I was thinking about Elvis today. I know that the anniversary of his death was a week or so ago. But today, for some reason, I thought about where I was when I first heard the news of his passing. I just moved back in with my parents after having explored the possibility of my having a career in the Christian ministry. Instead, in Martin Luther form, I went to prepare a place for me and my soon to be wife. In my early twenties and feeling the angst of perhaps going against my calling for the love of a girl, I moved home, found a job and as is always the case, I seem to stand out like a sore thumb.
I am an individual. Never follow the crowd. And not unlike Elvis perhaps, I have had some copy my personal trends. Don't forget. I am the inventor of the mullet! I didn't attend my graduation of high school or college because pomp and circumstance makes me ill.
So, I started this job at a furniture factory and smoked pot for the first time in several years. I had just stapled my left hand and a fellow employee helped me pull it out. Someone came by and announced that "they" had found Elvis dead.
I remember feeling that Elvis got in over his head. I thought that perhaps, given the chance, I could have gotten through to him. I felt bad knowing that he, like anyone else, can easily come to a point of clinging; a point whereby we seek to hang onto and manufacture what we were and ingnore the we of the present moment. Like dancing a dance. We dance from the start to the finish of the song. We don't just stop and try to hold onto just one note or a short refrain. No, we dance through and along with the music. But even at close to 300 Lbs, ladies were throwing their underwear up onto the stage. Not a bad deal! But he was far from happy. Money. Fame. Babes. How could he be unhappy?
I knew what he was feeling. Free of charge. Brother to brother. I was willing to kick his lame Karate ass and say, "What the Fuck, man!"
I never had the opportunity. And although I did work for several years within vocational rehab and as a mental health advocate, I wish that I had the chance. Just the chance, to say, "You stupid Mutha-Fucka. Shit it all out and go your own way. You'd be better for it."
But Elvis I suppose, just like the dance, was meant to burn out. Better to burn out than just fade away?