Four in July of 2017 has been the opportunities for growth and contemplation finding myself in the position of “dead man walking” has afforded me.

Of course, I have no way of knowing how I’d feel about passing this milestone absent that terminal prognosis because that’s not what has occurred. But what has happened is that I have enjoyed damned near two and a half years of “grace” now, in which I’ve been spurred to consider my upcoming mortality and review the arc of my life story with a clarity and focus many folks don’t have the chance to experience.

And now, we add to the mix that “big number.” I’ve never before been one who takes much note of birthdays. At least not since my adolescence when I, like all my peers, dealt with a succession of artificially designated “qualifying ages.”

16 to get a driver’s license, with the independence and freedom of movement that go with that for a kid who lives beyond the bus lines; 18 to register for the draft and seriously start to figure out what the hell to do personally about a war I’d been protesting and resisting for three or four years by then; 21 to finally be able to cast a ballot. [Oh, yeah, at 21 I could legally buy a drink too. Although, at the time, my focus was much more directed at things that were prohibited at any age.]

So, yeah. Over the years I’ve watched friends do all kinds of freaking out when they hit 30 (remember “don’t trust anybody over 30”?), 40, 50, 60. But for me, it’s always been sort of “meh.” Well, maybe 50 a little bit as I found my internal monolog cranking out phrases like “entering my second half-century.” But even that was more a case of “hmmm, well that’s interesting” than anything else.

I think when I hit those earlier so-called milestones there was more a sense of accomplishment for having gotten this far than anything else. But this seems to be playing out very differently for me.

Trying to unpack it, I think a lot of it probably does have to do with the fact that I’ve been in “dead man walking” mode for a couple of years now. And that brings with it a couple of things.

The first is, quite simply, surprise that I am indeed still alive. When I first got the official word that I’d been upgraded to Stage Four and that “this is only going to end one way,” I asked the oncologist for her best guess, for planning purposes, on roughly how much time I could expect before the dank bastard shows up to tap me on the shoulder.

She said typically a year or two. She gave me that framework in July of 2017. That’s two and a half years ago. And although my baseline daily “how ya feeling” is certainly crappier than it was then, I’m not feeling anywhere close to completely spent yet. So here I remain, well past my ‘sell-by’ date, with a reasonable expectation I’ll still be breathing in and out when I wake up in the morning.

So that’s a piece of it. All of the above, and now I’m seventy god damn years old to boot? Day-em wouldja look at that!

I suspect the other reason this turning 70 deal has caught my attention also has to do with the fact that I’m working my way through this “final season” of my life.

Bear with me, I want to talk a little about what processing my somewhat impending demise has meant for me.

Start here. I am not a man of faith. I may well be, in some respects, “spiritual,” I’m probably not the best judge of that. But I don’t follow a religious path (I have no quarrel with those who do—matter of fact I regard many of them with deep admiration and respect). It’s just never been a comfortable fit for me, and I’ve tried several different belief systems on for size over the years. Thus, I don’t enjoy a sense of self that promises a continuity beyond death, let alone what that might look/feel like. So, no expectations.

Now, most of my life I’d have gladly told you that, if I get a vote, my preference would default toward being completely surprised by some unanticipated immediate interruption—an unfortunate encounter with a speeding truck, perhaps.

Thing is, in the event, I’ve found this extended final glide path to be an unimagined luxury. [Demonstrating yet again that I rarely seem to know what’s actually best for me.]

For one thing, this interregnum has afforded me an extended opportunity to review and contemplate the life I’ve had. And while I have had to navigate my share of difficult situations (many of them of my own making) any reasonable observer would have to say I have been exceptionally fortunate throughout my life.

I’ve enjoyed the opportunity to be associated with a remarkable number of very special individuals. Talented artists and musicians, passionate and generous leaders of many, many types, dear friends who have loved, sustained and taught me so very much.

I have lived my life almost exclusively in locations that are among the most beautiful on the planet, more often than not in communities populated with caring and responsible people.

I’ve had employment, across several professional tracks throughout my working life that has almost always provided dignified, ethical, and fulfilling work, usually with bosses and peers I could respect and whose company I enjoyed.

Speaking of “good company,” it seems life has also brought me a wonderful collection of true friends—folks I care about deeply and who seem to reciprocate the feeling. More people than I can begin to count, a significant number of them folks who have been a part of my life for decades.

Despite the odd moments of friction here and there, I enjoy loving, solid, and respectful relationships with three generations of family members.

All this barely scratches the surface, but you take my point, I hope. The opportunity to “review the record” this past couple of years makes me inexpressibly grateful for the life I’ve lived, making this unexpected opportunity to celebrate a 70th birthday a special moment, indeed.

At this point in the journey, I find myself surprisingly openhearted. I am deeply moved by the triumphs and disappointments, the joys and grieving of those around me. And that ability to be touched by what’s up with you is something to cherish as well.

