HI-REZ *** numero UNO *** Electronic Journal for CyberBeatniks ==================================================>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> !! \____/ \____/ !! !! / H \ / \ !! !! \____/ \____/ !! !! / \ / \ !! !! \____/ \____/ \____/ !! !! / I \ / \ / E \ !! !! \____/ \____/ \____/ !! !! / \ / \ / \ !! !! \____/ \____/ \____/ !! !! / \ / R \ / \ !! !! \____/ \____/ \____/ !! !! / \ / \ / \ !! !! \____/ \____/ !! !! / \ / Z \ !! !! \____/ \____/ !! !! / \ / \ !! =================================================>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> "glittering jewels on the Web..." BECOME CHROMIUM STALLIONS ON A SWEEPING SILICONE BEACH AS TECHNICIANS OF ECSTASY COMPUTE GREAT FOAM FLECKED PURPLE AND GREEN WAVES. FLIGHTS OF STEEL WINGED INSECTS FLOOD FROM THE OPENING OF THE WAVE'S CURLING TUBE. "OJO DE DIOS" BABY. @@@@@@ @@@@@@ @@@@@@ @@@@@@ @@@@ @@@@ @@@@@@ @@@@@@ @@@@ @@@@ @@@@@@@@@@ @@@@@@ @@@@ @@@ @@@@ @@@ @@@@@@@@@@ @@@@@@ @@@@ @@@ @@@@ @@@ @@@@@@@@@@ @@@ @@@@@@ @@ @ @@@ @@ @@@ @@@@ @@@ @@ @ @@ @ @@ @ @@ @@ @ @ @@ @ @ @@ @@@ @@ @ @ @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ @@@@@ _____________________/___________________\_______________________ / \ ___________________/_______________________\_____________________ / \ / \ / \ _______________/_______________________________\_________________ DIRECTORY OF THIS TRANSMISSION By using search commands for the number leading each item below, for example, "<1>" , your word processor will take you right to the beginning of that item. All data formatted for 12 point Courier. <1> "We are the cyber-beatniks...the DANGEROUS NEW ARTISTS..... the T E C H N I C I A N S O F E C S T A S Y" "A Cyber-Beat Manifesto" : the editor's thorazine wears off and now we all have hell to pay! <2> "Now is the time for human communication to really take off...to take wing, camouflage itself in digital anonymity, and like a thief in the rendering time of night, to pump Promethean belly-laughs, and kind-hearted provocations out and over the global electronic nervous system!" "'N I E T Z S C H E O N ACID INDEED!': MELT-O-RAMA!!!!!!!" Ravings from _HI-REZ_'s favorite utensil-being, Mark "Spoonman" Petrakis, on theater, art, technology and "major crazy dreaming turbo-funk absurdity." YEAH! <3> "I HIT THE PANIC BUTTON ON MY WRISTSET BUT THERE WAS NO RESPONSE, JUST THE TIME IN ARABIC NUMERALS. NO NET, NO HELP. NO TRANSIT, NO ESCAPE. A LUMP ROSE UP IN MY THROAT AND I SCREAMED. THE SOUND ECHOED AGAINST THE METAL WALLS AND SUCKED AWAY DOWN THE TWISTED CORRIDORS, LEAVING ME ALONE WITH MY TERROR." "Contract for Music". DARK VISIONS from author Lynn Hansen who describes himself: "I'm an artist trapped in the body of a technician. My stories are screams for those who have ears. I live in the San Francisco Bay Area in an industrial complex called Hayward...Last I checked I could look at myself in the mirror ." <4> "a feeling of warmth on my eyelids woke me. i was naked, laying face-up on the hood of my car." "Desert Song." The latest e-mail from John Eagle Feather, the quintessential Cyber-Beat. We receive John's sporadic text transmissions via his laptop PC's modem - plugged into phone lines in greasy motel rooms and acoustically coupled to greasy black receivers in phone booths on windblown interstates as he criss crosses the country in a white 1963 Coupe de Ville searching for THE ULTIMATE. <5> "I WATCHED THESE LEOPARD-SKIN SPANDEX CHILDREN WORKING THEIR MAGIC ON THESE GOGGLE-EYED, ZIT-FACED BOYS AND IT BECAME PERFECTLY CLEAR TO ME WHY THE STAGE HAD A CHAIN LINK FENCE AS A PROP..." "A Broken Angel Sings From a Guitar" - Conversations with "Grateful Dead Hour" producer David Gans on his radio work, writing, music, and The WELL. <6> "The question I have never dared ask is whether our fathers thought we were too intelligent to be forced to waste effort on ourselves, or whether they thought we were TOO STUPID to manage it." "The Dignity of Labor"; fiction by Paul Beard. Paul is a talented writer who lives in Georgia. A self-employed freelance communications consultant/DTP artist, he is also a parttime MIS tech supporting a division of AT&T. Paul was editor of the now defunct _Resurgens_ literary magazine. <7> "AS HE SPOKE, I WAS PULLED INTO HIS EYES, A PORTAL TO THE DAYS OF HARMONY, PLENTY AND HAPPINESS." "Through the Eyes of An Elder"; An earth prayer/vision shared with us by Morning Dove. Morning Dove (also known as Sue Heberding) is a Cherokee-Choctaw craftsperson and writer living in Uncasville, Connecticut. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= _HI-REZ_ maintains virtual office space on The Whole Earth 'Lectronic Link (WELL). Located in a rundown cyber-loft on the unfashionable but starkly alive part of town, address: stormy@well.sf.ca.us We are ready to accept your unusual feature stories, poetry, short stories, ASCII art, and....? Send queries to the Editor at above E-mail address. _HI-REZ_ T-shirt available as barter for accepted material. Other requests for this "first on your block-suitable for framing" T-shirt can be made via e-mail. The Mac version of _HI-REZ_, with full graphix, QuickTime video and soundfiles is "coming soon"... ############################################### # THANKS.... # # to my friends and colleagues-in-mayhem on # # the WELL and my brother Russ for helping # # me learn enough about distribution via the # # shimmering web of networks to be DANGEROUS. # # This first "get it off the ground issue" # # would not have been possible without them. # # Also, to David Gans and Mark Petrakis for # # collaborations that gave the form substance.# ############################################### Member: TEN (Technicians of Ecstasy Net) \+/ /-\ <1> A CYBER-BEAT MANIFESTO we BURN in sticky floored 2 in the morning all night coffee houses ripe with APOCALYPTIC VISIONS and we rave at dawn in crumbling 1700's farmhouses. we sizzle along the asphalt veins lacing the skin of the nation together in white high-finned cadillacs driven by madmen. we modulate the very aether itself with ecstatic rf emanations from beat loft radio studios. We are the cyber-beatniks...the DANGEROUS NEW ARTISTS..... the T E C H N I C I A N S O F E C S T A S Y and we are all ENMESHED IN THE NET stuck together by the sweet and sticky text characters that form the dimensional glue of this here cyberspace......... we do not FIT the stereotypes and posings of pop subcultures: we are the cyber-beatniks and we are ALONE in our art theater magic alchemy yet we are TOGETHER here A loose fuzzy grouping of mad artists and eccentrics who choose to SURF THE GREAT THUNDERING ROLLING TUBES OF AWESOME TECHNOLOGY rather than be consumed by the "post-apocalyptic angst" of it . A group of vision-seeking edge dwellers who are equally capable of activating deep woods ancient genetic codices with shaman rattle and drum!! we are the cyber-beatniks...CYBER-BEATS! and _HI-REZ_ is a journal for us of ideas, lives....... VISIONS.... =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= <2> "N I E T S C H E ON A C I D, I N D E E D ! ": M E L T - O - R A M A !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHAT IS THE COBRA LOUNGE? WHAT IS THE ANON SALON? WHO IS SPOONMAN? The setting is a Burmese rainforest, early morning, just beginning to get steamy. Lots of tropical bird noises: no, waitaminit! kill the bird effects! Bring up a sample of an office water cooler, that sound of large bubbles bursting in water. Muuuch better. Visualize me as.. Clark Kent in a blue double breasted suit (with matching handkerchief) sitting on a log. The humidity causes me to stop often to wipe my steel-rimmed glasses with the handkerchief. I have a steno pad on my lap and earnestly copy your every thought, every nuance. You are SPOONMAN! leaning casually upon the gnarled twistiness of some Banyan roots. I begin in an earnest Clark Kent voice: "This story is meant to be an exploration of both your philosophy of multi-media melt-o-rama performance theater as well as a history/explanation of what some of your projects are, like Cobra Lounge and Anon Salon." < bllluurrpp..gurgle> a large bubble splashes in an office cooler. Clark Kent begins again: WHAT IS THE COBRA LOUNGE? WHAT IS THE ANON SALON? WHO IS SPOONMAN? Life on the Water, Cobra Lounge Melt-O-Media, and New Music Theatre present two weekends of new media performance. WEEK ONE: Friday March 12 and Saturday March 13/ 8:30PM/ $15 COBRA LOUNGE - "SpoonFest/BetaTest" An Electronic Vaudeville & Celebration of Public Magic featuring the talents of: Mark "Spoonman" Petrakis Cintra Wilson/ Cobra Woman Richard Marriott/ Clubfoot Quartet Stephen Kent/ Didgeridoo Wayne Doba/ BodySynth Tap-Dance Ed Tannenbaum/ Pons Maar/ Interactive Video/ Movement Chico McMurtrie/ Robotics Brenda Laurel/ Impersonations Howard Rheingold/ Body Double pARTy/SCIENCE/ Event Design and special guest Dana Atchley/ Video Storyteller WEEK TWO: Friday March 19 and Saturday March 20/ 8:30PM/ $12/$10 NEW MUSIC THEATRE - "Zero-In-Time" Cutting-edge Computer/ Music Composition 3/19: Bob Ostertag and Donald Swearingen 3/20: Alvin Curran and Chris Brown All shows at: Life on the Water Fort Mason, Bldg. B San Francisco <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<--------------------->>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> "Theatre is a metaphor for deliverance and transformation. It is the experience behind that metaphor that we seek when we enter the zone of "Public Magic". We haven't come for an informational experience. It is not a conversational nor an athletic experience that we want. What we seek in the theatre is the power to be entranced and entertained, and for a brief moment to be united as a group with a singular vision; that is at once being revealed to each member of the group in a private and personal way. "If YOU were to take up the theatrical metaphor; what would be your recipe for "Public Magic"? How would you structure your dream theatre, your vaudeville house, your Cobra Lounge? "The issues of combining multimedia and performance become increasingly relevant as accessibility to equipment falls into the range of experimental theater budgets. The artistic incorporation of new technologies will have a