The Many Faces of Greydon Clark

The shear audacity of the project made me want to attend. Or maybe it was the absurdity. The Rambler, was a twelve hour composition of amplified sound. “An interpretation of the Sun's proximity to the Earth as expressed on the autumnal equinox, defining a relationship between light, sound, and the space they inhabit.” You can’t make that shit up. Nonetheless, if some heavy metal dudes are going to going to play at 6AM and celebrate the rising sun and the return of the autumnal equinox, well, I’m going to be there.

Secretly, I wish I had a pagan side. I wish I could talk about Satan and sacrificing goats or even the existence of evil with a straight face. But I can’t. Shit is retarded—Jesus Crispiness, but with a slightly different hue. Yet, in spite of my relentless pragmatism, I love the equinoxes. I love the solstices. Do I celebrate these demarcations the way a new mother celebrates the circumcision of her son or his first bowel movement? No. But I try to make them memorable. I try to be outside. I try to see the stars, the moon; the celestial objects that demark our collective place in the universe. Why? Because I’m going to die and I might as well see what has always been and what always will be.



A few years ago, my friend Ben and I did some hiking in Yosemite; we climbed a couple peaks and then spent the autumnal equinox sleeping under the stars. This is as close as I get to religion. And it was beautiful. I don’t wish you were there. This year I arose at 5AM, got on my bike, rode through the ghetto and watched some Heshers express—through symmetrical beats per minute and a wondering collective of wondering minstrels—the rise and fall of the Sun; its twelve hour trajectory across the sky. It was beautiful. I wish you were there.