I’m an alcoholic and drug addict who has now been living in recovery for more than half my life. When I first found my way into sobriety, I was damaged in many, many ways. Among them was my belief, based on self-observation, that I just was incapable of truly connecting with my fellow humans. I felt like the emotional equivalent of a driver who’s involved in a bad accident, totals the car, but walks away with just a few scratches—not truly impacted by what just occurred. I was convinced I had just been built without the wiring circuits that created the ability to truly care about others.

But in this “second act” of my life, the half spent in recovery, it turns out that’s not the case at all.

 No, it turns out that there is nothing in my life more important to me than the connections I feel to all around me. The natural beauty of the world we live in, the opportunities each day brings to experience things—those new and revelatory as well as the familiar with the pleasure and satisfaction it brings. And especially the relationships with my fellow humans.

It turns out that I see my job at this point as planting, nurturing, fostering the Love anywhere and everywhere I can (and each day is filled for opportunities to do that).

It turns out that I’m not just capable of connecting with others, it’s what I do best, and the most important work in my life.

So, happy birthday to me. I’m 70 fer crissakes. Sure did not expect that.

 

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Thanksgiving 2018: Reflections

[A note to my international friends: For you, today is Thursday (unless it’s already Friday where you are), an ordinary week day. Here in the United States, today is the designated national holiday known as “Thanksgiving”. Thank you for your patience.]

For many of my Native American and First Nations friends, the fourth Thursday in November is observed as a day to remember the dark legacy of colonialism, conquest, subjugation and genocide that lies across the face of this continent.

Aside: If you’re not as familiar with the actual origin story of our modern Thanksgiving customs, won’t you join me over here for a quick review? Go ahead. I’ll wait here.

OK, we’re back.

Those of you who gathered at dawn today on Alcatraz, or elsewhere, to honor ancestors, build solidarity, support each other, and find renewed strength, I acknowledge you with respect and love. I also acknowledge the almost certain fact that some of my ancestors were at least complicit, if not active participants in some of that sad legacy. I wish it were not so, but it is. I can only do my best to be better.

My privilege though, has brought me to this moment by a different path, thus my practices on this day are different as well.

One last thought though, before I move on from this part of discussion the day. As a sympathetic observer, and one who has aspired to be a good “ally” since long before the term was coined, I’d like to note that I’ve seen an evolution in the tone, tenor, and presentation of Indian activism in recent years and, to my eyes, that represents positive development in several ways.

I’ve been around since the days of the Alcatraz Occupation, and before. It has been my privilege to watch, at least in the Bay Area, the birth and early coalescing of the Red Power movement. In later decades, it seemed the focus turned more inward, with an emphasis on the urgent work of relearning language, core cultural activities, and spiritual/religious practices before they were lost forever as elders, often the last holders of these memories, left this life.

And along with that work came the task of developing alliances and interconnection between Nations who may have, at times not always seen each other as friends.

Now, in researching this piece on line, I’ve come to realize that the impatient young people with their urgency and sense that they were often, quite literally, fighting for their lives have become today’s elders. And there is a new generation of leaders emerging with the heart and skills to take the movement to the next level, and present it in the context of today’s media environment in a fashion that strives to address continuing issues of oppression while leveraging a new type of academic interest in tribal history, an ingrained understanding of the peril to human survival the excesses of the dominant culture have created, and a level of dignity, pride, and self-worth which had been almost drained away from earlier generations by over a century of systematic oppression, exploitation, and cultural colonialism.

Today’s emerging leaders begin their work from a place much further along than that which was available to their parents and grandparents. Thus we can hope the work of their lives will have impacts we can’t even foresee from here.

All of which is by way of acknowledging the fact that, for certain folks, this day is informally known as Unthanksgiving, and the last thing they have in mind is gathering around a dinner table to eat overcooked poultry in commemoration of what, in many ways, was no more and no less than the time-released invasion, theft and, in many respects, destruction of their land by a hostile and aggressive foreign horde. I honor and respect that, and would not be so arrogant as to offer counsel on whether that best serves. I can’t know what I don’t know.

By accident of birth, however, my experience is different.

Like many Americans, I grew up spoon fed the post-war idealization of “the good life” which included an expectation of warm and fuzzy gathering of loving family to give thanks for our privilege and bounty. And this was somehow all wrapped up in a blanket of patriotism, entitlement, and expectation of the manifestation of some fictional, misty, satisfied gathering rooted in a shared appreciation of fine home cookin’ (somehow magically manifested in the kitchen by the womenfolk while the men did manly things like watch football and chat about plans and expectations for the upcoming holiday season).

Of course, like so many of my generation, things never quite played out that way in our alcohol soaked home. Bonnie (wife and mother) was not a terribly talented “natural-born cook” at the best of times; for her the work was all about finding recipes that either looked good, or appeared to match someone’s fond childhood recollections, and trying to follow them to the letter with regard to ingredients, timing, and presentation.