profound effect upon what happens in three-dimensional "theatrical" space. To a great degree, this is what we have set out to explore with this next generation of Cobra Lounge. In addition to a broad roster of musicians, performers, and designers; many of whom are computer-based, we will be incorporating on the fly video and processed playback, digital sound processing, 3-D graphics and multi-image." =+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= WHAT IS THE COBRA LOUNGE? WHAT IS THE ANON SALON? WHO IS SPOONMAN? ANON SALON comin' round again. This Friday night the 28th from 9pm to 2am. 285 9th Street, above Limbo Restaurant at Folsom This week we have: Hellcab: a soon to be released CD-ROM Avant Opera by Big Skin Paintings by Michael Knowlton Monologue by Josh Kornbluth Didgeridoo played by Stephen Kent Synapse Prods./ Multi-Image Immersion Video by Theatre Concrete Songs by Julie Queen Neon Sculpture by Vince Koloski Monlogue and Red Beans and Rice by Anne Galjour (Currently appearing at Climate) Anon Salon provides social stimulation, intelligent flirtations, and a variety of interactive art forms in a gallery rent party setting. /\ \/ /\ \/ /\ \/ ['>' = alternate voice] SPOONMAN, the BIG DIPPER OF ENTERTAINMENT, man. On the page, or on the screen, these are the first words you read... "Now is the time for human communication to really take off...to take wing, to camouflage itself in digital anonymity, and like a thief in the rendering time of night, to pump Promethean belly-laughs, and kind-hearted provocations out and over the global electronic nervous system!" As you repeat the words, to grab hold of their particular cadence, you hear another voice besides your own; coming towards you in a deep and deliberate manner. What you finally make out is a long and rhythmically steady sung note from the direction of a cloud of fog that emerges from the deep centerpoint of your shadow-bound sight. Suddenly, you see "Spoonman" appear through the fog. There are flickering lights around him, reflected off of the glistening fruit hanging from olive and banyan trees that appear for only a moment and then vanish. He is dressed in a large orange blanket and wears a ridiculously tall crocheted hat. Cereal boxes and spoons hang from his blanket. Over his left eye, an eyepatch; on his upper lip, a charcoal drawn pencil-thin moustache. He carries a 6 foot tall wooden spoon, carved with a chainsaw from a solid piece of wood. We watch as he approaches the interviewer and with his solitary eye opened wide, stares through the hapless journalist and directly through to you, the reader, sitting as you are, at some distance from his pulsing and bloodshot eye. SPOONMAN: In early species, point was to poke around with fingers inside skull of the dead. Thus was conversation born. Today, we no longer need to poke with fingers, now we can poke with words, but still purpose is the same; to discover truths and secrets of essential metaphysical substances that pour from those places of hidden beauty. > First, he was a puppet character, all full of steaming yogurt, a native of the Ural Mountains, who spoke a fractured tongue. Men and women of the world, do not underestimate the power and destiny of these substances. From in them we find reflected the best of our lives, the best of our loves, the best of our dreams. > In the Cobra, he found his missing half, spoon-like too but fluid, and unknowable, just like love and desire. Your instructions now are not to waver, but to stay right on the line, holding up your tool, your vessel, to receive your portion of the essence and pass it along. > Totally overblown, the whole thing was ludicrous, just like the world. Spoonman's vessel, Spoonman's tool, is the spoon. What's your tool, fool? > Cobra Lounge was a tribal gathering, of those twisted by unusual urges. Once a year, twice, maybe three times, five minutes each. Ah Show. \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\ \\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\\\ \\ Each night when Spoonman lays down his spoon, and goes to sleep, he awakens into land of fabulous entertainments. Here he has fashioned himself a miniature nightclub, big enough for many, small enough for one. The stage itself balances on the rippling back of a titanic and sensuous snake, who in those intermittent moments of Spoonman's dreamlessness, rises up and assumes control of show. This one is "Cobra Woman"; consort, respected arch-nemesis, and official co-host of COBRA LOUNGE. > The context to place unmappable occurrences inside one arena. Filled with music, and slides, and unspoken assumptions; totally pleasure-driven. COBRA LOUNGE is Spoonman's most slippery dream, and Cobra Woman is the testy material from which Spoonman must fashion the illusion of reality that will best suit her manner, and cause her to subdue for a time her wild and lethal walk. He is to her as those pompous and pointy little egyptian bricks are to the vast Sahara. Their fate is to always be seen together, but never to be united; not until the end of time. > Some people figure since Spoonman and Cobra Woman always host Cobra Lounge together, and that since she is slinky blonde doll-face and he is ethnic beer-guzzling gopher brain, that maybe they share the same bed. Banish the thought! So together they preside, Spoonman and Cobra Woman, pompously and libelously, astride the grand tent of the COBRA LOUNGE, pitched as it is somewhere out there in the dark, just off the night-time edge of information space. And wherever these two choose to go, moments of interest follow them; right 'round the corner, down that cyber-alley there, up those stairs, and into the dark and digitally-deluxe, of course, electronic vaudeville of Spoonman's dreams, where the show is just about to begin. Grab a seat and make yourself ready. Something real "tasty" is on the verge of happening sometime real soon, or should I say real... "spoon". > There is funny little rumor going round, that art exists outside of imagination. I don't think so. Rather it is here, inside boney tent of physical circus that impulse for art exists, Art, that is built from rawest of materials, out of fear for survival, and out of desire to escape from solitude. So now, what is our excuse, huh? You look at me and wonder... (Whew! Spoonman.) I look at you and I think... What do you want? Whatever it is... You go ahead! Do it! / Now is the time. Meanwhile, he is barreling his way to your electronic neighborhood, and just in case you get the urge to try and stop him, let me warn you, that there are plenty more Comic Barbarians where he came from, and if you can't stop him, don't count on stopping them either. Because they will not be stopped, not until they have eaten their fill of information space, and established their beachheads on the shores of nothingness. ----------------------------------------------- This prophetic and ridiculously self-inflated rant has been brought to you by The Spooniversal Citizens' Committee for More Prophetic and Ridiculously Self-Inflated Rants. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Get Crazy! Brothers and Sisters, the war of the past is over. The fate of the future is in our hands. In the name of love and high-risk, PROCEED! +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ WHAT IS THE COBRA LOUNGE? WHAT IS THE ANON SALON? WHO IS SPOONMAN? * * * * * * * ANON SALON: * * * Without the spoontaneous theatrics, * but still the same sense of show. A gallery / a party/ * a schmoozefest died and gone to heaven. A mostly monthly salon for the interactively ambitious. * * * * * * * * * * SPOONMAN: " Now some of you know. Now some of you get picture. Now you see that picture is what is inside of you, brought before big mirror of Cobra Lounge. Spoonman is energy center all right. Spoonman is major crazy dreaming turbo-funk absurdity. Like pied piper of old, he is come for the children, and none of you non-fictional saps is going to stop him. If Petrakis could not stop him, what makes you think you can? He will deconstruct your coagulated sensibilities, on the spot. He will scrape your stuck animal parts from the blackened grill of human desire. Why wallow in wishful thinking, he will say, when you can burn in clear heat? He will challenge you to disagree. Why retreat to solitude, he will say, when you can emerge in sunny independence to a great gathering of compassionate souls? Go ahead, disagree. Be my guest. Time has come. Colonization has begun. SpyderSpace engulfs us inside vast oceans of possibility. Now is time to erect great digital totem/telephone pole, and around it to dance our communal dance. Now is time to set forth polished and unpolished gems of thought, sweat, and generosity; so that all may see, and think and feel, who and what we are. Then will debate begin in earnest; the right way to live, to work, to love. We must be an example unto ourselves of the life we would expound to others. Now is not time to bobble the ball. Dense and greedy forces are gaining on us every day. We must keep a step ahead. That is our only advantage; our speed. We must downshift now, and swing by the homestead to pick up our tools and weapons; the rakes, the brushes, the spoons. We must gather, and define, and serve up a melt-o-brew that will leave the disbelievers slack-jawed. We must move forward, and in so doing, dissolve our solitude in great swirls of melt-o-pleasure. Only then, will we be sure of our commitment to this journey upon which we now embark. SnakeTrain leaving on Track Number One. All aboard!" WHAT IS THE COBRA LOUNGE? WHAT IS THE ANON SALON? WHO IS SPOONMAN? The tropical sun is high now... a time of day when the jungle life hides to avoid the severe midday heat. It is time to conclude this virtual interview. As Clark Kent, I thank you effusively for this material which will NO DOUBT 'wow' them at_The Daily Planet_. I turn & step into a nearby phone booth.... all visuals collapse into a melting wax flow leaving black..just black... all that can be heard is the sound of an office cooler bubbling WHAT IS THE COBRA LOUNGE? WHAT IS THE ANON SALON? WHO IS SPOONMAN? For more information or to be put on an informational e-mail-list contact spoon@well.sf.ca.us. WHAT