Robert Hunter Journal update [9/15] *long*
Michael Z.
Well, after perusing it, I decided to post the complete set of new entries
from Robert Hunter's online journal -- it's not as long as some past
installments, and there's a lot of interesting stuff here. Plus, I know
that a good number of you don't have Web access, so you can't go to
http://dead.net like everybody else and read the whole thing (plus the
Mailbag).
Anyway, Sunday's a pretty quiet day in these parts, so this will give you
something to read. (If you make it to the end, there's some quasi-news --
not the most cheerful GD-related news, but that's the way it goes. . .)
Enjoy,
MZ
-----------------------begin quote----------------------
Journal 9.15.96
8/30/96 10:45pm London
After a flurry of activity posting the new Archive, a sudden lull. Good.
Don't know what to do with it though. Kicking around. Went out for a walk to
the Chelsea Bridge. Existential feelings. Apprehensiveness. Got to fly 8,000
miles two days from now. Dreading that. Not that I don't want to be home in
my own house among my own stuff. My books and bed. It's the act of getting
there from here ... tedium of the pressurized cabin and the drone of the
engines with customs awaiting at the other end. Not afraid of flying. I
learned to fly a plane myself in '76. After practicing stall recovery in a
light plane (you go straight up, losing speed and lift, until you break the
air foil and the plane spins out of control and plummets - your job: level
the wings, plummet until you pick up enough air speed to pull out of the
stall, nose up gradually so you don't stall again.
It's hard to think clearly when your plane is cartwheeling, Earth no longer
a stable reference point, a stall alarm blaring in the cabin.. But that's
when you must think most clearly of all: level out, resist the urge to pull
out of the fall by trying to re-ascend before gaining enough airspeed to
restart the engine. It's no longer an airplane but an inefficient glider
until that propeller starts spinning again. Different rules apply.
8/31 10:18pm
Just unplugged and packed my modem, Zip & Jazz drives My computer is now
just a backlit typewriter. Odd feeling being disconnected. Don't know why.
Don't "go on the net" much except to upload. Too expensive. Here, it comes
out of my own pocket. At home I watch out for the company bill. There are a
few places I check out from time to time, Enterzone and Levity.com and
places people recommend in their mail. Most sites are a rip off in terms of
loading time vs. what you get. I hear the clock is ticking while I'm
forcefed a giant gif I'd probably flick past in a magazine. The net will
have to become a damned sight faster and less expensive before the
non-affluent public explores it in depth. Most frequent users tend to log on
to free University hookups or the company's connection while the boss is
busy.
9/3 7:30am San Rafael
Back at my own desk with window overlooking the hills instead of facing the
wallpaper I used as a backgrounder on the 9/1 Archive. Yesterday I went to
bed at 9pm and arose at 3am. This morning, I got up at 5:30. Slowly march
the clock back. Lots of free time on my hands. DeadNet is still down pending
a grand re-opening with multiple improvements, including the ability to
handle 250 hits at once. The reason I have so much free time is that my
request to hold up on sending email is still posted at the top of the
Archive and I can't remove it until the server is up and running.
Items on todays agenda: visit the office, go shopping for a digital camera
with a telephoto lens, figure out how to get my connection to the Well
running. Will I use the Well conferencing facilities? When would I have the
time? Maybe when I finish my novel, if I don't start a sequel.
A video copy of Gregg Lachow's movie "The Wright Brothers" was awaiting me
on my return. My big scene, where I instruct Wilbur on how to navigate by
the stars, hit the cutting room floor. Disappointing but I like the movie
anyway. He has a way with absurdity I find hilarious and sometimes moving.
later:
Went to the office and saw everybody, all fresh from a week's Memorial Day
vacation, sporting California tans. Managed to avoid mine this year. Had a
few briefings on the state of office affairs. Some problems with getting
signals straight with Sun Microsystems in order to acquire in the Java
machines we hoped to unleash on DeadNet tomorrow.
GDTicket Sales wants to keep a scaled down presence awaiting developments.
Steve Marcus said "We just want to be here in case anything does happen." In
the meantime, they'll shack out in a corner of the DeadNet office at GDP to
save rent while investigating possibilities of doing tickets for a few
groups who've expressed interest.
Talked to Alan briefly about the state of the Well connection with DeadNet.