Not the most relaxed way to approach the kitchen under any circumstances, and when overlain with the crushing weight of holiday expectations (and recreational alcohol consumption that began earlier and ran heavier than it did on “normal” days) the ballet of timing multiple dishes to reach their prime simultaneously, her stress level and performance anxiety would rise exponentially. Which virtually guaranteed an unfortunate outcome.

I’m coming the long way ’round here to get to: I don’t have terribly fond memories of Holiday Feasting from my childhood. And thus, I’ve felt no compunction to try to duplicate those painful afternoons and evenings in my adult life. Imagine my delight when I discovered I had managed to join up with a life partner of similar bent.

However it has also been true for quite a long time that my feeling of connectedness with fellow humans, and the nexus of love we share, is central to how I understand myself and my proper place in the world; in my life.

Thus, over the years, Yoshimi and I have found ourselves establishing a “family tradition” of a different sort, around this holiday in particular.

Neither of us adhere to a formal faith tradition, so we’re not committed to any of the various celebrations of various deities that dot the calendar (I saw an assertion somewhere the other day that December and January actually contain a grand total of at least 52 different observances focused on different reputed “birthdays,” holy days, or astronomical events such as solstice—so much for your “War on Christmas).

So, a day that’s set aside to gather with loved ones (we like to think of them as our “family of choice,” thus differentiated from our “family of origin”—though there certainly is overlap) to contemplate and celebrate the many, many things for which we are grateful emerged as the natural holiday for us.

Over the years, we have mounted gatherings with as many as a couple dozen people; as we have aged the effort grew more daunting, and many of the folks who had previously filled seats at the table moved on to other commitments. But there is always “Thanksgiving with Ace and Yoshimi” as a known thing.

This year, circumstances have lead to a further evolution. Not sure I’m completely happy about it, but it is what it is and I embrace it. In getting ready to put these thoughts together, I went back, as best as the architecture of the site allows, and retrieved some things I’ve written for Facebook in previous years.

I found this “day after” rumination from last year, and thought it worth revisiting here. I’ll explain why on the other side.

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 2017
Notes from the wreckage:
~ I realize we say this every year, but I believe this truly was, in many ways, our finest holiday gathering ever.
~ As always, I look forward warmly to a succession of comfort meal favorites on the menu in coming days. Hot turkey sandwiches with gravy. Turkey soup. Ham and scalloped potatoes. (Side note: Christ, there’s a lot of left over mashed potatoes this year for some reason. Recipes incorporating same glady accepted.)
~ I thought my “no politics today” rule worked out reasonably well as a tool for setting our anxieties aside for the day. And who came closest to violating it as the evening wore on? Yup. Moi.
~ I’m not sure what possessed Yoshimi to elect to bring out the Good China and crystal glassware for the first time in a number of years but, even though it meant more handwashing after, it was a nice, luxuriant touch, and I’m glad we did it.
~ Good mix of old friends and new this year. That was a joy. And thanks, by the way, to everyone who pitched in side dishes for the feasting. Damn, but we do get to live well.
~ It is so VERY much worth it, but I gotta admit there’s a lot of physical work involved in mounting this kind of feast, especially for us old farts. Man, I’m beat up this morning (and “ma in her kerchief” is still sleeping soundly). I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, but I do have to own the costs. Which leads me, finally, to…
~Damn, but I’m grateful I don’t drink any more. It struck me a little bit ago as I stumbled through brewing the cats and feeding the coffee that I’m pretty sure if I laid a hangover in on top of this I’d be praying for a swift and merciful death about now.
Happy Day After, all. If you’re going out among ’em (or, gods love ya, if you have to work retail) today, be careful out there.

I had no idea when I wrote that, that 2017 would be the final year we hosted Thanksgiving Dinner in our home of 16 years.

But, for a number of reasons, it’s time to move on from here. We’ll be setting up housekeeping in a new location in January. Initially, we considered “one last farewell feast” here. This home has meant a lot. I’ve realized as we’ve contemplated and planned this transition, that I have lived here longer than any other place in my life. And the same is true for Yoshimi. Ultimately though, it just felt too overwhelming to take that route.

Once again though, we are drenched in gifts beyond all deserving. A dear friend has invited us to combine our dinner with hers. We’re sharing the cooking, and an abbreviated guest list. Yoshimi and I have done significant pre-baking here (our friend is wrangling side dishes) and we will load up the turkey, the dressing, and the ham in a few minutes and head over there. It will, I am sure, be a different but still filling (in so many ways) afternoon.

Know that, as always, I carry you in my heart and you’ll be right next to me at the table.

Wherever you are, and whatever your dance card features this day, you are wrapped in Love. And ultimately, I am convinced to my core, this is all about the Love.

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Got Those Monday Blues

I expect it was inevitable at some point.

