Completion of "Hero of Mine," publication of new Beatles and horror film pieces, the Grateful Dead and Easter

Sunday 4/20/25

To write something so simple that it's more complex than anything else could be. To write something that everyone can understand right away and that no one will ever come close to fully understanding.

I set out to that do with "Hero of Mine," which is finally done as of this Easter morning, and I believe I did it.

It's "all of" 1100 words long, but you can't measure or gauge something like this by word count, which is indicative of nothing.

Publishing people wouldn't understand this. It'd be lost on them. It's so radical that it would prove beyond their conception of what radical is or can be. Like it had lapped them many times, and was standing right next to them again, as if it hadn't gone anywhere.

But I know. And I think people who aren't these people would know and feel it as well. Perfect for a five-year-old, and for the smartest person there's ever been. And what else is that true about?

There's no ego in writing something like this. It's completely selfless writing, with no limitations of any kind. Writers are held back by so many things. Their lack of ability, imagination, knowledge, effort. Their insecurities. Their hang-ups. Their motivations. Their morals.

This story is totally, purely free from all such limitations. The reaching of that state is something I've devoted every last part of my life to. Every part of who I am. Seeing this story is testament that I am there. The part in the story about the "beautiful proof" is something that should be around and ring out forever.

Don't write anything that's meant to be read once. Write things that can be read an indefinite amount of times. Write things that are meant to be read more than songs are meant to be played. Write things for which one can essentially press play again and again.

One who begins reading "Hero of Mine" can--and is perhaps apt--to think it's for a child. That the questions it asks--and there are point blank questions--are inquiries for children. But as the reader--an adult reader--goes along, they realize that their initial surmise isn't very logical. That all of these words and those inquiries are equally addressed to them and are equally relevant. There is no slanting towards an group or demographic in the story. Nothing you could quote that suggests, "This is more for a six-year-old than a forty-six-year-old." It's not in the language. While at the same time, a child who is reading--or having it read to them--will think that if it's not speaking to them alone, then to them directly in various parts. It could be for an adult book or a children's book. It can be understood by my five-year-old niece, and written about by scholars.

I'm going to send it some people this morning for Easter.

A new Beatles piece about the same-day release of "Day Tripper"/"We Can Work It Out" and Rubber Soul was published the other day, as well as a 3600 word piece about Easter horror films. The latter will be in a book I'm calling Nightmares Be Damned: Writings About Horror Films Worth Staying Up For.

The Red Sox got another excellent start yesterday from Garrett Crochet, who has to date far exceeded my expectations. He's been dynamite.

On Thursday I walked six miles, did five circuits of stairs in the Bunker Hill Monument and 200 push-ups; Friday was the same minus the latter; and yesterday I walked five miles, did five more circuits of stairs and 100 push-ups. Today marks 3206 days, or 458 weeks, without a drink.

Downloaded the Végh Quartet's complete cycle of Bartók's string quartets; Girls in the Garage--a twelve-disc collection of 1960s female garage music; a second and higher quality source of the Who's 12/7/71 Phoenix, Arizona show; Fairport Convention's Live at the BBC; and quite a bit of Dick Twardzik.

Also: I just listened to Duke Ellington's "Diminuendo and Crescendo in Blue" from Alhambra 1958 and am ready to pop someone in need of popping. Paul Gonsalves.

It was on an Easter--when I was alone, as I am always alone--some years ago that I had the musical epiphany of my life. I started playing a random Grateful Dead show--from May 14, 1974, at the University of Montana--and a lot changed. The Grateful Dead are the most impactful musical presence of my life.

I'll sit there for three hours most nights studying their music. But I always make sure to play it on Easter. One of those aforementioned op-eds was about the Dead and the power of gospel music.

There the Dead were, going along in their career, playing what people often--though wrongfully--called psychedelic music, as if that's what it mostly was, or really was at all--when they pulled off the greatest 180 in the history of American music in 1970. This about-face took the form of the albums Workingman's Dead and American Beauty--the latter being the finest record ever made in this country in my view--and with their concerts that year, many of which featured an acoustic set and folk and gospel numbers.

There is a tape from that year attributed to San Diego on August 5. The material is entirely acoustic, and, fittingly enough for Easter--and for life--shrouded in mystery. For the Dead did not play on that day in San Diego. We don't know where the tape is from. We know roughly when, but not exactly when.

They play a version of "Swing Low Sweet Chariot" that, when I listen to it, I am listening to it for what might as well be the first time again, every time. I believe that's what "Hero of Mine" is like as a reading experience. About halfway through, the audience--which had been quiet until that point--starts clapping along. Something clicks. Then they clap along louder. It just took some time for them to find it, and to realize what they were a part of.