IS THE COBRA LOUNGE? WHAT IS THE ANON SALON? WHO IS SPOONMAN? <3> ************************************* * CONTRACT: Delilah Courtney * * * * CONDITIONS: Termination * * * * TERMS: 100K Credit * * * * GUARANTOR: AXXIS PowerCo * ************************************* There it was on my terminal. Ordinarily I wouldn't have taken the job. Murder is not my forte. I'm strictly software. But Dici was a friend of mine, and if there was a contract on her, I was going to take it. I didn't think anyone else would be likely to do the job right. Besides, I was horny. The little routine I'd downloaded for my pleasuredrome had hurt me, and then the damn thing had sat there humming pleasantly to itself, washing all the blood away and packing itself up for next time. I hadn't touched it since. Well, not after I'd hurt my foot kicking it. So I really did want to see Dici. Now I know what you're thinking. Well maybe I am curly for wanting to pleasure with another customer, but at least she wouldn't do me like my drome had. I called her on the vox line. Vox, power and video hardwire were all she had. Poor lamb. I couldn't have handled interdiction as well as she did. Just like old time prison but so much more effective. Solitary. She clicked on, "Moshe moshe." "Moshe moshe," I answered. "Dici! We haven't talked in a long time. The huds treating you good?" "As well as can be expected, Lyal. Haven't heard from you for seasons, you old sheep. What brings you to call me?" I avoided looking over at the contract on my terminal. "Your wit, charm, and unusual personal habits, lamb." I heard a suppressed giggle from the other end. "You downloaded a copy of 'REDSONYA.LUV' I'll bet." "How'd you know? I didn't tell anyone." "Been all over the vid, sheepy. Makes your pleasuredrome delimit. You didn't get hurt bad, did you? Some customers died from that one..." "Hssst," I cautioned, "you trying to get me cut off? Don't slam the company." So it was on the vid? That bit of software was worse than I thought. If they ever caught the wolf that created that little gem, he'd be interdicted for life. "Sorry, sheeps," she said. "So when you going to sneak over? I do have an itch you could help me with." "How about primetime?" "Okay sheeps, but you better hurry. You know Transit shuts the walks down during primetime, so you only have about one seg." I looked at my wristset. Nihon Import Seg was almost over. I could just make it. "Be right there. Buy numbah one!" "See you, Lyal," she said softly, and then logged off. I grabbed my privsuit and helmet before I went out. I was a good customer and always dressed for the occasion. I lived on a main service corridor of the power complex so the walk ran by with its oily rumble just outside my door. I had to pay extra for my condo, but since I also got clean air and trunk computerm service, it was worth it. Dici had lived in hudtown ever since she got interdicted. She had slammed and the company had slammed back, and now the huds slammed her every day. The company serves the customer, but with the Department of Housing and Urban Development, you get treated like some sort of low life citizen. Dici would be happier dead. I saluted the camera as I got off the walk. Don't annoy the fuzz. This was a bad part of the complex, customers walking around during primetime, some not even wearing privgear. I walked quicker. "Hey citizen!" I don't take lightly to being insulted. I'm a customer. I pay my own way. I spun and faced the customer angrily. Holy yen, she wasn't even wearing clothes, let alone privs. She laughed. I saw broken teeth. I'm a tough sheep but I'm not ashamed to say I was terrified. I ran to the walk but it had stopped moving. It was primetime. All good customers were supposed to be watching the vid, so there was no need for transit. I hit the panic button on my wristset but there was no response, just the time in Arabic numerals. No net, no help. No transit, no escape. A lump rose up in my throat and I screamed. The sound echoed against the metal walls and sucked away down the twisted corridors, leaving me alone with my terror. Two customers in gray privs were suddenly there and they took me to Dici's condo. I just went with them. I couldn't think. I cried and Dici held me. She's almost 20 cems shorter than my 180 cem height, slender, 30 kilos lighter, but as I clung to her, captured in her tender grasp, she filled my horizon. I floated on a sea of calm, her heart beating, her long dark hair in cascades over us protecting me. "There there," she said. "There there, what happened Lyal? Why are you so frightened?" "There was a citizen," I said, "no privs, no teeth, and she jumped up and tried to catch me." "There there." She rocked me back and forth, back and forth. We made love. That's what she called it. It wasn't like droming at all; the drome doesn't enjoy you back really, and you can tell. It took longer too, and I felt peaceful and warm after. And I really don't want to talk about it. Dici had a piano. Pianos are realtime, not programmable, and not even analog. They have moving parts inside that actually make music right out loud like a boombox sort of, but no speaker. No matter. If you've never heard of one I sure the buck won't be able to describe it to you. Anyway, she sat in front of it and started doing on it, and out came music, music like making love. I wish I could talk about it, but I don't have words. You could hear Dici in the music. Oh the buck with it. I told you I couldn't describe it. "Do you like it?" she asked me when she was done. "Oh Dici. It's beautiful." "It's mine. I wrote it." I think I looked a little shocked. I certainly felt that way. "Didn't you get that from the net? Where did you get it from?" "Like I told you, it's mine. I made it up. I didn't use anything but the piano." "I don't know. I don't think so. Besides, one little part sounds like Telepower's fanfare, so I'm pretty sure Axxis won't permit it." Suddenly I remembered the contract. I knew the why of it now. "Dici lamb, I came here for a reason." She smiled and came over to me, sitting down facing me straddling my lap. She smelled good. "No, Dici, there's another reason. I have to terminate you." She looked at me another way then, still smiling but seeming tired and old. "Have you ever terminated anyone before?" "No," I said, "but it's okay. I.." "It's harder than you think. You don't just tap someone and they die. You have to hit them for all the gelt you're worth." I thought about that. I'd never seen a dead customer. "Lyal, I tried to kill myself once. More than once. I butted the wall as hard as I could with my head. I dromed with the feedback unhooked for most of a day. I didn't really hurt myself even then. But now you're supposed to kill me dead dead dead." She shook her head. "Do you even know how?" "Maybe I could hit you against the wall, Dici. I could do it harder than when you tried." She looked at me, her eyes moist. "Lyal, why do they hate me? Do you hate me too?" she asked miserably. I tried to shake my head but I couldn't move. I held her tightly, my heart pounding, my eyes closed, my hearing filled with her crying. She held me and cried and cried. Then she just shivered against me. She felt so cold. Finally she stood up before me, looking beautiful, small and so very lost. We had to make death together. So long ago she had taught me to make love. Her music sang inside me. "Okay Lyal, I'm ready." She bit her lip. "Oh, I'm scared." "Me too Dici. You help me, please?" I felt I was too weak. I couldn't do it unless she helped me. She stood about 20 cems from the wall. She tried to look brave. I wiped the tear streaks from her face. She smiled. Then I took her jaw in my hand and forced her head backwards against the wall, hard. The brave look on her face turned vacant and she slid down to a seated position on the floor. Her breasts rose and fell rhythmically. I banged her head against the wall again, much harder. There was blood. She was still breathing, a little sighing sound. I didn't know what to do. She wasn't dying like she was supposed to. I yelled in helpless rage and frustration. Maybe if I hit the other side of her head. I struggled her limp body around, and grasping her hair, drove her face into the wall with all my might. There was a sickening crack and more blood out of her nose and mouth. Her beautiful angelic face was all ruined. Still she breathed, lying there on the floor, her face against the wall. I cursed my eyes, tore at my face. The pain was unbearable. Still I had to do it. I had no choice. I had to hit her with something. I picked up my priv helmet and looked at it. The fouth amendment compliance seal was torn. I was putting off the inevitable. Closing my eyes, I swung at her head with the helmet. It hit with a solid thwack and split in half. I don't know how I finally killed her. I'm not absolutely sure I did kill her. My eyes burned and I couldn't see what I was doing. My voice was choking like a broken machine. I sat down and held poor Dici, rocking her back and forth, trying to sing her music to her. Some huds in gray privsuits came and took me home. They gave me something to stop me from crying. Then I was alone. There was an investigation but I wasn't involved in it directly. I had fulfilled my contract and so my account was incremented per the terms. It seems a certain Delilah Courtney SVP010114 had suffered a rare but fatal industrial accident: case closed. That was four seasons ago. I still hack, but I haven't been doing any work for pay. I wrote a virus that substitutes a DC character for any occurance of the credit character. It got in so deep that they can't dig it out. They've started calling credits Dicis now. They've also begun censoring my code. First step towards interdiction. I go for walks without my privgear. The bucks with Axxis PowerCo's constitutional liability. And Dici's illegal music keeps running around in my head. It's so strange when you think about it. How can they make a certain kind of music illegal? <4> D E S E R T S O N G /\ / \ ___ _/\/ \ /\ __/ \_______/ \_______+_____+______/ \_____/\_____ From [DELETED-ed.] Fri May 30 11:08:00 1993 Received: by well.sf.ca.us (4.12/4.7) id AA06250; Fri, 30 May 93 11:07:57 pdt Date: Fri, 30 May 93 11:07:57 pdt From: [DELETED-ed.] (John Eagle Feather) Message-Id: <9107121807.AA06250@well.sf.ca.us> To: stormy Subject: A Desert Song Status: RO hey brother. uploading this to 'ya from a phonebooth on I-10 in New Mexico...just nw of las cruces. been a heavy 24 hours... needed to write this all out and figured that you'd want to know. got out of LA at 11pm this last tuesday.. freshly laid and with a wallet bulging with bucks. the speedo of the Cad was hard over at one two oh and she had an iron grip on the road. the desert sky was an inverted crystalline carpet of stars, planets and galaxies slowly dripping its way across my windshield. inside, i was bathing in the very music of the road: the ripping, windows down, airsteam roar of one two oh mph - great crumpling crackles of trucker jive on channel 19 - Miles Davis' "Bitches Brew" wailing on the speakers - the banshee screams of the big trucks winding up and jockeying for position in the intense I-10 truck traffic. it was a good night to be alive. made good time i tell ya...before i knew it i was slurping nuclear coffee in the mean-squinting late morning light of lordsburg, en emm. lordsburg-just one long fucking strip of oil soaked gravel- big oversized garages for every service a truck might need. truckstops, women and dope for every service the drivers might need. the sound of long distance hauls roaring in and out was a constant staccato roar but this break gave me time to sort through the bits of paper and napkin stuffed in various pockets about my body. these bits represented the accumulated knowledge of a week in LA of what is....NEXT. of where the energy on the continent will be pulsing...spiking out...where i needed to go from there. the pocket-blurred ink on the crumpled scraps was pointing me back East...back to new york, new jersey, new england....the land of the I-95. pushing me back across the nation to a feverish nonstop month of grateful dead shows, poetry jams in boston and NYC, indian pow wows, and a drop off of my latest goodies to my demented editor [sic-ed.] in CT. and then that one cryptic piece of e-mail I copped off our private bbs conf. it was from R___________, a Mescalero Apache brother i had met a few times before. i don't remember giving him the knowledge to access this conf. i don't know how he knew i would be crossing eastbound when i was. he's like that. a brother with strong medicine. his message consisted of a date and driving instructions, nothing more. that's why i was on 10 instead of 80. the date was today's. i knew there was...significance...waiting..... by nightfall i had slunk on 70 past the desert-ominous government weirdness of alamagordo. all the weirdness of the world is hidden out here on the western deserts. each silvery heat chimera in the distance a secret government facility or ufo-port or group of strange-eyed bikers burned chestnut brown against frayed levis and leather. the familiar feel of the Apache reservation was a lot more comforting...THIS dark strangeness illuminated by highbeams was in my blood... although i am half-Lakota as i have told you, when you journey into any land of your aunts & uncles, friends & relations... you can be home. just outside mescalero, i cut off the pavement as per the instructions and began to wind my way up into the mountains on a well-rutted road. a few miles in, i began to think that the road was impassable to my low-slung cad and pulled over onto a turnaround to contemplate my next move. once i shut the motor off, ending the interminable crunch of gravel on tire, the silence descended like a great muffling curtain. as the dust from my passage slowly drained from the sky once again revealing the stars, a figure loomed out of the night. it was R________ . "A-ho, brother." "A-ho." i followed him on an upward winding trail, at a brisk pace. we made no sound as we climbed up toward the stars that were fading into dawn. it was several hours later that we emerged onto a broad plateau near Black Mountain. the early morning light revealed 2 small, canvas covered lodges and 5 people squatting around a fire drinking coffee. before i could approach any closer to this group, R___________ stopped me with an outstretched arm. "this is a sacred place, above all others." with those words, he produced a small knotted smudge stick of sage grass from under his jacket and lit it afire with the easy, unconcious flourish of a lifelong medicine man. an Eagle Feather appeared in his other hand - with it he gently fanned the sage smoke up and down my body. i used my hands to pull the cleansing wisps around me like a blanket, reveling in its strong earth scent. that done, we turned and approached the dark-skinned men hunched around the fire. they spoke softly in a language i did not know, their strange words punctuated by wide friendly grins and a bobbing of heads. Although i had known R____________ spoke his native Apache dialect fluently, i quickly discovered that he could also speak effortlessly with these men in their strange tongue (i was to find out later that that evening that this language was the ancient Anasazi dialect-now spoken exclusively and secretively only among a small group of Shamen. in fact, these other men were all shamen who had journeyed here from deep within the mountains of northern mexico). no introduction appeared necessary as they seemed to know who i was...to be expecting me, in fact... we sat quietly and silently about the fire for some time, sipping the extremely strong and heavily sugared coffee, enjoying the warmth of morning sun. as the sun hit its zenith for the day though, it was time to begin. it seemed we would start with inipi, the ceremony of the sweatlodge; the great cleansing undertaken before any other ritual of import. stripping down, all but one of us entered the man-high rounded inipiti in a sacred manner, observing all the proper ritual behaviors as we filed in and assumed our seats around the pit. the fifth man came in and deposited limestone rocks hot from the campfire into the pit, using an antler tool. The steam seemed to explode from within the rocks themselves as he then ladled cold water onto them. he departed, closing the canvas flap behind him. the extremely dim light within the inipiti was suddenly illuminated by R___________ lighting a pipe. we passed the sacred pipestone bowl of canshasha around the circle in a sacred manner, each of us speaking in turn in our own native language what was in our hearts. Time passed... measured only by the 4 brief openings of the flap to bring in more hot rocks, more cool water. when we did finally emerge from the small willow-framed lodge, the sun was low on the horizon, casting long long shadows across the small plateau. we casually dressed in the dimming light. at that moment, i felt totally at ease with R___________ and the others. by sharing the pipe with my native brothers, we had confirmed the bond that blood always promises but rarely delivers. i also felt cleansed, relaxed...yet alert and spiritually energised. the power of the sweat. it was time to begin what we all really were here for.... now i knew that R___________ was a peyote roadman loosely affiliated with the Native American Church, one who was greatly respected by the people of many tribes. so what followed next was not totally unexpected. using Grandfather Peyote as a means of seeking a vision emanates from the southwest, indeed it came up from the Aztecs long, long ago. it was not one of the old, known traditions of my own plains ancestors, yet oddly enough our word for "medicine" is "pejuta". in the second lodge, squatting and sitting on a dirt floor covered with sage, we began... i took much of the medicine that was passed around the circle many times that evening. the one who was named Crow began tapping on a small hand drum. his beat seemed to match my pulse almost perfectly...i focussed in on it....the heart moving to the beat is itself the dance of life...the drum beat drives the dance of life...the gourd rattle is the blood pulsing crazily through veins and arteries... my head felt increasingly heavy and i noted that my vision seemed to have taken on a greater depth....that i could see around the veins in my hand now instead of just looking at the surface. Looking at Crow playing the drum, i could see right through his sparkling eyes......right into his spirit. this Crow spirit was laughing...beckoning me on. R__________ began a Peyote Song that sent such a powerful chill up my spine, i actually fell over. he sang an eagle song to the drumming...an eerie high pitched scream that WAS the cry of an eagle...proud and aggressive. the song grew more intense as R_____________ began sweeping an Eagle Feather fan around where I lay watching him. he actually seemed to resemble an Eagle with those feathers. his eyes had become those of the great winged Eagle that is my spirit brother...great yellow orbs filled with wisdom and a dangerous, thrilling power. as the Eagle cried its spirit song to us i looked again to where Crow was drumming...a shiny black Crow was there, whose deep black eyes now seemed to be issuing a challenge to me... daring me... testing me...this was not a time to be weak. i had an uneasy feeling he might kill me. at this moment a feeling took hold of that is not easy to describe, it was as if everything happening at that moment was a key and i was the lock...i felt the very DNA in my blood boil as if suddenly ACTIVATED for the first time in my life.. a great crescendo Eagle scream erupted from my mouth and i spread my wing-arms wide while standing up quickly. Crow seemed to shrink in size at this , the challenge gone from his eyes... replaced by one of... ancient wisdom...pride... there was no time to dwell on this as the lodges's canvas walls fell away from around us, revealing an ancient sky with unfamiliar constellations. i screamed and screamed my proud Eagle song. with each skreeeeeee!!!! raw adrenaline jolts of primordial freedom, knowledge, and danger flooded my emotions. i turned and, with the others, rose to meet the stars! they flew me to an ancient place and in the language of the winged ones, told me that once sung, the Eagle song was now part of me and that i