And today was the day.

Woke up this morning immersed in fear.

Not your run-of-the-mill sort of fear; the kind we all get that kinda sounds like “oh, I don’t think this ends well,” or “I think I really screwed this up.”

But way down to your bones Scared AF fear.

I think I’ve broken through and am confronting the inevitability of my situation on a whole new level. However, as we so often do, I’m investing the fear not in what I know, but what I don’t know.

It’s not the going over the edge into the abyss so much that has me freaked. Nor even the prospect of standing at the edge and looking into that abyss.

It’s the anticipation of being dragged over the rocks on the way to that edge that has me trying to climb out of my skin.

So much is unclear about just how this is going to play out. Where the cancer elected to set up camp once it metastasizes. How much pain that brings; how physically or mentally debilitated I’ll be. What the chemo options might look like, and whether they’ll seem worth the fight.

And yet this is all, ALL of it, just stuff I’m making up in my head at this point. We’re not there yet. Today is today. There is much important work to be done, that I can still do.

I know that this mindset is a trap of my own devising, and I need to make the decision, take the action, to step away from it and get on with the tasks of the day.

And I shall, given another cuppa or two and some space to recenter myself. This is the first time though since I was upgraded to Stage 4 that I woke up like this. And it seemed like I ought to memorialize it.

I’ve been pretty clear all along with everyone about my general feelings about all this. I have enjoyed a remarkable run, and I am grateful for it. As I like to say, I’ve been “playing with house money” for quite a while now.

And, somewhat to my surprise, I’ve also found myself to be deeply grateful for the “advance notice” of my pending offramp. My entire life, my baseline assumption was always “I hope I just get hit by a bus one day, so I don’t have to put any thought into what end of life means.”

But, in the event, it turns out I actually have found this interim period to be extremely useful. Not in terms of “delaying the inevitable,” rather that it’s providing me room for reflection, some opportunities to savor, a chance to do what I can to clean up things I’m responsible for and position myself to end my run as gracefully as possible. And how lucky am I to get that chance? Very lucky indeed, I’d say.

And yet; and yet. I woke up this morning immersed in fear. Deep, to the bone fear about how the rest of this plays out. That in the face of how terribly fortunate I have been to date. Not least in that I know, to the depths of my core, that I love and am loved (not by all, but by more than a few—and all out of scale to anything earned or deserved).

So there it is. It’s an authentic feeling. I hereby mark it, own it, and choose to get on with the tasks of the day.

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Fortunate Son, Part TBD

Note: Fortunate Son, Part 2 is sitting half-written in my drafts folder. And there are, I suspect more installments to follow.”
This piece, I think, belongs much later in the Fortunate Son series, but for reasons which should, perhaps, be apparent it seemed necessary to “jump ahead” and get it down now.

When I woke up this morning, I realized I’d been dreaming, pretty extensively, about an old friend I’ve known since my earliest days in sobriety. She has always been one of the most dynamic, powerful women I’ve ever met.
But recently some serious health issues laid her low and she spent several weeks in hospital, many of those unconscious or only barely still connected here. I spent several afternoons, gowned up, sitting by her bedside holding her hand and whispering my love and respect in her ear—wasn’t sure for a while there if she’d be coming back or not.

I’m quite confident that if you had a chance to ask her Cora, like me, would tell you she is, on balance, pretty damned happy with how her life has played out. Her story is far, far different than mine, but it is one that lets her hold her head up.

And thinking about Cora after I awoke, my thoughts turned to the individual who actually first introduced me to recovery. I had met Cora through E, that’s what brought her to mind.
We stayed close for a time, I even turned out to be “that guy” who could step up in 1982, driving her back and forth from the San Lorenzo Valley to Packard Childrens Hospital at Stanford almost daily when her infant daughter was there for an extended period of time teetering on the edge of life. That was one of my first experiences in this Second Half of My Life with prioritizing being of service to someone else; putting their needs ahead of my own.

Eventually though, our paths drifted apart. A few years later, I learned E had returned to drinking, and was living a pretty limited and marginal life. Lost touch completely after that. I have no idea if she left the area, got sober again somewhere else, what? I know I never ran across her again, or heard rumors of her “in the rooms” around Santa Cruz County.

I don’t know if she’s still living. Perhaps she relocated, found her way back to sobriety in another community, and is living a contented life surrounded by grandkids. But it’s equally possible, perhaps even likely, that she died in her disease, taunted by the demons of alcoholism and the lies they whisper just inside our ears. I don’t know, and I won’t project on her.

Contemplating the possibilities though, especially looking at the contrast between Cora’s story and E’s, I had to confront the hard fact that many of us do not reach the end of our run here in a space where we can look at the arc of our time with a modicum of satisfaction and gratitude.

For too many folks, this journey is just a long, grinding, trek through a relentless vale of tears. I am truly, truly saddened that that’s the case.