A few things to iron out so we can all receive appropriate mutual benefit
from the interconnection. We want interconnection with their superb
communications technology to extend our reach (why? go ask your mother!) and
they hope to gain subscribers for their highly touted GD related activities
and other functions. The $15 dollar a month bite sounds reasonable for full
web service, and they provide the AOL usenet and "dead" button features.
They will provide us with free IRC services, so no one has to fork over the
fifteen in order to benefit from the connection if they don't really want
to.
Decided to wait a day or two to get over jet lag before settling down to
scope the office situation in depth. Spoke briefly with Phil on the phone,
he sounded up, and we agreed to get together. Spent the rest of the
afternoon trying to connect my snazzy new Ricoh digital camera to my
computer to download a few shots. No luck. I've got to get an earlier
version of the system.
9/5 1pm
Just back from the office. Board members gathering for a Rex Foundation
meeting. I'm not on the board for the simple reason I can't hack meetings.
Not so good at compromise, which is part of why I'm a writer. But I discuss
direction with individual members. The way I view it, Rex depended on the
largesse of a big time rock band. That's over now. The reason board members
are finding it hard to come to agreement among themselves is that there's
nothing but policy to agree on - without funding, policy doesn't have an
appreciable focus. The sole purpose of Rex is to give lots of money
away. There isn't any.
The Further tour showed that fielding available talent isn't going to solve
our economic problem - and it's too late to go back and try out Plan A: to
do shows under our own auspices. There's no reconsidering. That die is cast.
We used up our grace time on the wrong gamble. Short of an unexpectable deus
ex machina, it looks like there's nothing left but to merchandise image! But
selling bones can only be a peripheral affair, leading to keeping people
employed to the ends of selling more bones on a dwindling scale until
customers lose interest in buying bones. Nevermind the desperation and
indignity of it.
Record sales have taken a sudden decline.
"But surely the fans will buy vault releases?" "They'll buy some, sure. The
hard core will, but not enough to keep things going. Most of them are happy
with tapes."
9/6
My mother called last night and said she'd spent the whole day at the Marin
courthouse in a jury pool, sitting behind Phil Lesh. Someone is suing Phil ,
a workman injured while working on Phil's property. Mother said she had to
fill out a five page form which was intrusively personal - wanted to know
everything about age, education, children, finances - the works. It also
wanted to know if she'd ever been to a Grateful Dead Concert, had any
Grateful Dead records, liked the band or not, and who was her favorite
artist in the group! She put down my name. She said that all the prospective
jurors were asked, on the stand, how they felt about big cash awards for
injuries, and all of them allowed they thought the trend was excessive.
Quite a few of them seemed to be excused on those grounds, according to the
intensity of their feelings on the subject. Mother tried to tell the clerk
that she was automatically disqualified because of my involvement with the
GD, but he wouldn't listen to her. She had to sit there until lunchtime, and
then come back again and sit there until 5pm before she had a chance to take
the stand and be disqualified. She said Phil looked very smart in a well
tailored suit. She introduced herself and wished him luck before leaving and
Phil said he was very glad to finally meet her, and that she never had a
chance of getting on the jury in the first place. Small world.
9/9/96 9:45pm
A lot of nines in today's date. In some folks' book that would signal
change. We began home schooling Kate this morning and I'm fresh from giving
her a reading lesson. Maureen set up my old outdoor workroom as a classroom
for one, blackboard and all. Having had Kate read part of her bedtime story
to me for the last few years, I know what she doesn't know yet. Today we
started with the "ight" words with only a change of first letter: light,
sight, might, etc. She can read all one or two syllable words, without
silent letters, already. Tomorrow we'll check into "ite" rhyming words with
two initial changing letters: slight, bright, etc.
Why do this? When we returned from England last Sunday, Maureen and I both
realized we'd had it with Only in Marin New Age Holistic approach. Parents
are on their knees to get their kids in alternative school. The State system
crumbled ten years ago. Some would argue twenty. Enrollment has just
surpassed the 1972 baby boom statistics, up a third of a million students
from last year. The alternative schools one and all have some notion of
shaping the children's spirits, but one must believe pretty whole heartedly
in the increasingly dominant Neo Gnostic Buddhist ceremonialism to trust a
child to it. Not being capable of subduing my cynical streak, I bump heads
with it. And wholehearted parental participation is the very foundation of
alternative schools. It's even moving into the public schools. I don't say
it's bad for those who subscribe but it feels coercive to one whose faith is
shaped differently. I cannot in good conscience continue.
