So, I was in this place with a bright blue sky, and tables and strange architecture of white curving public spaces. It was so nice. It was hot and easy, and I made my way aimlessly to a lower level, with a white table and chairs, and there was Peter Steele, just chilling, with his songs playing in the air.
We were hanging out and he is a really cool guy.
The best thing about being dead is that all the shit that drives you crazy is just gone, he was saying.
(There’s nobody trying to force you to eat bugs, or shipping in tons of fentanyl to murder the populace for example-these examples are my contribution BTW.-M)
Anyway, he was telling me stuff, and his music was playing and I said to him that I really liked his cover of Neil Young’s Cinnamon Girl. It was unique, in that there really wasn’t any heavy message, even if it was well-mystical.
He said to me then that everything shouldn’t be deep and involved, that there needs to be room for fun. I started to think about how right he was.
I remember when I was just a kid, doing something for fun wasn’t a valid reason. Fun was unimportant, it got people into trouble, it wasn’t work-usually, so the adults stood over you and told you with all the subtlety and aplomb of a belly flop from the high dive to figure out what you were going to do in this man’s world.
But this was just bullshit. My uncle Chuck was one of the toughest dudes I ever knew. After he got out of the Marine Corps y’know what he did? He built a giant model train set-because IT WAS FUN.
Anyhow, I enjoyed hanging with Peter, and don’t let anyone tell you that dead people aren’t fun, because they sure can be. So, I’m dedicating this post to Peter, who took the time to hang out with me-an absolute nobody.
And yeah, I love this rendition of Cinnamon Girl.
Postscript:
The isolation and devastation of the crumbling society is made manifest today in myriad ways. One of the cruelest tricks played on all of us is the nihilistic notion that when one is dead they are erased, deleted, utterly gone.
The directive forces in society never question whether their authority is misplaced, misconstrued, or just plain wrong.
Power over others is a means to an end, in a culture where your ability to simply live is dependant upon your ability to pay the right people to keep keeping on.
The drive towards personal devastation, often enough through a twisted disfigured compassion, one that masks a vicious hostility creates a maladaptive insanity.
The experience of communing with the dead is not limited to mediums, vetted experts, nor is it just in your head. More often than not, the meeting is described as extra ordinary, a charged moment, full of intensity…
In this disfigured world.
Opiate induced diverticulitis ?