And I realize yet again (a) how very goddamned lucky I am and (b) that I owe an ethical, even moral debt to those less fortunate. That I am bound both by love and duty to comprehend, acknowledge, and appreciate my good fortune.

I have not earned it, I am no more deserving of it than anyone else. I am profoundly grateful for it.

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Just a little moment to share

Somewhere in a box of unsorted cassette tapes, stashed somewhere in my stuff, there is (I hope) still a tape I made of Elizabeth Cotten performing live in a tiny club (I can’t even remember the name of the establishment) on Upper Grant Avenue one night in the 1970s.
It was a magical evening for the 50 or so folks who were there.
I’ve spent a significant portion of my adult life in and around music and musicians; I can’t think of anyone more gracious, charming, and warm than Libba Cotten.
The woman (who must have been in her 80s then) just held the room in the palm of her hand all evening, exuding a center of love, peace and humility which was remarkable.
Oh, and yes. Even then, she could play and she could sing. In her simple, direct fashion, to be sure. But in a way that compelled respect; not by force, but by generosity.
One of the privileges of my life to have spent an evening breathing the same air as she.

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What Condition My Condition Is In [effective 2018.02.23]

Because several folks have asked recently (and I thank you for your interest and concern), it appears it’s time for a progress report / update.

I had bloodwork done last week, and got an email from the oncologist on Tuesday advising that my “PSA remains stable .”
So apparently the assumption, based on my numbers, is that the cancer has not significantly metastasized yet, and is still getting its little cellular brain wrapped around the fact that we added Casadex to the mix (I’m also on a schedule of injections of Lupron, which is time-released into my body — how much detail on this stuff do you really want?).

That’s reassuring because I’ve noticed something about myself, and how I’m processing all this. Despite the fact that, as we’ve discussed before, I feel like I’m “in a pretty good place” about the fact we’re working our way through the late innings here, there is a part of me that remains pretty emotionally invested in just how things are going, and is rooting pretty hard at this point for this to take a while to play out.
And, as a result of that, I’m a little “over-vigilant” about relatively subtle shifts in things like when and how I fatigue, my overall pain level — and any new or unexpected spikes in same, along with other new manifestations of aspects of how I am in the world that might be indicative of something.*

At any rate, things remain dandy (all things considered) for now.
Working on some exciting projects with Yoshimi that I don’t have permission to talk about yet, but I think it’s going to be very cool.
We’re still in the process of getting ready for what I’m calling “The Last Great Road Trip” this Fall. At some point I expect I’ll get all self-indulgent and bore you with extensive details of the plans. We’ve been saving up for this since long before I got my diagnosis upgrade last summer. And yes, if you have spare change you’d like to toss in the pot, all support is welcome. Here’s the GoFundMe for that.

One other thing I should make note of, since we’re here talking about prostate cancer. If you’ve been keeping score at home (or, perhaps you actually read the “set up” backgrounder the first time you came here) you know I’ve been living with prostate cancer for 18 years now, and only recently have the medicos finally stood me up against the wall and declared me “advanced,” and therefore a short-timer.
Well, as a result of that I’m always interested in who else is a member of our large, and involuntary “Big C Club.” I count myself lucky, indeed, that I’m able to play the role of Trail Guide from time to time when somebody I know has that initial diagnosis dropped on their head.
No matter who you are, or what the specifics of your diagnosis and prognosis, my observation is that it always seems to rattle us when “The C Word” gets tossed into our lives. It’s a different country out here, and it can be damned helpful to have somebody to hang with, especially early days, who knows the lay of the land a bit.
In that regard, I rode along with a friend and his wife last week to be the “extra set of ears” and, if necessary, advocate at his initial consult with the radiology oncology Doc (he was still in the process of learning about his options and deciding if getting sliced and diced or nuked looked better for him).

A couple cool things happened on that trip. First, while we sat in the waiting room before being called in for our appointment, an old and dear friend and her husband emerged from down the hall. I recognized that “I’m keeping a good front up but my world just imploded and I’m scared as shit” look on her face. As he went to the desk to take care of whatever business was needed with the front office staff she hurried over and asked “what are you doing here?”
I quickly gestured to Ed and replied “I’m just a ride-along buddy today, what’s up with you guys?” This radiology oncology clinic treats all sorts of cancers, not just prostate, so I knew it might be any number of things.
She quickly gave me the bare bones of her husbands situation, which sounds like it’s gonna be no fun, but survivable, and I let her know I’m glad to be available to either or both of ’em to be “that guy” you talk it out with.
It’s such a privilege to be able to offer that unquestioning support. I find these days that the “connectedness” to my fellow humans has become one of the things I’ve come to value the most in this season of my life. So grateful when chances to live out that conviction present themselves.