Mickey's birthday party yesterday. Went up to his ranch "Yolo" and hung out
for awhile. Gave him a CD set of Doo Wop songs which guest Joel Selvin
thought an ace gift. No one from the band was there, but it was good to see
Barry Melton and his family, Mountain Girl, a few members of Mystery Box
(the Juleps are all back in England) Danny Rifkin and daughter Maurena,
Cassady and Cameron, Ramrod and Frances . . . the present heat wave and late
allergy season chased me home early. I listened to Roger Session symphonies
on the drive up and back. Mick has plans stewing for a new record. Got home
and crashed early but woke up at 1:30 and couldn't get back to sleep, so
handwrote a concluding letter from Gia to Jabajaba that explains the
mysteries of "Giant's Harp" succinctly. It will surprise those who haven't
followed the clues and many who have.
10:45
News came via my email of Bill Monroe's well earned passage to the great
beyond. I don't stoop to euphemism here. I speak of that great Kentucky in
the Sky, where, sins gainsaid, easy entry is assured because God loves them
singers more than just about anybody, according to Psalms. America will not
fully understand what it owes to Bill Monroe for another hundred years. He
transformed the mandolin from a neapolitan romance instrument to a tough,
flint edged voice capable of spark and lightning. The sound of his singing
voice is the sound of bluegrass itself, impossible not to imitate to some
degree for any bluegrass singer with a tenor range. It just goes like that.
Monroe's version of "Wayfaring Stranger" deserves to be the National Anthem.
I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger
Trav'ling through this world of woe
And there's no sickness, no toil or trouble
In that fair land to which I go
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
9/11
Took Kate to the bookstore to get a CD Rom she wanted. I told her to go find
it while I looked at the magazines. She ran off down the aisle calling, ""OK
Dad, I'll meet you in the horror section!" "Katy, you stay away from there
. . . "
but she was gone. A mother looked over at me and smiled knowingly.
Before leaving, I decided to go ahead and buy a copy of the Robert
Greenfield book, after opening it for a cursory peek a couple of days ago
while my dozen purchases were being checked against my receipts, having set
off the magnetic alarm. I'd read only a page of interview with Barbara (my
purchases were okayed and I was allowed to leave, setting off the alarm
again) but I admit my curiosity was well and truly engaged since she
mentioned some utterly forgotten details from the old days concerning me. No
alarm sounded upon leaving the store this time, so I guess the reading of
"Dark Star" was meant to be, despite my disinclination to ride that Garcia
Night Train once again into the grave, into that ending which never changes,
except in perspective.
I read clear through the book in about eleven hours -I'm not a rapid reader-
and closed it at 2am, possessed of much new information. My first summary
thought was: for what reason is this personal business made public? What
possessed so many of these speakers to spill their guts to this interviewer?
Much is self-serving and/or disproportionate. The proportions are the
problem. That's one thing an interviewer who doesn't know the subject
personally can only judge from what the speakers tell him. David Dalton, who
co-wrote Rock's book, voiced the same opinion. He had to guess what was true
and what was a tall tale or vendetta from tapes of long evenings of recorded
rap over bottles of whisky.
I don't mean to say that many folks didn't acquit themselves well, serving
the subject and the truth is a fair way. A few things spoken by me in
confidence were related, though no great harm was done. Things such as one
says to a confidant, who understands the context, that would not be the
first thing to pop out of the mouth in public.
Suzy Wood is quoted as saying "Bob Hunter was such a crack-up. He was so
anal that it just cracked me up. He and I were boyfriend and girlfriend or
whatever the hell that was for a little while. His parents were going to
come out from Connecticut. His father was a publisher. Bob was going to be a
writer and Jerry just used to rag on Bob all the time sayng, "We're going to
have this big pile of joints right here in the middle of the table and when
your dad comes out, we're going to offer him one." He was waving his arms
around and pointing at this imaginary pile of joints that was going to be on
the table. Bob would be seething and all ticked off."
That stung. You'd only need to see the state of my room and desk to refute
the charge of anality, as commonly understood. And yeah, I don't take
teasing very well, having been raised with more than my fair share of it,
both from my perfectionist stepfather and by virtue of always being the new
kid in school - eight different schools in the first six grades. Jerry was
just the kind of cowboy to find your buttons and jump on them for amusement.
If you jumped back, he'd close up. It wasn't the particular thing he
happened to be teasing about so much as that he kept at it obsessively, as
though he took evidence of self confidence in others as a personal affront.
