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On The Shore Of The Infinite

  • Jerry Garcia's been on my mind, so his spirit kindly pays me a visit. We're on stage in San Francisco's Golden Gate Park; the whole Grateful Dead family is there along with thousands of Deadheads. We jam Fire On The Mountain till the sun goes down.

  • With Allen in a futuristic amalgamation of UC Santa Cruz and a multi-level shopping mall. Both of us are having a very lucid dream, calling objects, people, events and architecture into being by a simple act of will. We play a game of improvisational reality creation, weaving a continuous narrative flow like a childhood game of pretend--except our fantasies bloom instantly to flesh and blood. I have only sense-impressions of our activities, they were so often non-sequiteur and whimsical: lots of flying from rooftops and elaborate social scenarios into which we'd drop magical events to astonish everybody. Temporarily bored with the game, I fly to the edge of the landscape where ocean waves are crashing against the rocky shore under a starry sky. Fully awake inside the dream, I ponder my existence. This body, these sharp rocks, those constellations...there is no hazy "dreaminess" to be found here--just soft flesh, solid earth and clear light. How can I possibly assign the word "reality" to that mundane world into which I will soon awaken? Looking out to sea, where the rolling waves retreat into the lightless depths, I start to get The Fear. The ocean represents the cosmic infinite to which I will inevitably return at death. Yet I can sit here, in a body made of my own imagination, watching it churn and crash. I know it is watching me; I know it wants me to dive into it now. But even though I have no fear of bodily harm, it is the fear of losing my own small self in the infinite depths of the great Self that holds me back. "I'm sorry. I'm just not ready yet." I turn my back and return to the reality game.