It was, yes, a Jim fanatic who led me to visit the grave. We had parted ways in volatile fashion before my trip. He’d expressed a lifelong desire to visit Jim’s grave. I wasn’t sure whether a casual photo of it would be a peace offering, or a taunt. I was, truth be told, quite fine either way.
I’m reading about an outbreak of laughter, /that broke out at a girl’s school, /ended up involving the whole town,
The six-minute masterpiece Motorcycle Emptiness truly was a rare opus in my incredibly mundane life.
If you listened hard enough, you could almost hear the echoes of Grace Slick wailing her backup vocals in her white tasseled top and her funked out hair.
It was cold there at the border/I shouted your name, bitter/winds blew strong.
In viewing the John Lee Hooker guitar I was taken straight back to the many years of joy the Blues Brothers movie had brought me.
Girls boys/ Vibrant noise/ Girls men?/ Not quite Zen/ Finding tribe/ Cool vibe/ Brave sky/ No asking why/ In a pink angora dress.
He could barely speak English. I could barely speak Italian. But somehow, we communicated with one another, almost playing a silent game.
I was in my new outfit and if truth be told I looked a bit like Thurston Howell III from Gilligan’s Island. I think most of the girls there thought so too.
I write down everything I know: albums, early bands, band members, famous gigs, instruments played and anything else I could remember. You couldn’t record with a Walkman but I had kept my small cassette player/recorder and now made sure I had new batteries and a clean C90 cassette.