High school stuff. Why I didn't just punch him I'll never know. This aspect
of his personality died with his first coma. For years after it was hard to
believe he wouldn't just pop my balloon with a gratuitious insult, but no.
He became a genuinely nice guy. Flabbergasting! However, that's not what
bothered me about what Suzy said. It's the line: "He and I were boyfriend
and girlfriend or whatever the hell that was for a little while." This was
my first adult affair, goddammit! One of my brighter rose strewn memories.
It ended under the stress of complicated circumstances which are nobody's
damned business, but the upshot is I was too immature at 21 to make a
lifetime commitment. Too cowardly, perhaps. Same thing. She dropped me on my
head and I only ever saw her once again, briefly, at the Monterey Folk
Festival in '63. Reading Suzy's dismissive remark was the admission price I
paid for overcoming my instinct not to read the book. I felt it would be
like eavesdropping into secret rooms, and it was. Got my ears burned. Serves
me right. What every spy deserves.
As I read the pages I learned things I didn't really want to know, but I
kept on reading. Same with Rock's book, which came near to ruining my
attitude. I used to stay away from the scene to avoid knowing certain things
that would make it difficult for me to feel oriented enough to write for
them. "Where ignorance is bliss, t'is folly to be wise" kind of stuff. Like:
you mean those bastards were hemmoraging cash when I couldn't swing a $5,000
advance on my royalties to support Maureen, me and the kids in England? I
spent our last £20 on Christmas presents. The balancing factor is that the
absurdist song I wrote about my situation,"Touch of Gray," paid all the
bills for a good long time when it came out six years later. Meantime I got
my ass on the road and supported us with my guitar. Every time I got to
feeling my career was in smoking ruins, I repeated my motto to Maureen:
"Remember, this is rock and roll, where there's always the possibility of a
hit." Not that I tried to write them, or even understood what a hit song
was, but you never know what the public might pick up on for the most
undeterminable reasons.
All that aside, the book is about Jerry's sex life, not mine. Boy would he
squirm at the posthumous rape of his privacy. Now here I am adding to it, in
self defense. What do you say about someone who was a cross between Mel
Blanc, Orpheus and Frankenstein and could play minds as easily as guitars?
I've got enough discreditable stuff in my own past to be careful when I
judge. Just holding my own here, aware that what I say will no doubt appear
in the next run of Jerry books, out of context. Told ya so.
The early 60's were appealingly, if lightly, covered in the book. That's
partly my fault for not participating in the interviews, but I don't regret
my decision. My viewpoint is another story for another day, if ever. I write
what I feel needs to be said in this journal. No reason to make it 352 pages
and put it between covers The next book out will be Blair Jackson's.
Happily, it will dwell more on the Dr. Jekyl side of the protagonist, but,
unlike the tutti-frutti "Captain Trips," must deal with Mr. Hyde too, as all
subsequent works must, since Scully let him out of the cellar. At least, I
believe and sincerely hope, we're beyond revelations that will surprise
anybody very much.
11pm
Back from my swim. Pipe from the pump was burst so the water wasn't so warm.
Makes for more lively swimming. Back in my former backbreaking slump in this
cheap, broken swivel chair and have to get a new one right away. Looked
before I went to England but couldn't find one. The metal garden chair I
used in London was better.
Just got my semi-annual royalty check for the lyric book "A Box of Rain "
and my other books. $204.40 Behold my works ye mighty and tremble. Harumph.
What I like about penning this form of journal, as opposed to other kinds of
writing, is that aything fits, so long as I don't mind it sitting out there
for strangers to read. What, me worry? In time it'll become dated and sound
like some kind of late 90's jargon. People will say of it "Hunter sure was
weird. But those were weird times. Weird people read it and got even
weirder. Gosh, do you think it'll ever get weird like it was back in the
90's again? I wish I was around then." "Yeah, me too." I take the long view.
I used to think ten or fifteen years ahead - now I've got my eye on mid-21st
century. "Think posthumously, write prolifically." I think that may be a
phenomenon of my vanishing youth. Compensation is made by projecting the
here and now into an advanced state of entropy, which can never be truly
more than visualizing the future in terms of the past. But what else can you
do? Other than visions and momentary transports, that's all the brain
allows. My brain, anyway. And welcome to it.
