Portal in the Parking Lot

A glimpse of simultaneous time in Gothenburg, 25 September, 1987

The other four buses and the trucks for the sound equipment, wardrobe, etc. were already in the Scandinavium parking lot. The entire cast that kept the play unfolding, from those in the spotlight to those behind it – The Heartbreakers, the Queens of Rhythm, the various people in charge of sound, light, instruments, food, wardrobe, money, venue relations, booking ferries, flights, hotels, maintaining vehicles, etc. etc. etc., truly a traveling village – had already gotten there to set up, scope out, and make sure everything would be running smoothly, the sound balanced, the lights perfect, and everyone, especially Bob, would have what they needed. A few folks were hanging out, some sitting on the steps of the buses, the doors open, enjoying a beer and a joint in the pungent autumn air before the evening raised the curtain to reveal the moon and all our twinkling neighbors sharing our corner of the cosmos.

Bob’s energy felt like quietly glowing coals, mellow but ready to spring into flame the moment he ignited them with the bellows of his voice, like a blacksmith at his forge, raising the heat until stiff iron could be made lyrical. In a few short hours we would all be watching him work that state-shifting magic, bellows pumping, sparks flying, in the smithy of his heart.

In no hurry to enter the building, he was enjoying this prolonged moment in the vast parking lot, strolling quite slowly. These interludes between the scheduled things that needed doing were his chance to refill his well, let the energy of nature flow in before it would be pumped out like a heart, to be received by the thousands gathered.

The way his feet met the ground as he walked showed how fully he was feeling his body, (I confess I felt a twinge of pride for helping with that), connecting to the earth, even through his motorcycle boots, drawing Earth’s energy up through his feet into his whole body. It was an image I often asked him to imagine in our movement sessions, and he dug it, always surprisingly receptive to such things as connecting to the spirit of the earth.

Little conversations were happening here and there amid laughter, some people playing cards, Tom Petty playing his acoustic guitar, it all feeling like a timeless gypsy caravan. I had that feeling again that I’d had after our movement session, of everything sighing within and around us, and then, as unexpectedly as slipping on ice, something shifted, like remembering a dream, and in that instant being back in it.

A wave of deep camaraderie between all of us swept through me with great tenderness, as if we weren’t just traveling together, but we were time-travelers toegether, Shakespeare’s entourage, in fact, arriving in one more town on our long tour, performing his latest plays. Some of us were the players – his company, The King’s Men. Some of us drove the horse and wagons, including the largest wagon that opened out to form a stage, (which must be why we say a play or story “unfolds”). Some of us sewed or mended costumes, others cooked, looked after props, painted backdrops, took the money for a seat, etc. And a small group of us made music for the plays, of which I was one, along with Michael Bloomfield and Billy. On this sky-sighing, bird-blessed, autumn day we had slipped through a tear in the translucent veil of time, no doubt riding on Bob’s highly honed capacity to embrace simultaneous time, and all of us together rode into it behind him, like the tail of his dazzling comet.

Because of that, I have vivid memories of things in that parking lot that by Newton’s laws of physical reality were not there (but by the laws of simultaneous time, and of the angels of experience, were): a campfire and pungent aromas of meat roasting on it, horses grazing under the maple trees, the stink of human sweat so acrid it could curl your hair, women singing bawdy songs as they stitched up tears in costumes, and Tom Petty playing a lute.

The Lute Player, by Giovanni Cariani, Italian, 1514

Tom Petty, courtesy of tompettyofficial on Instagram

Bob, of course, was Shakespeare, walking through his caravan – a dream that had come true – speaking briefly, warmly, with all.

I was floating, in a blissful state, hovering between timelines, following Bob through this parking lot portal between two lifetimes. He strode in his Shakespeare self, proud of his troupe, knowing all would play their part, not only performing the story he’d written, but also living this life that came with it.

Tom, of course, was a great songwriter and performer in his own right, and Bob loved and respected him as a friend and an equal. But it was undeniable that we were all there sharing in Bob’s destiny, his genius, his power to create worlds out of complex emotions, to create a dimension, you could say, whose borders were permeable, where dream, imagination, physical reality, and memory – including other lives – co-exist. It seems to me his songs, in fact, have added dozens of emotions to our awareness, in the way that newly discovered minerals and gases continue to gradually expanded the Periodic Table of Elements from a mere handful 300 years ago, to over a hundred now, and counting. Bob expanded the Periodic Table of Emotions for humanity. They may not all have names, but they all have songs in which we feel their atomic weights.

As we made our way between the buses and trucks, Bob said hi to the singers, stopped at the Heartbreakers’ bus, took a hit off a joint, said something that made them laugh, exchanged a few words with Tom – who, as always, had his acoustic guitar in his hands – then continued on toward the stage door.

I told him I’d catch up to him in a minute, and hung behind to listen to Tom play. When he finished the song, he surprised me by saying, “Whatever you’re doing with him, Christie, keep on doing it. It’s helping him. I can see it in his body when he’s playing…he’s moving better, singing better…it’s like you opened him up.” I cannot lie to you, those words lifted me two feet off the ground, and Tom’s smile – that boyish, gleaming, open-hearted smile that holds nothing back – hit me like a blast of sunshine. The pale blue light that appeared in my inner eye like a beacon up ahead – feeling like an angel when I needed reassurance that I had a purpose there – was beaming, too. I caught up to Bob just as he was entering the stage door, guarded by Big Jim, who was slowly shaking his head to a slight man with a short beard and glasses, clearly intent on entering. It would not be the last we saw of him.