Her blind eye was flame in Normal entries

A couple thousand years ago I was digging through the bargain bin at one of those long lost cheap vinyl/disc stores that once festooned the greater Portland metro area, and I came across the disc that had the above song. Wasn’t even a cut out, just didn’t sell. Somewhere on the back, or some clerk, or quirk of memory, I knew he had written a bunch of Grateful Dead Lyrics. And so I really wanted to like the album like I really wanted to like most dead songs.

I picked this up before Jerry was Dead, again, but, I think, some time after it was released. I’d sure like to say I loved the whole album. I don’t remember the whole album, I liked this song first time I heard it. I forgot what led me to look it up today, could be nothing more than nostalgia. Back in the day it was easy to stump youtube; if they have this they must have everything.

Once you get past all the curli-cues, acoustic jangles and Spanish coda, it’s a bit like some Dylan songs; it’s cryptic for no apparent reason. Now Dylan had that sort of inscrutable if not scornful, if-you-don’t-get-it-maybe=it’s-not-for-you, Robert Hunter does not. Seriously, what the fuck are the keys to the rain? If I’m supposed to guess there’s supposed to be clues. Of course he does that a lot, I think he just liked the phrase. Maybe he liked the part about getting someone to believe you had the keys to the rain. I don’t know, my belief in something isn’t necessarily tied into shit I know. I’m positive there is more shit on this planet alone that I don’t know than shit I do. So, if you tell me you’ve got the keys to the rain, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt as long as it doesn’t cost me anything. I know, it doesn’t sound that significant when it’s laid out like that, but lots of folks will let the benefit of the doubt fall the other way and/or think it’s valueless if it doesn’t cost something.

I tried reworking a few lines into a flash or short story. There’s a lot to work with or else there’s nothing to work with, I didn’t would be the upshot. Though I might have stole ‘…Her blind eye was flame …’ and I guarantee it wouldn’t have been gratuitously cryptic. How can I guarantee that? Because I’d be impressed with myself if I could write something gratuitously cryptic, and that hasn’t happened in a long time, but not so long I wouldn’t remember.

Sure, I don’t need to rely on memory for the details about the album that I generally glossed over. They are all strewn across the information highway (heading west, heading east it’s the disinformation highway. If everyone is honking at you you’re probably going the wrong way.). I try not to look things up unless I’m stumped, it’s like adding a number to speed dial, you forget the number itself.

Anyhow, that’s me, nearing the end of September, 730 EST, 2018.