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One flew east
One flew west
One flew over
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WASHINGTON AND O R IG O N COASTS
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SAYING GOODBYE TO KEN KESEY
I can't say I really "knew" Ken Kesey. I'd met and
chatted with him and Faye some years back at a book signing.
I'd read his "Sailor Song" and he'd read my "Sea Stories." Kesey
liked didgeridoos. I played mine for them. But I didn't make
contact again until a few months ago, just to say hi via email
"...before one of us croaks," as I put it. He remembered me,
said my books were on the shelf near his desk, invited me to
the farm "some Sunday afternoon." A fool would pass it up. I
told Kesey I didn't plan to write anything. It was just a friendly
visit, unmarred by "business."
My friend Jim accompanied me on the grueling, 4+-
hour drive from Astoria to Pleasant Hill. The Mapquest map
was wrong, but we saw the bus from the road. Kesey met us. It
was Sunday, September 9,2001, just a few hours before the
9/11 paradigm shift and a couple of months before Kesey's own
reality shift. A friend called the meeting propitious. I looked it
up. Yeah, that's it, propitious.
We sat at a large table next to the most recent
incarnation of the legendary magic bus "Further." Kesey
hopped up on the table, scraping, sanding, touching up parts of
the mobile mural. We just talked. It was a beautiful afternoon.
We played Kesey's "Thunder Machine" contraption, I played
the didge, we all had a few laughs, and yes, shared shamanic
sacrament. The whole experience was almost exactly as I had
imagined it... and I got to look deeply into the man's eyes and
engage in a very focused exchange of thoughts, ideas,
perspectives. His departure from this form lends greater depth
and import to all those words.
This was not "Finding Forrester." He knew me, knew
about the long struggle with the crow book, had raised crows,
too. There are many crows painted on Further The Bus,
perhaps Kesey's true magnum opus.
I consider myself extremely fortunate. There were no
exchanges of writing secrets. I asked and answered most of my
own questions, Kesey nodding, commenting in a low, pleasant
voice, deep blue eyes, a nice man, a decent soul thrust into a
strange role, just trying to make things better, maintaining
impeccable dignity and integrity throughout the whole trip,
leaving the planet in better shape than it had been, setting a
good example. Inspiring.
John Paul Barrett
Writer, etc., Astoria
Kesey's long-time friend, Ken Babbs:
"A great good friend and great husband and father
and grand dad, he will be sorely missed but if there is one thing
he would want us to do it would be to carry on his life's work.
Namely to treat others with kindness and if anyone does you
dirt forgive that person right away. This goes beyond the art,
the writing, the performances, even the bus. Right down to the
bone.
Good thing the second generation pranksters are on
the job: Zane Kesey and Simon Babbs. They know the routine.
They'll keep it going. Meanwhile, keep the fires stoked, the
wheels greased and the windscreens clean. Stay tuned for
further reports."
FURTHER ON!
Yes, we ARE One Family!
If you want to donate something send it to the Spotlight
Theater.
P.O. Box 802
Pleasant Hill OR 97455
It's a non-profit local community theater group where
Ken Kesey's grand daughter Kate performs. Thanks.
Ken Babbs
The conscious utterance of thought,
by speech or action, to any end, is Art...
Art Is the spirit's voluntary use and
combination of things to serve Its end.
— Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ken Kesey
September 17 ,1 9 3 5 ~ November 10, 2001
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You remember where you were when you learn that
people you care about have reached the speed of light. I was in
Menresa, Spain when I got an e-mail telling me about Ken
Kesey. I had heard of possible health problems, but Kesey was
strong, a wrestler, he could go nose to nose with the Hell's
Angels and break even. His writing was great at times, as was
his life; he went all out, at times. I say this because 1 respect
him as that most rare creature - a human being. Human
beings are not heroes, they are not role models, they are human
beings. More real than perfect is how a friend described it.
I met Kesey three times in the flesh, over the thirty
years I was aware of his existence. He was a different man each
time, because we were in a different time each time. The first
encounter I had was second hand. He was at the Springfield
Creamery Booth at the Oregon Country Fair one morning when
I was getting coffee for ine and ice cream for my son James,
then about six or seven. James was doing a thing with his
sweatshirt where he put one arm in a sleeve and held the other
sleeve while slipping his free hand under the front of his
sweatshirt and pushing it up between the arms. Yes, it is as
silly as it sounds. Well, Kesey was watching and wanted to see
how it was done and they played together for a while. I smiled.
The second encounter was also at the Country Fair,
backstage at the midnight show, and even though, for obvious
reasons I don't recall the whole thing clearly, I was sure he was
acting like an arrogant asshole. I shook my head. The last time
I saw him was at the Nehalem Bay Winery for a party. I had
brought some of my copies of his books and asked him to sign
them. He was a gracious and witty as you could hope for an
author to be under the circumstances.
His writing, like his life, had its good and bad days. I
think it fitting that one of the last things he wrote, "The Last Go
Around," was a re-telling of a story he had learned from his
father about the history of the Pendleton Round-up. I loved it.
MSB®
OTC!
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you ridiculous if you earn no money. — Jules Renard
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