Dead Horse Radio

White haired goddess, one of those barefooted timeless hippies, dancing at my side, as a couple hundred Deadheads lounged on picnic blankets behind me, watching me wiggle my butt. I was one of those toddlers, unencumbered by embarrassment that would color my cheeks rosy now. It’s a pity that I require cajoling by my friends, maybe a bit of alcohol, to simply dance as I did, not even naked.

My mother was a fan of the Grateful Dead, she used to play their American Beauty cassette in the car or around the house, and I would get goosebumps when she would faintly whisper the last two lines of the outro to “Box of Rain”:

Such a long, long time to be gone

And a short time to be here

It might be my favorite song of all time, I love it dearly. Since then, I have read that Phil scored the melody, during his time comforting his father in the final days of cancer.

Growing older, I can relate, for the steady giants that raised me have begun to falter before my eyes, scary news each year, and it dawns on me, that in my depressive naval gazing, I hadn’t considered that other people would die before me, grandparents yes, that’s a given, but — but not the adults (the real ones).

Such a mundane fear, that comes with the realization that you won’t be leaving the party early in the manner of a rock star, but rather, have to stay till the end, to help with the cleanup, and deal with that awkward ache. I don’t know what to do in those situations, as I shuffle from foot to foot as guests begin making their way towards the door.

There was a documentary released the year I was born, “Lessons from a Calf”. When I got around to watching it, I was moved to tears when the elementary students held a mourning ceremony for the stillborn calf that the cow they had raised gave birth to. In that moment, I felt failed by all those around me, never given the tools needed to navigate grief. I wondered how those children were fairing now, nearly a decade older than me, their parents, aunts, uncles, and their friends passing these days.

Long story short, I buried a newborn deer in a steel sarcophagus in the shape of an orb. There are several types of microphones embedded within and around her, transmitting the sounds of her decay, as the bugs feast, to an online radio. I have been listening to this station each night as I lay in bed, conjuring images of myself growing into a tree.

Initially, I intended to find a newborn foal, to name this nine month track the “Grate-foal Dead”, I’m laughing to myself as I write this, it’s silly I know. I have settled on a Muntjac Deer, my friends and I came across her on our drive home after England beat Norway.

Anyways, this bootleg therapeutic device, it's doing me good, and maybe, if you suffer from a similar affliction, it could do the same for you.

With much love,

umico