must sing it from this day on...that those who heard my cries would become their spirit beings also and fly with me...with us.....that from this day on, to cease being the Eagle would be to die swiftly and violently....a-ho, it was so! we screamed and roared and cackled and howled together at this great night sky from long past and the stars spun around and around us....... i remember that a feeling of warmth on my eyelids woke me. i was naked, laying face-up on the hood of my car. clothes neatly folded on the front seat. boots by the front fender. it was morning and i was alone. big black thunderheads were rushing in from the west and i knew it was time to split. if this road washed out, i might never get my car out of here. still, i turned to look for a moment...peering for a sign from the previous night but i couldn't make out the trail we had taken nor any distant plateau that we might have been it. no other people were to be seen. a loud clap of thunder got me into the car and driving. as soon as i hit pavement, i stopped and dressed. big, noisy rain drops began to plop onto the ground about me. i drove for an hour or two in a daze until i hit the junction with 10. here at this rest stop, in heavy rain....i got my thoughts down on my laptop and am just now going to upload this to you. i'll be in touch brother. John. <5> A B R O K E N A N G E L S I N G S F R O M A G U I T A R ====================================================================== !! !! !! A conversation with David Gans, producer of the nationally !! !! syndicated radio show, "The Grateful Dead Hour". !! !! !! ====================================================================== Each week, it's like a benevolent time machine: transmitting voices and music to us that span almost three decades. Originating from sinuous strands of magnetic tape in Oakland, California, the signal is uplinked to the National Public Radio satellite lurking miles overhead in geosynchronous orbit and then retransmitted down to Earth, feeding the NPR radio stations across the nation. A high tech mojo magic data transfer that is somehow appropriate to the taped conversations about musical alchemy; one somehow fitting for the rich, steaming aural gestalt being conveyed to car stereos, living rooms and tape decks from Barrow, Alaska to Muscle Shoals, Alabama. Once the remainder of the 60 odd radio stations receive their tapes by mail, another week's "Grateful Dead Hour" is ready to dance upon the aether in the great american night! The Maestro of this magical, musical mayhem is David Gans. An experienced musician in his own right as well as an interviewer and writer, David is considered by many to be THE preeminent Grateful Dead Musicologist. Weekly, he selects those musical and conversational threads for broadcast (often from the band's own tape Vault itself) that provide another piece of the story of the musical evolution and innnovations of the diversely talented individuals that compose the Grateful Dead. But just who is David Gans...and how did David get to THIS point ... this locus of trusted access to the Vault, of producing a nationally distributed weekly radio show, of being an established music journalist and author/co-author of three books, of major participation in the Whole Earth 'Lectronic Link (WELL) teleconferencing system, and finally of playing live rock and roll? These are the questions we sought to answer during a recent conversation with David on the WELL. EARLY DAZE ON THE PENINSULA San Mateo is a small city midway down the Penninsula. Down there, you're never real far from the clickety-clack and diesel horn blasts of the commuter trains and the neverending distant mutter of traffic on either the Bayshore freeway or Highway 280. You can FEEL the tear and pulse of San Francisco just 17 miles to the north. And in the mid 60's...the vibrations emanating from that head of the Penninsula were strange and powerful indeed! DG: "...I was born in LA and the family moved to San Mateo, California in 1966, just in time for all the fun stuff that happened in San Francisco. I went to Burlingame High School for two years, and there was all kinds of psychedelic and wannabe psychedelic stuff going on there. I hitchhiked into the City a few times and hung around in the Haight being part of the problem. I went to the Fillmore with a group of kids from a Jewish Community Center. We saw the Butterfield Blues Band, Charles Lloyd Quintet (Quartet?) and the Ultimate Spinach (in their psychedelic, as opposed to their blues, period). "We moved to San Jose in 1969. The drugs and the music were different there. That's where I started playing guitar. My brother hated it in San Jose, so he went back up the peninsula as often as he could, often without his guitar, so I had access to it pretty frequently. "My buddy Craig and I went to see the Doors, Elvin Bishop and Lonnie Mack at the Cow Palace in (I think) August '69. I got very high on acid and we were very far away, but I still remember lots of stuff from that show: Lonnie Mack singing a very deeply spiritual number called "Wherever There's a Will There's a Way." Elvin Bishop in hayseed mode, commenting on Jim Morrison's legal troubles, threatening to take off his overalls and display HIS penis. Bits and pieces of the Doors' set - the Doors were a big, big deal to me and Craig - reverberated in my mind for months afterwards. Five to One; Build Me a Woman; something involving a dialog with Ray Manzarek, who kept saying, "Drive that train, baby" or words to that effect. And most especially " When the Music's Over," which took over my mind for a long time. Craig and I used to go up to Guadalupe Reservoir, above the Almaden valley, where all the kids from our school went to drink and carouse; we'd play 'When the Music's Over' all the way through as people stumbled around in the moonlight." HI-REZ: " You mentioned that you went up to the Haight a few times. What kind of things were going on there at that time? When you said that your hanging around there was 'part of the problem,' what did you mean?" DG: "I wandered up and down, in and out of the shops. The streets were crowded. I didn't get into any trouble, but I didn't get into any interesting scenes, either. I don't remember seeing any live music in the park, wasn't offered any free drugs or sex, never stepped through the Free Frame of Reference for a bowl of brown rice. I was there, but I wasn't really there. I didn't know what I was looking for, other than incense and US flag rolling papers. "'Part of the problem.' I wasn't a big part of the problem, 'cause I went home right away. No one had to feed, clothe or shelter me, nor talk me down from a bad trip, nor bail me out of jail. But I was "part of the problem" in the sense that I was there to see what was going on without having any sense of what I was seeing." " ONCE IN A WHILE YOU CAN GET SHOWN THE LIGHT IN THE STRANGEST OF PLACES IF YOU LOOK AT IT RIGHT " HI-REZ: "Somebody dragged you reluctantly to your first Grateful Dead show around this time! Which show was it, what venue? How did this show compare to those other live shows you had experienced up to that point?" DG: " My first Dead concert was March 5, 1972 at Winterland. I was living in San Jose with my songwriting partner, Stephen Donnelly, who I started hanging out with in drama class our senior year at Branham High School.....We got our friend Dennis Driver to drive the car, and Donnelly and I took acid as we headed up Highway 280. The throttle got stuck - in the car, I mean - and we were blazing as Dennis, riding the clutch, pulled in to a gas station to attempt to get it fixed. I have a vivid picture of the gas station attendant working a mouthful of gum. Somehow it was decided that we'd go to the concert and deal with the throttle problem later. "We were late getting in. The opening act was already on. We ended up at the very top of the arena, where the air was thick and hot and the band was hard to see. And hear. "Little bits of music stuck to my mind's ribs for weeks after that night: something from the Sons [of Champlin] that turned out to be "Poppa Can Play"; the chorus of "Bertha"; Jerry Garcia's guitar line in the intro of "Black Throated Wind"; Bob Weir's stunning rhythm guitar in "Greatest Story Ever Told"; "Good Lovin'" and "Not Fade Away," which I knew from other sources but had never heard like this! "I started listening to the records, and the next time the Dead played the Bay Area we camped out at the San Jose Box Office and scored fourth-row tickets for three shows at the Berkeley Community Theater in August..." HI-REZ: "After your first show and then especially those subsequent BCT events, something special must have germinated within you regarding this band... witness all the subsequent work you have done revolving around the Dead for the last 21 years. What is this "specialness" that you feel for the Grateful Dead?" DG: " It was the songwriting that grabbed me first. These were not cheap hooks and vapid lyrics. These songs were thoughtful, musically sophisticated, and - well, vague enough that they didn't paint the whole picture at first. A line would jump out and hang in my mind forever: "A broken angel sings from a guitar," for example. The big PAUSE in the chorus of "Tennessee Jed" - the one that DOESN'T happen the last time. Stuff like that. "I didn't know what to make of the jams in those first couple of years." ======================================================================= !! "I WATCHED THESE LEOPARD-SKIN SPANDEX CHILDREN WORKING THEIR MAGIC !! !! ON THESE GOGGLE-EYED, ZIT-FACED BOYS AND IT BECAME PERFECTLY CLEAR !! !! TO ME WHY THE STAGE HAD A CHAIN LINK FENCE AS A PROP..." !! ======================================================================== HI-REZ: "You've written much over the years from magazine articles and columns to books. When did all this writing start? Was it a talent you developed in school or did you pick it up as you went along?" DG: "I think I was always a writer. In my teens I wrote short stories - the idealistic stuff of '60s kids - and some whimsical, vaguely scatological stuff - in addition to ... tortured teenage poetry. While pretending to attend college (I went, but all I