Now here’s the other interesting thing: This is the same practice where I turned up every freaking morning for two months to get zapped with targeted external beam radiation 18 years ago. And when we were called back for our consult the Doctor looked at me for a minute or two and said “I know you!”
Yup. He swore up and down that, nearly two decades (and god nose how many patients later) he still remembered treating me. Of course, where I go in my head is that “must have been even more of a PITA than I realized” place. But I could see our quick exchange did a lot to boost the comfort and confidence of my friend and his wife, who are still in those early stages when the rational part of your brain is trying to settle down the emotional side, which is seriously freaked out.
So, nice piece of serendipity. Well played, Universe.

One final point about my membership in our huge Involuntary Club. I’m always interested when another New Member arrives at our clubhouse. Thus, I found this video that posted on the internet today of note. Perhaps you will as well.

And that’s about it from here for tonight. As you know, it is not my intention here to wallow in matters medical, but I reckon the occasional update for the interested is a reasonable use of the forum.

Cheers!
_________________
*For instance: I am, at the moment, in the midst of a persistent bout with vertigo. Now that’s something I have never experienced in my life, but which has presented itself several times over the last year or so for periods ranging from a couple hours to a day and a half or so. It’s not a big deal. I Googled a couple times ago when, for the first time, it lingered for more than 24 hours. The consensus from a number of mainstream medical sources was “not to worry — odds are, like 99% that it’s not significant. But the fact that I even bothered to look it up speaks to a level of concern that my body may be betraying me that I’ve never had before.

 

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“Living in the Spaces Between the Music”

Renée LeBallister dancing with Quicksilver Messenger Service (John Cipollina, guitar) at Frost Amphitheater, Stanford University. 26 March 1970 Photographer unknown.

Had the chance Sunday to sit over a long, leisurely coffee with an old and dear friend from my sweet youth. Renée LeBallister, known to many Bay Area concert goers in the late ’60s through the mid ’70s as “Renée the Dancer”, or even just “That Amazing Dancing Lady” was passing through, and made time to get together.

We covered a lot of ground over the course of a two and half hour visit, from the night a grumbling Bill Graham swept the stage for her before a Quicksilver Messenger Service set because Cipollina insisted “she dances or I don’t play” to what it meant for a little lost girl to find her chance to “live in the spaces between the music” and create a way to hold fast and reinvent herself.
I came to know her first when I worked for Chet Helms at his Family Dog venues. She enjoyed a slot on the Permanent Guest List, a unique phenomenon of all Chester’s events and facilities.
The common oral history about San Francisco’s music scene of that time is that Chet Helms “was a horrible businessman” while Graham was the guy who always knew how to make the bottom line run in the black. Which is true, as far as it goes, but doesn’t really tell the whole story.

There are reasons that underlay Bill Graham’s reputation as a tough taskmaster and master negotiator, many of them good and honorable, and I expect I’ll explore them in another post at some point. For now, suffice it to say we did indeed need someone like him to keep the collective ship afloat. And the music scene has held far less texture since his death. Or, as the Jefferson Airplane’s Paul Kantner is said to have observed in conversation outside Graham’s memorial service: “Bill was an asshole, but he was our asshole.”

Ultimately, Chet Helms never really saw himself as a “concert promoter” in the Graham mold. Chester (who was, by the way, a preacher’s kid) always was focused on evangelizing for the transformative possibilities we all believed  were inherent in the counter culture we were collectively engaged in inventing on the fly.
In that context, the Family Dog’s primary task was not to “entertain” or “put on a good show.” It was to provide the space, and the seed elements, to facilitate attendees/participants in creating an environment where unexpected, potentially spiritually uplifting, educational, and just plain ecstatic events might occur.
Chet relied on many tools to nurture that potential experience including immersive light shows, the best music he could book, what passed for state of the art audio systems in those days; all of it fostering an environment that strongly prioritized participation (especially dancing) over spectating.  Really any and every piece he could dream up and toss into the stew that was “a night with the Dog.”
Now this is where the Permanent Guest List comes into play. Because one of the factors that Chet had determined contributed greatly to fostering the  “vibe” he sought to create was seeding the crowd with folks who, in one way or another, added an element to the pageant (could be aural, visual, aromatic — any number of things). And he also looked for people who could function as catalyst, inspiring audience members to get more actively involved (for further reference, check any number of live Grateful Dead recordings in which Bob Weir implores: “Come on everybody, get up and dance. It won’t kill ya!”).

AC with Renée Berg (née: Leballister).
Aptos, CA 18 February 2018
Photo: Luther Berg

All of which, brings me back ’round to Renée. She fit the bill on both counts. Anyone who ever watched her on stage with The Dead, Quicksilver, or a number of other San Francisco bands will tell you, all these decades later, that they still recall her fluid and seamless connection with, and interpretation of, the music. Not to mention her trademark back bends that took  her to an almost horizontal position from the waist up, while continuing to dance and move gracefully in a manner that seemed to defy the laws of physics. It could be a hypnotic, almost other-worldly thing to witness.
And yet, simultaneously, Renée was also able to encourage mere mortals to move their bodies as well. Like many of the musicians of the time her goal, whether she was on stage with a band or down on the floor with the crowd, was to affirm and inspire participation. She got a hell of a lot of people on their feet who, objectively, were whole orders of magnitude less graceful than she but who, nevertheless, had a hell of a good time “shakin’ that thang.”

