Bobby Weir’s death hit me harder than i would have predicted. i wasn’t expecting his passing, nor how it would have me thinking, more than i would prefer, about my own inevitable demise.
More than thoughts of death itself, Bobby’s passing feels like the undeniable end of my own youth—even though that actually happened long ago—because it feels like the final chapter of the grateful dead that i was lucky enough to catch the very end of. but more than even a few years of shows, the dead are a massive, immeasurable, indescribable part of my formative years.
sure, everything directly connected took time and space in my life. mail orders and ticketmaster lotteries and ticket line lists, going to shows, new tapes of cherry soundboards, great acid, and just being on tour. but also my people, and listening to 4.29.71 and 2.13.70 and 6.28.74 . . . st. stephen jams and mind left the body jams, hard to handle and the weather report suite. pretty hippie girls and sugar mag, and sonya, i miss you and always think about hitting the disco bus after the shows with you. everyone bugging us to come on and the cops clearing lots.
when jerry died it was a shock, when phil died it was sad, but it feels like bob’s death closed the book. i’ve been listening to a lot of black-throated winds, and greatest stories, and jack straws and sugar mags. and I’m sad.
i wish there was another thing that could be that for me, but it wasn’t just the experience, it was the experience at that point in life, before i’d learned too much and seen enough. i know this, but try my best to deny it and bob’s passing has made that impossible now.
RIP Bobby, Phil, Jerry, and Sonya. i love you and wish you were here with me—you missed too much.
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