really did was play my guitar, smoke dope and chase girls without much success), I had a part-time job working on a labor union's monthly newsletter. That got me into writing, editing and graphic design. I earned some bucks doing those kinds of things through most of the '70s. "In 1976, BAM Magazine started in the Bay Area. I was briefly involved with a competing magazine started by a friend of a friend, but that didn't pan out so I took my first rock'n'roll pieces to BAM and quickly became a contributing editor. I earned my living working for BASS Tickets, traveling to their installations and startups in other cities as a system manager and operations consultant, and I did reviews and stories in my spare time. When that job ended around 1980, I had a nice stack of tearsheets and got two gigs: musical instruments columnist for _Record_ Magazine, published by _Rolling Stone_, and music editor of _M.I._, published by _Mix, the Recording Industry Magazine_ in Berkeley." HI-REZ: "In the course of the writing gigs you mentioned, you've had the occasion to interview some of the most interesting, if not the most innovative, minds of our generation. Was there an interview that sticks with you as being particularly memorable or perhaps especially meaningful to you personally?" DG: " My two interviews with Randy Newman come immediately to mind. Long, rambling conversations that covered all sorts of irrelevant but interesting ground - the homogenization of American culture, stuff like that. "I had a fascinating conversation with Warren Zevon that was never published. It lasted more than two hours. The same day, my friend and colleague Dan Forte interviewed Warren. When we were both finished, we asked him to compare and contrast our two interviews; I forget the exact reply, but it was to the effect that I was insightful and Dan was knowledgeable about music (my interview was more about alcoholism and creativity). "Joe Walsh (circa There Goes the Neighborhood). "In the middle of finishing my first Grateful Dead book I was assigned to interview Dee Snider of Twisted Sister. The LAST thing I wanted to do while composing an essay on "Dark Star" was to drive to the SF Civic Auditorium for a heavy metal concert. But it turned out to be an enlightening evening! While walking around the auditorium I came to an understanding of what heavy metal is all about. Teenaged boys are oppressed in every aspect of their lives - parents, teachers, school bus drivers, mall security people, EVERYBODY tells 'em what to do. And then there are all these girls in the throes of discovering what WEAPONS their bodies are. I watched these leopard-skin spandex children working their magic on these goggle-eyed, zit-faced boys and it became perfectly clear to me why the stage had a chain-link fence as a prop... And after the show I was kept waiting while Dee Snider spent some time with HIS musical hero: Alice Cooper. Dee explained it all for me, and I came to understand that "I'm Eighteen" says it all. And I wrote a really fun piece for _Record_ about the encounter. " There are others, but that's what sprang to mind. I met Leo Fender, for another example. Lindsey Buckingham. Steve Goodman. I got a million-dollar education." HI-REZ: "So, what caused that 1980's transition; the slipping from strictly articles, columns and interviews...to include books? It seems like a big step..." DG: " In 1982 I was working for _Record_ Magazine, published by _Rolling Stone_. Somehow I persuaded Jim Henke of RS to let me write a piece about the Grateful Dead. Since I had that assignment, Bob Weir and Phil Lesh decided I had to go to Jamaica with them to "cover" the Jamaica World Music Festival. So I went on a junket with a planeload of press people from around the States. "It was great. The bands all stayed at the Intercontinental at Rose Hall, while the journalists were put up at the Tryall Beach and Country Club, a former plantation a few miles outside of Mo' Bay the other way. I roomed with my pal G. Brown, music critic for the Denver Post, and we had more fun than humans should be allowed to have. "Also staying at the Tryall were Bob Miller, an editor at St. Martin's Press, and Peter Simon, a photographer known for his Reggae books and his shots of Martha's Vineyard. They were in Jamaica to schmooze around about a book they were planning to do about the Grateful Dead. I made friends with them, raving about the Dead and stuff, and I stayed in touch with Bob Miller after our adventure ended and real life took over again. "This took place on Thanksgiving weekend 1982. Some time in 1983 Miller told me the author they had in mind for their GD book wasn't going to do it. He wanted to know if I was interested in taking over the project. Uh, yes!" HI-REZ: "So this must have led to "Playing in the Band" with Peter Simon. Right around the same time (1985) that PITB was published by St. Martin, Avon published your other book "Talking Heads: The Band and Their Music". How did that book come about? " DG: " My agent got me the gig doing the Talking Heads book. It was definitely a project I was interested in, but it wasn't nearly as much fun to do because Talking Heads and their management made it very difficult for me to work on it." HI-REZ: "Your third book, 'Conversations with the Dead', consists of a revealing series of your own interviews with Weir, Garcia, Lesh, Parish, Healy, Owsley and others from 1977-1991. Over the span of these years, what changes occurred in your interview style with the band and its family members? DG: "I think I asked a lot of really, really nosy and inappropriate questions when I was newer at it. I learned not to ask one guy a question that would require him to badmouth another guy. I'm not saying this is better journalism, but I think it's more respectful of the people involved. I cringe at some of the stuff I said in earlier interviews. "By the same token, I'm more nervy about directly addressing the player that's in front of me. In other words, I won't put him on the spot about someone else, but I might put him on the spot about himself or about things in general." =================================================================== !! "THE ESSENCE IS THE MUSIC" !! =================================================================== HI-REZ: "So, in the mid 1980's, as two of your books were being published, a local Dead Head radio hour started on KFOG-FM in San Francisco. Tell us how you came to be associated with this original show and how it then evolved into your syndicated production of today." DG: "KFOG started the "Deadhead Hour" in November 1984. I went on the program in February '85 to plug my book, and I had a lot of fun putting together a segment on a song that had a particularly interesting history ("Greatest Pump Song Ever Wrote") about a song that began with a tape of a pump at Mickey Hart's house). I asked if I could produce some more programs for them, and since the guy who was responsible for the show was already working a punishing six-day-a-week schedule, I was allowed to do more. I got hooked pretty quick." HI-REZ: "So once you took over the show from the originator, how did it come to evolve into a syndicated production as opposed to just a local KFOG show?" DG: "I heard from people in various cities who had heard tapes and asked me why I wasn't distributing it. So I got permission from the band to do so, and started signing up stations." HI-REZ: "How do you get the show out to some 60 stations each week?" DG: "The public stations get it via satellite, and the rest get it on various forms of tape." HI-REZ: "The rest get mailed? You must have a staff. Who works with you to get the show out? Are they part of Truth and Fun, Inc?" DG: "I have someone who comes in for half a day to pack and ship the tapes. The rest of the production and duplication I do myself. Truth and Fun has only two employees: myself and Goldie Rush, who handles all the business and station relations." HI-REZ: "Much of your show's material is from masters selected from the Dead's own tape vault. What city is 'The Vault' in? By the way, Deadhead visions of 'the Vault' range from a drippy gothic stone dungeon to a clean room archive serviced by technicians in surgical smocks and rubber gloves! What is is really like? Any idea how many recordings are there?" DG: "Thousands of reels and Beta PCM tapes and DATs and multitracks, etc. It's in San Rafael, in a temperature- and humidity-controlled, fireproof room. Beyond that, it's not for me to say." HI-REZ: "Tell us about some of the problems from the stations carrying the "Grateful Dead Hour" that you've run into over the years as far as airing interviews and musical material from performers other than the Dead on your show." DG: "Very few problems, fortunately. The syndicator rejected a program with David Crosby - without listening to it! - but if they had been paying any attention they would have known that it was Crosby talking about his experiences with the Dead." "I once had to redo a program with Phil Lesh because the syndicator didn't want the Miles Davis and John Coltrane music I had included. Thought the rock stations would object. I argued and argued, and the final result was that I took out the Miles and moved Coltrane to the last quarter hour." "Some stations have messed with various programs, but I can't do anything about that. One station was editing out jams (!) fairly consistently, but the listeners (some of whom knew the show had been cut because the logs are posted on the Well) complained and the station knocked it off eventually." HI-REZ: "So, are you working on any exciting Dead music/media projects for the future, radio and otherwise? Doing any other radio production work now? DG: "I produce a monthly show on KPFA for Phil Lesh and Gary Lambert, "Eyes of Chaos/Veil of Order." Its mission is "music that falls into the cracks between the genres," and I have been turned on to the most amazing stuff!" "David Grisman and I are talking about doing a show, sort of a "Connections" of acoustic music. He is so knowledgeable and he has a huge record collection. We're working slowly but steadily on the concept." HI-REZ: "Well this is too tantalizing to pass up! So...WHAT amazing