After we closed the Family Dog on the Great Highway, I worked for Chet’s old partner Bob Cohen, who had a semi-thriving live sound reinforcement business by then, renting PA rigs and crews to bands and clubs as needed through much of the ’70s.
But after a time, Bob grew frustrated when, on a couple live recording jobs, he couldn’t communicate between the truck and crew inside the venue due to the fact there wasn’t an intercom and headset system capable of overcoming the sound pressure levels of live rock concerts. So, trained engineer that he was, Cohen invented his own system because he needed it. It featured sealed headphones so the on-stage and front of house crews could hear, and a noise-canceling mic so our talk back transmissions would be intelligible to him in the recording truck.
That system eventually became the original ClearCom product and Bob soon found himself out of the sound business, keeping his workers busy assembling headsets for sale.*

That was my signal to move on, I transitioned to a series of jobs in clubs and supporting small to mid level bands on gigs. I continued to run into Renée  from time to time at events, but contact was sporadic.

Sometime around 1980 I moved down to Santa Cruz County and lost track of her completely, as I did many folks from my rock ‘n’ roll youth. It’s only been in the last decade or so, with the advent of Facebook, that I’ve reconnected with most friends, colleagues, and fellow cosmic warriors from those days.
And it was just a few years back that one of my dearest friends, still working and known in the circles where it matters as one of the best live sound guys in the Bay Area, told me Renée had relocated to Southern California and gave me her married name(!) so I could track her down.
Thus we got hooked up on The Facebook, did that quick two or three paragraph mini-biography private message thing that you do, and started following each other’s feeds. A couple years ago, she and Luther were passing through the area and stopped by for one of those somewhat stilted “getting to reknow you” visits.
But this trip up (they were in the area to support a daughter who is transferring from their local community college to Cal State Monterey Bay) we really had a chance to “set a spell,” comb back over our mutual inventories of bands, scenes, and and friends (living and dead), and compare notes about how each of us experienced that unique moment in space/time that was the San Francisco Music Scene in the Age of Hippie.

Looking back together from the vantage point of our current late season of life, with some understanding and perspective — and yes, some tender sympathy for those young, damaged kids who were trying to find themselves a better way — was a warm and mellow exercise.
At least for me, in light of my medical prospects, there’s a certain urgency to having these sort of conversations. But I think all of us in our age cohort, regardless of our health status or other factors, are pretty clear at this point that “leaving it for later” really means “it’s unlikely that’s actually going to happen.” We’ve all lost far too many people we love over the past five or ten years as the herd thins and we age out.

So it’s important for us to spend this time with each other when we can. Not just for nostalgia value, though that can certainly be pleasant enough at times. But to compare notes; to check each other’s  recollections; to share experiences and lessons learned.
Just one example: Much as it’s comfortable for me to self-identify as “a good ally,” supportive and always the guy who can be relied upon, it truly is stunning at times to realize the stuff I missed; just completely didn’t see, thanks to my unconscious privilege and sense of entitlement as a cis white male.
Listening to some of Renée’s tales of what she had to endure as a single woman making her way in the very male dominated and macho structure of the music scene of that time was a real education for me. The assumptions that were automatically made about who she was in that world, why she was there and what she ought to be willing to do to secure her place in it were, frankly, appalling.

Like so many of the “flower children,” Renée was working to shake off the scars and traumas of a difficult, abusive upbringing. And some of the coping skills that partially formed kid had come up with to find her place in the world were, ultimately, unhealthy and didn’t serve her well.
But she also had a remarkable talent, the motivation to develop it into a unique and beautiful performance art, and the grace, wit, and intelligence to learn to apply it, finding for herself room to live in the space between the music.
And all of us who saw her dance, danced with her, or had the privilege to share a little time found ourselves and our lives the richer for it.

It was such a delight to hang with you yesterday, Renée. I do hope the universe aligns such that we have the chance to do it again. And if not, I truly treasure the reconnection regardless.

___________
*After a few years, Cohen sold ClearCom to some corporate behemoth, netting enough money to ensure a life of comfortable retirement from that point forward. Sometimes, necessity is indeed a mother.

 

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John Perry Barlow

Word came yesterday that John Perry Barlow’s run is finally complete; the last several years have been a damned rough road for him and, in that sense, I’m grateful to hear he was able to just lay his hammer down and let go in his sleep.

