Eulogy 1/10/2026 - For Bob Weir by Ryan Cameron

Solemnly, they state: “You know he had to die, you know he had to die.”

The elder statesman has left the near magical mélange of melodies and
rhyme. The constant battle toward endless ruin amalgamated itself over
him. Death has its own way of improvisation, an ancient fancy that comes
along to work in a garden of roses. Roses are a symbol of completion;
completion of the glowing mystery, the completion of joy, of secrets now
turned to silence. First pink, then true red balloons of water dropped into a
coffin shaped box until the box runs flat with rain.

Dark stars are found only on the sub-atomic level, set to spin and vibrate
toward their thermonuclear end points. That is where the great stories
seem to be fashioned.

The great stories always end. The travelogue has its last mile of dizzy and
dissolving returns. Carrion crows caw with harps, wire rubbing against wire.
Charity to the songless. Life picks out the tune and sings until the throat
blackens, then ashes, blowing wildly into the wind. The same wind will
whistle back to ears that listen for it. Other voices will come, pick up where
the last passage left off, repeat it enough times till it feels renewed and
changed.