stuff have you been turned on to!!" DG: "'Earth Dances,' a modern orchestral piece by the British composer Harrison Birtwistle. The Black Swan Quartet. Michael Finissy. Don Byron, a black clarinetist who plays Klezmer music! Computer music. Dawg music. All kinds o' stuff!" ========================================================================= !! "A MUSICIAN IN HIS OWN RIGHT, HE BRINGS A MUSICIAN'S SENSIBILITY TO !! !! HIS PRODUCTIONS..." !! !! -GD Hour "fact sheet" !! ========================================================================= HI-REZ: "When did your special relationship with music first appear and what form did it take? How has it evolved over the years?" DG: "I have vague recollections of playing the violin when I was very, very young. That couldn't have lasted too long. Later, in fourth grade or so, I took up the clarinet. Played that in school orchestras and marching bands through high school. "When the Beatles hit, some of my classmates tried to start a rock'n'roll band. I showed up with my clarinet. That didn't last too long. "My brother took up the guitar while we were in high school. I was writing tortured teenage poetry, and he set a couple of 'em to music. He taught me the chords to those two "songs," and from that time on, whenever he left the house I'd swipe his guitar and pound away on it. I bought the music books for the Beatles' White Album and Crosby, Stills and Nash, and I taught myself. Bought my first guitar for $35 at a neighborhood music store, and I was hooked." HI-REZ: "When did you first perform with a band? DG: " Around 1974, with a group called Sunrise. We played the "steak and lobster" circuit in the Bay Area, doing Eagles, Loggins and Messina, CSN Seals and Crofts - the whole wimp-rock pantheon. The other guys were vocal majors from Cal State Hayward and they taught me a lot, positive and negative." HI-REZ: " How soon after this did 'Crazy Fingers' materialize? Or did you have other band gigs between 'Sunrise' and 'Crazy Fingers'?" DG: " Oh yeah, many. In '76 there was a band called Dusty Roses, a wonderful combination of Deadhead and Western Swing - spiritual children of Commander Cody and his Lost Planet Airmen, possibly the best band that ever lived (did I say that already?)." "There was an amorphous group that played parties and stuff - going back to the dorms at Cal in '71, before I came along in '73 - that eventually coalesced into The Reptiles, working the bars of the East Bay with a little more Dead and a lot less swing than Dusty Roses, more original material, etc." "Some time in the mid-'80s the Reptiles began to metamorphose. Mike Shaw replaced Steve Horowitz on drums and Tom Yacoe became our permanent (!) bassist. Bob Nakamine and I, who have been playing together off and on since 1973, were the guitarists. That quartet was sorta stable for a few years, and then Tom quit for the third time and axon became our bassist. Mike didn't want to practice, so we replaced him with Cyrus Azar, who was in a band with axon - and eventually Rik Elswit, who had been in that other band, too, came aboard on guitar synth (I call it "orchestra pedal"). And that has been the personnel for the last year. We changed the name to Crazy Fingers in 1989, I think. "It all comes to an end, I think, next month. Cy is moving his family to Spokane. I'm not sure what's going to happen now. I've been thinking of going solo and concentrating on my songwriting - but I just know I'd miss that rock'n'roll buzz." HI-REZ: "What kind of guitar(s) do you play?" DG: "I play a Turner Model 1. I bought it from the man who made it in 1980 or 1981 and I haven't looked at another guitar since. I also own a 1956 Les Paul Junior, and I play it once in a while, but the Turner is the axe for me." "I have a Martin D-35 acoustic that I bought in 1973. Love it to death." ======================================================================== !! On...the WELL !! ======================================================================== HI-REZ: " Tell us about your role here on the WELL. How did you first come to be involved here?" DG: "It was Mary Eisenhart's idea. She's the editor of MicroTimes, a computer magazine here in California, and she was telling me about computer conferencing - a new phenomenon in 1985. During a Grateful Dead show in Oakland in November '85, we both got the idea of setting up such a thing for Deadheads. It seemed like a natural, since this subculture is strong and clearly identified and always interested in talking about it. "Rather than raise a bunch of money and start something from scratch, we went to the Well, which was only a few months old and looking for communities to invite in. The Deadhead community took off on the Well, and before long it was apparent to me that it wasn't necessary to start our own system." HI-REZ: "You're the conference host for some of the Dead related threads on the WELL. Tell us about these conferences..." DG: "The GD conferences began as one GD conference. But things grew so fast that it became hard to find things, and when you're looking for ticket information or concert setlists you want satisfaction in a hurry! So we split it up into several conferences - gd, tix, tapes, tours, deadlit, gdh (for the radio show), etc. - and all of them are pretty well-traveled. "Other conferences have sprung up. There's a "grapevine" conference where rumors and speculation are discussed in a semi-private setting; tree is for organized tape trading. And what's even more cool than that, there is a new set of conferences for phish and other young "HORDE" bands, to which a lot of former Deadheads have defected. It's an amazing thing!" HI-REZ: "Do you find the WELL useful for input or ideas for the 'Grateful Dead Hour'?" DG: "I use the Well to distribute information about upcoming shows, collect suggestions and criticisms from listeners, and develop new markets. It's a wonderful tool for staying in touch." HI-REZ: "And in fact, we did this interview on the WELL! Thanks for your time, David. It's been both a pleasure and an honor to chat with you. Best of luck for all your endeavors." =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- GRATEFUL DEAD HOUR National broadcast schedule as of July 7, 1993 KBRW-FM Barrow AK Friday 10pm KYUK-AM 580 Bethel AK KRBD-FM 105.9 Ketchikan AK WQPR-FM 88.7 Muscle Shoals AL Friday midnight WUAL-FM 91.5 Tuscaloosa/Bham AL Friday midnight KZON-FM 101.5 Phoenix AZ Monday 11pm KHSU-FM 90.5 Arcata CA Tuesday 10pm KPFA-FM 94.1 Berkeley CA Wednesday 8pm KFCF-FM 88.1 Fresno CA Wednesday 8pm KLSX-FM 97.1 Los Angeles CA Sunday 11pm KAZU-FM 90.3 Pacific Grove CA Sunday 5pm KRFD-FM 99.9 Sacramento CA Sunday 6pm KCLX-FM 102.9 San Diego CA Sunday 11pm KRQR-FM 97.3 San Francisco CA Monday 10pm KGNU-FM 88.5 Boulder CO Saturday 8pm KSUT-FM 91.3 Ignacio CO Saturday 11pm WHCN-FM 105.9 Hartford CT Saturday 11pm WCXR-FM 105.9 Washington DC Sunday 9pm WRRX-FM 97.7 Gainesville FL Sunday 10pm WJCT-FM 89.9 Jacksonville FL Friday 11pm WZTA-FM 94.9 Miami FL Sunday 11pm KFMG-FM 103.3 Des Moines IA Sunday 6pm KRUI-FM 89.7 Iowa City IA Sunday 4:30pm KBSU-FM 90.3 Boise ID Friday 11pm WEFT-FM 90.1 Champaign IL Monday 6pm WXRT-FM 93.1 Chicago IL Sunday 9pm WIIZ-FM 98.7 Lafayette IN Sunday 10pm WBCN-FM 104.1 Boston MA Monday midnight WWDX-FM 92.1 East Lansing MI Sunday 11pm-> Starting 7/11 KUMD-FM 103.3 Duluth MN Saturday 4pm KTCZ-FM 97.1 Minneapolis MN Sunday 10pm KOPN-FM 89.5 Columbia MO Friday 9pm -> new time KKFI-FM 90.1 Kansas City MO Friday 10pm KMNR-FM 89.7 Rolla MO Saturday midnight WXRC-FM 95.7 Charlotte NC Sunday 11pm WZZU-FM 93.9 Raleigh NC Sunday 9pm KZUM-FM 89.3 Lincoln NE Wednesday 10pm KZRR-FM 94.1 Albuquerque NM Wednesday 9pm KTHX-FM 101.7 Reno NV Sunday 8pm WGR-FM 96.9 Buffalo NY Sunday 11pm WNEW-FM 102.7 New York NY Monday midnight WMAX-FM 106.7 Rochester NY Sunday 10pm WRPI-FM 91.5 Troy NY Wednesday 7:30pm WWCD-FM 101.1 Columbus OH Sunday 8pm KMUN-FM 91.9 Astoria OR Thursday 3:30pm KXIQ-FM 94.1 Bend OR Tuesday 11pm KSBA-FM 88.5 Coos Bay OR Saturday 8pm KSKF-FM 90.9 Klamath Falls OR Saturday 8pm KSMF-FM 89.1 Medford OR Saturday 8pm WMMR-FM 93.3 Philadelphia PA Tuesday 11pm WDUQ-FM 90.5 Pittsburgh PA Sunday 8pm KGSR-FM 107.1 Austin TX Saturday midnight WCVE-FM 88.9 Richmond VA Saturday 11:30pm WROV-FM 96.3 Roanoke VA Sunday 7pm WKOC-FM 93.7 Virginia Beach VA Monday midnight WIZN-FM 106.7 Burlington VT Sunday 10pm KBCS-FM 91.3 Seattle WA Tuesday 10pm KHSS-FM 100.9 Walla Walla WA Sunday 8pm KUWR-FM 91.9 Laramie WY Saturday 11pm <6> \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ !!! T H E D I G N I T Y O F L A B O R !!! //////////////////////////////////////////////////// I never asked for this Position. I am reluctant to call it a job, as it entails no real work. It's a position, like on a sports team. I go to a place and stand there, walk, perform some mandated and rigorously defined actions. When there was a job resembling this function, from which my current Position was derived, it was for 7 1/2 hours per day, with an hour off for a meal at midday. But there are no jobs anymore. There are only Positions. We have no need of pay, so there is no inducement to perform any worthwhile labor. There is no need of labor, since such needs as we have are provided for by the Machines our fathers, and their fathers before them, built. Everything from the meals we eat to the clothes we wear and the entertainment we consume is created and manufactured by the Machines. Our fathers built this world for us out of nothing, so far as we can determine. We have no evidence of any tools they might have used, no schematics or blueprints they might have left behind. There is no need to repair or maintain any of the Machines they built for us. They generate their own raw materials and derive their own motive power. They require no intervention on our part. The question I have never dared ask is whether our fathers thought we were too intelligent to be forced to waste effort on ourselves, or whether they thought we were too stupid to manage it. The job that my position is modeled after would be a sort of caretaker or groundsman, but since all the trees and shrubs have all been genetically altered to require no maintenance, there is no pruning