I could talk about what's going on at the office. But I'm reluctant. It's
the sort of situation one doesn't want to define too much, because the very
act of defining seems to extend the tenuousness of it. No, I know that's not
very clear. Not meant to be. It'll become clearer in a few days. Then it
will be very clear. I'm no longer asking if it's an end or a beginning,
understanding more and more that it's process and only small adjustments can
be made. Incremental. Entropy management. Noticing details, while standing
on the track, of the train bearing down on us. Assume I'll still be standing
on the track observing the caboose as it speeds away. Ghost train.
9/13 12:45 am
Meant to write a big journal entry tonight - but haven't the kind of energy
left after a full day of fitting the new page together and attending to
correspondence. Wanted to talk about these waning days of the Dead, but find
little to actually say. Things are winding down at the office. CFO Nancy
Malonee said to me earlier, out of the clear blue, laughing as she did: "I'm
losing it, Hunter. Losing it! I used to be able to direct traffic around
here but not anymore. Everything's just shooting off in its own direction."
I said something to the effect of "As far as I know, doors have to close
before other doors open. When a situation gets as impossibly complex as this
bird, without any solution in sight, it's time to chop off its head and
serve it up for Thanksgiving dinner." Hal Kant passed by as I said that and
remarked "I"ll bring the cranberry sauce." Gallows humor these days; much
the best way of facing facts. No one is visibly opting for depression in
these last days. A camaraderie exists between formerly opposing
constituencies as the reasons for opposition dwindle to hypothetical
abstracts in the wake of economic reality. Record sales plunge dramatically,
bringing everything to a head, guaranteeing progressively more meagre income
for the foreseeable future. GDP sinks with as much grace as we can muster,
which is considerable. Everyone finds it hard to believe that it's really
over, but it's not without its element of relief. Constant crisis has been
wearing and tearing. Hopes of longshot possibilities providing last minute
respite reveal themselves as stages of denial. It's been a hell of a ride.
Some things will remain. I aim to see that DeadNet is one of them, so long
as music publishing provides a margin of profit large enough to help finance
it - and GD Merchandising remains motivated to contribute. It's not cheap to
run, but it's not inordinately expensive, either. If DeadNet can't survive
that doesn't mean the Archive won't. I've had several assurances of a shack
on the net, if it comes to that. Hopefully our alliance with the Well will
help fulfill the diverse communications promise DeadNet is based on. There's
no setup for DeadNet to sustain itself financially, so we depend on the
sense of mission of the parties involved in keeping it going. There's a
general feeling that as long as our community holds together, however that
be effected, the Grateful Dead movement (for such it is) is present as pure
potential. To what ends, I don't know. But it feels somehow critical that it
be so.
The GDP office is the skeletal remains of the Grateful Dead touring
juggernaut. It's the apparatus of a successful and viable rock band. As is
the Rex Foundation, DeadHeads office, DeadNet, Merchandising, Ice Nine and
the ticket office. Each of these auxillary functions will attempt an
independent existence, but GDP itself, the umbrella group, the nerve center,
has become an anachronism. Darn.
9/15
Back from England two weeks now. Change away change. Nothing unexpected.
Time to post the new Archive. Would like to request a favor: please don't
write me with ideas of what Rex should do to survive, or last minute
solutions for GDP or schemes to make DeadNet self supporting. Such letters
cannot realistically take into account the whole interactive scope of the
situation, the personalities involved and the individual problems of those
who comprise those organizations. We are definitely not into
metamorphosizing into a production company. That territory is already staked
out by true promoters. Rex will attempt some shows under the benign
sponsorship of professionals. That would seem to be the last, brightest hope
for some future musical events from us. Of course you never know: Rock and
roll is the business where a hit is always possible!
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--------...@zoka.com----
Michael Zelner
----Oakland CA USA------------
Marc Blaker
<snip latest journal entries>
R.I.P GDP. Thanks for all the good stuff.
Marc Blaker
--
* "All we need is music, sweet music..." (Stevenson/Gaye) *
Heather Help The Fool
RH wrote:
Not afraid of flying. I
>learned to fly a plane myself in '76. After practicing stall recovery in a
>light plane (you go straight up, losing speed and lift, until you break the
>air foil and the plane spins out of control and plummets - your job: level
>the wings, plummet until you pick up enough air speed to pull out of the
>stall, nose up gradually so you don't stall again.
>
>It's hard to think clearly when your plane is cartwheeling,
Well, if your plane is cartwheeling, you're in a lot more trouble than
just a stall (right, Gordon?)...glad Hunter made it out ok :)
h.