I’ve said a little, and reposted some things over on Facebook. And I’m certainly gratified to see some of the “younger folk,” who know Barlow primarily, if not exclusively, from his terribly important work with the Electronic Frontier Foundation (the internet ecosystem in which we function and thrive today would, in many ways, not exist without the vision and labor of JPB and his cyber-compadres) posting up on the Twitter machine and vowing to continue to carry the fight forward in his memory. Aside: I think that’s so terribly important now. My cohort and I are old, with some hard earned life lessons but without the energy it always has and always will require to carry the fight to the entrenched power.

John Perry Barlow “back when.” Date and photo credit unknown.

But I wanted to take a moment here to recall, and pass along some thoughts he shared a while back.
See, my history with Barlow dates back  to when we were both young and frisky, running wild in and around scenes involving a gang of colorful outlaws that was becoming known, even then, as The Dead Family. I was never a fully pledged member of that brotherhood; I had an instinct for preserving my options and independence that kept me from completely buying in, at any level. But it’s fair to say I had a cordial and respectful “peer to peer working relationship,” if we can even try to characterize stuff that was happening in the 1960s and ’70s with 21st Century terminology.

Whatever you choose to call it, I knew Barlow when we were both playing the role of free-range, hard riding, young blood “neo cowboys.” It was a period when a lot of interesting exploration occurred, fun things happened, dangerous territory was occupied, and mistakes were made.
Some of us have survived. Some didn’t. Most of us who remained learned a lesson or two — some of us more slowly than others.

So, all of this is by way of getting around to sharing with you something Barlow posted up a decade or so ago, when he turned 60. To clarify, the introductory remarks are from that vantage point. They set up a list of, as he characterized them, “Principles of Adult Behavior” that he had first drafted half a lifetime earlier, when he hit the then overly mysticised age of 30. Took me a hell of a lot longer to get my brain lined up with all this (I started out with some damned screwed up ideas about what life is about — had a lot of unlearning to do first in order to make room to get my head screwed on properly). But I am comfortable today saying this reasonably well encapsulates a great deal of what I know.

So long, Barlow. Happy trails, and fair winds.

FINALLY, A LITTLE GIFT FOR US ALL…

I didn’t think I would live to 30 either. I was shocked, shocked I
tell you, to find myself on the eve of my 30th birthday, weirdly
alive. In this, I was quite out of step with most of my friends to
that point, more than half of whom were already back in the sweet realm of infinity and love. Chickenshits. If you’re going to
volunteer in the first place, go right into the Special Forces.

In any event, it occurred to me that, past 30, I could no longer
defend my peccadillos on basis of youth. I would have to acquire some minimal sense of responsibility. While I didn’t want to be a grown-up, I wanted at least to act like one in the less toxic and stultifying sense of the term.

So, I sat down around 2 am on October 3, 1977 and I drew up this list of behavioral goals that I hoped might assist in this process. Now, thirty years later, I can claim some mixed success. Where I’ve failed, I’m still working on it. I give these to you so that you can provide me with encouragement in becoming the person I want to be.
And maybe, though they are very personally targeted, they may even be of some little guidance to you.

Anyway, this is what I wrote that night:

PRINCIPLES OF ADULT BEHAVIOR

1. Be patient. No matter what.
2. Don’t badmouth:
Assign responsibility, never blame.
Say nothing behind another’s back you’d be unwilling to say,
in exactly the same tone and language, to his face.
3. Never assume the motives of others are, to them, less noble
than yours are to you.
4. Expand your sense of the possible.
5. Don’t trouble yourself with matters you truly cannot change.
6. Expect no more of anyone than you yourself can deliver.
7. Tolerate ambiguity.
8. Laugh at yourself frequently.
9. Concern yourself with what is right rather than whom is right.
10. Never forget that, no matter how certain, you might be wrong.
11. Give up blood sports.
12. Remember that your life belongs to others as well. Do not
endanger it frivolously. And never endanger the life of another.
13. Never lie to anyone for any reason.
14. Learn the needs of those around you and respect them.
15. Avoid the pursuit of happiness. Seek to define your mission
and pursue that.
16. Reduce your use of the first personal pronoun.
17. Praise at least as often as you disparage.
18. Never let your errors pass without admission.
19. Become less suspicious of joy.
20. Understand humility.
21. Forgive.
22. Foster dignity.
23. Live memorably.
24. Love yourself.
25. Endure.

I don’t expect the perfect attainment of these principles. However, I post them as a standard for my conduct as an adult. Should any of my friends or colleagues catch me violating any one of them, bust me.

John
Perry Barlow

October 3, 1977

Hold me to these please.

And thank you so much for all the love you’ve given me, despite all of my efforts to resist it.

May the Good Light shine on you,

The Ancient Barlow

—
**************************************************************
John Perry Barlow, Peripheral Visionary
Co-Founder & Vice Chairman, Electronic Frontier Foundation
Berkman Fellow, Harvard Law School

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