or seasonal cutting to perform. The machines hum along night and day, without pause. The toys, radios, rubber boats and meals they produce are used as fast as they are available. No one knows how to tell the machines to produce even one more or less of the commodities they produce, but there never seem to be any left over. Positions are very clearly defined and are assigned at a birth lottery, since there is no merit involved. My wife and I have no children so we have no need to go to the lottery. I have heard that some try to bribe the officials of the lottery to assign certain Positions to their children, but I have no idea what currency the bribe could be in. There is no money anymore, and no need of it. I have discounted these ideas as rumors, perhaps started by some who heard certain Positions as better than others. An office tower Position is often used as an example of a desirable one. I can't imagine why that would be the case, since there is no pay for either a Position like mine or one in an office tower. It's a warm day today, and many people are out enjoying the warmth. They come from nearby office towers, most of them, and they bring lunches over to the small park by the river to eat. Their Positions are in the office towers, and they will all go back after lunch. They do nothing constructive, any more than I do. They make telephone calls and jot things down in pocket organizers. Some fetch coffee for others. Still others go to meetings. Then, when their mandated workday is done - likely 7 1/2 hours like mine-they rush to their cars and get stuck in the daily gridlock. Occasionally, one of them will leave early, to the chagrin of his friends. _______________________________ !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! !:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::! ________________!:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::!____++__________+_______ Outside the city were open spaces with suburbs between them; most people lived within the city proper, as it was planned. You could ride the tramlines out to the edge of the city and walk off into wild places, stand amongst the trees. But beyond that was unknown and unspoken of. One day, one of those whose Position was in the office towers, making phone calls and going to meetings, came to where I was at my duties. He walked up slowly, looking around as he approached. I stared, not knowing what to make of someone here at this hour (it was midmorning). "Good morning," he said. I nodded. "Is this your Position?" he asked. I was convinced something was very wrong. But what could I do? There were no police to call, no authorities to inform. "Yes, this is my Position," I said slowly. He smiled broadly and said, with a jerk of his head over his left shoulder, "Mine is up there." Where he indicated was a block of towers a half-mile from where we stood. He continued to smile at me. I stared back, wishing he would go, either back to his position or anyplace else. "This isn't right," he said, dropping the smile. "It isn't natural." "What isn't?" I said, before I could stop myself. I was afraid of him standing there, although I knew no harm could come of it. "These Positions, our daily devotions," he explained. "We all go to some place and perform meaningless actions for eight to twelve hours. None of the activities we perform have any effect on anything, nor do we gain anything by them. We don't even get wages, nor do we need them. Why? Why not just stay home?" "What would you do at home?" "What do you do here?" He stared at me and I had to turn away. What he said made no sense, but it seemed impossible to refute. We go to our Positions each day because we do, because we're supposed to, I wanted to say, but that made even less sense. He sat down in front of me and looked around where we were. He loosened his tie and took off his jacket. I looked at him like a mouse looks at a cat, waiting for his next move. "I won't be returning to my Position," he said. My face must have registered shock, because he gave a short laugh. "No, I'll stay home tomorrow, maybe ride out to the end of the tram lines." "But what about your Position?" "What's the point of going back to that? I go in each day and go through the motions, for no reason. If I stay at that any longer, I think I'll die of boredom." I turned from him and went about my activities once more. I decided I wouldn't listen to anything else he had to say, but he said nothing else. When I turned next, he was gone but he had left his jacket, tie, and shoes behind. +++ I gave no more thought to what he said other than telling my wife that evening. I told no one else, since no one would believe me. My wife was curious but didn't disbelieve me; she believed that there were things not yet seen and experiences not yet imagined. From the window of our flat, 35 floors up in a residential block, we could see beyond the city, into the empty space and over the tops of the trees to the horizon. We faced the morning sun, so the sunset was behind us. Where the city stopped, there were no lights, only degrees of dusty shadow that deepened after each sunset. I went to my Position as usual the next day and every day for some weeks after the encounter. After I had all but forgotten it, the same fellow returned. He was dressed in shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers. I realized he had probably made good on what he had said, and had never returned to his Position. "It's just an nice a day as when I was last here," he said with that broad smile. "Why are you still here?" "Look, I don't care about why you're here or what you thought of your Position, but this is mine and I am performing it." "But why?" He said it gently, as if he was afraid I would break apart from the stress of trying to answer his questions. I turned away from my questioner. "You produce nothing, you do nothing, just as I did," he continued. "Why do it?" I cannot explain what I do not understand. That is why I turned to him, with tears streaming down my face, and told him to leave. He offered his apologies, but I waved him away. He walked away slowly. I heard him stop and imagined he might be looking back at me, but I refused to look. Over the next few weeks, I began to notice other people about in the day, just walking about as he had done. The crowds I was used to seeing streaming into the office towers were lighter now, and the traffic jams all but disappeared. Soon there were as many people in the parks and open spaces, on the streets and walkways, as during a holiday. This went on for a while, some months. Then their numbers began to dwindle. There were less people in the open spaces, but there were no crowds getting off the trams and parking in the multi-level lots. I wondered where people could be going. I toured some of the residential areas at weekends and noted that many of the houses were empty, the cars gone from the garages. Another anomaly was that the Machines were producing too many things. Supply exceeded demand for the first time, contributing to a general sense of bewilderment. Hockey sticks were unclaimed and bicycles unridden, and more were produced each day. I thought back to the fellow who left his Position and never returned. Could people die of boredom, I wondered. And how would it happen? Since he had believed we all did nothing in our Positions, would death by boredom have us dissolving like mist, as inconsequential as our life's efforts? It didn't seem worth thinking about - could I do anything about it? - but I could think of nothing else. As I stared out of the windows overlooking the open spaces, I watched as the sun's light was gradually obscured by the towers. As the horizon darkened, I could see small lights flickering, like stars, but below the horizon. I wondered if they had always been there and I had just never noticed them or if they were the beginning of something I didn't yet understand. <7> ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !! !!!! !!!!!! !!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!! !!!!!! !!!! !! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! T H R O U G H T H E E Y E S O F A N E L D E R I met him one day sitting by the roadside with a tear in his eye. As I walked up to him, the tear rolled off his cheek and hit the ground. I asked, What are you doing? Are you alright? Slowly he raised his head and looked me in the eye. I felt like I was looking into a window into the past. He said I am giving water to my mother. Who is not alright. She is dying and I can not heal or help her. I am only one lonely old man. I said I do not understand. He motioned to me to sit by his side. I will try to let you see her through my eyes. When I was young, my Grandfather told me of the beauty of my Mother-Earth. As he was told by his father, the animals roamed freely and so did the people. We had little need for money, gas, TV, electricity, or any of the required conveniences of this day and age. The air was clear, the water cool and quenching. As he spoke, I was pulled into his eyes, a portal to the days of harmony, plenty and happiness. I could see the children running freely through the lodges, a young woman at the stream, mighty hunters returning from a successful hunt. The eldest Grandfather telling stories to wide eyed children in total awe of what he was saying. The Grandmother showing the little girls how to prepare the different foods for travel. How wonderful this world was. Suddenly I was pulled back to my own time. As I looked around all I could see were dying trees, dried up streams, and a heavy, dark, cloud-like substance hovering around the earth. The old man saw I could now see the pain and loss he saw and felt. I asked. How can I help? What can be done to change this? He slowly got up and said, Teach other people, if enough people care and can see, it may not be too late. I stood there looking into his eyes and saw, mirrored there, my eyes. In my eyes, I saw the world as it could be again someday. With enough help... !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !! !!!! !!!!!! !!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!! !!!!!! !!!! !! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !