 |
| Chicago from the park where I lived in '85/86 |
During the waning
months of 1984 my gloomy, depression shifted into a powerfully energized state
of mind. I had a lot of stamina, I often worked for hours on end and I
developed a business plan, an action plan and started working to make that
dream come true. In a matter of a couple of months I garnered about $13,000.00
in investment capital through the sale of shares in the company. About half my
investors were family and friends, they gave me sums between $100 and $1,000
but it was something I wish I never accepted. I utilized the $13k to leverage a
larger business loan and leased about $85,000.00 worth of computer and sound
equipment.
 |
| This was my mobile Fairlight set-up |
The primary concept, the key factor of this new production company
was a piece of state-of-the-art equipment known as “The Fairlight Computer
Musical Instrument” (which itself was almost $50k) and was the absolute cutting
edge of music production technology in 1984-85. When I got ours in February, it
had to be custom made and was the first one in Chicago. The Fairlight utilized
large 8” floppy disk drives, the CPU was the size of a coffee table and it had
a neon green touch sensitive screen with a “light pen” to control the
processing. It had both an 88 key piano style keyboard and an alpha-numeric
computer style keyboard, I could also control it with a special “MIDI” guitar,
drum or microphone rig.
 |
| Notice the pen, I could simply "draw music"! |
The Fairlight could sample any sound imaginable and
replicate up to eight instruments simultaneously, there was a synchronized
interface so it was easy to link it to a multi-track recording machine as well
as The Fairlight could trigger and control lights, slides, video and other
media. It was, at that time, the best fucking piece of computer music
technology in the world and I got one.
 |
| Navy Pier was turning point... |
By early spring I was
feeling nearly magnetic with my glamour, charm and friendly appeal. I smooth
talked my way into dozens of lucrative contracts with both major corporations
and local renown artists. I had dozens of clients hire me and my machines for
their recording applications. In October I was hired to develop the
entertainment for a major corporate holiday event at the newly renovated Navy
Pier. I used the programming abilities of the computer to literally “draw in”
and program every single note of Tchaikovsky's “Nut Cracker Suite” on the touch
sensitive screen. I had programmed an entire 80 piece orchestra of sampled
instruments to perform the entire piece while synchronizing all the lights and
special effects with the music perfectly. I was instantly a hit in the
corporate community and demand for my unique, creative services skyrocketed.
I was booked in advance for almost a year by February and in April I found a struggling recording studio. It was a nice 24-track facility with about 6,000 square feet of space located on Belmont Avenue, just west of Southport, walking distance from our little apartment. By the time summer arrived, I was already thriving and enjoying a great deal of business. I worked on industrial and educational film projects, served as a producer/programmer creating background sound track music.
 |
| The Big Studio on Belmont... |
As my little computer music company, Val Productions Inc. continued to grow, my life as a Deadhead seemed to change as well...
I had a sometimes girlfriend who I had met in North Carolina named Peggy-O, we were fellow Deadheads and she was a cool chick with a keen understanding of the metaphysical arts and sciences. I learned a lot
being with Peggy-O and we always
had fun together. With my encouragement, she relocated to Chicago and lived
with Charles, my brother and me until she eventually got her own place. Peggy-O
and I spent a lot of time and money following The Grateful Dead around the
country. Before Peggy-O, I considered myself a Deadhead but I had only been to
maybe a couple dozen shows. Mostly of those shows were around Chicago or while
I was in California a couple times. Once I met up with Peggy-O during the
Spring Equinox shows at Hampton Roads in Virginia in 1984, I started following
the band around on whole tours. Peggy-O and I sold food (grilled cheese
sandwiches or “magic burritos” cooked in a wok) or t-shirts (hand crafted,
tie-dye), while we drove across the country in her little Toyota pick-up truck
with her pint sized dog named Hoover. For almost two solid years, during those
epic 20th Anniversary days of The Grateful Dead, we travelled far
and wide, my everlasting devotion to The Grateful Dead solidified by a hippie
gypsy mama in mystical, magical places where the music never stooped. Sometimes,
we’d just jet into a city for a few days, rent a car and go to a couple sets of
shows, then jet back to Chicago to keep working with my growing little
business. Being self-employed allowed me a lot of freedom.
Since it was my
little company, I had access to all the cash we were making. I had perfect
credit and several gold credit cards with very high limits on them. I used them
freely, at will, whenever I needed. I hired an attorney to insure my rights for
visitation with Valerie were enforced by the courts, but when Rachel relocated
from North Carolina to Kalamazoo, Michigan, it made it even easier for me to
get control and stay in touch with Valerie and that was what was most important
to me.
During this time
everything seemed great and groovy. I was feeling like a boy genius who struck
gold at 24 years old, the world was mine for the taking. The entire year, 1985,
was one awesome thing after another. My creative juices flowed easily, my
magnetism to draw people into our “computer musical based studio” was
incredible and even my personal life, my affairs of the heart and all that,
were fairly well balanced. I focused a lot of attention on Valerie. Rachel’s
father got a job with some company who relocated them from North Carolina to
Michigan and since Rachel and Valerie were living with them at the time, they
too relocated in early spring.
My attorney worked out visitation rights through
the court and I paid my child support directly to the court. This was so Rachel
had to check in with the court to get her money each month. This worked well
until that fall, 1985, when I went to Kalamazoo for Valerie’s 2nd birthday.
Rachel moved out of her parent’s home and was living with some woman named
Linda in a dumpy single building apartment in a seedy part of town. On
Valerie's birthday I went to knock on their apartment door but I was very
surprised when a small Hispanic child opened the door. The child’s mother stood
behind the girl, speaking Spanish. The little girl asked, “Can we help you?”
“Is this, I mean…” I
was looking at the door, it was number four, that was supposed to be Rachel and
Valerie’s place, I stuttered, “Isn’t this Rachel Chayefsky Chalmers, with a
little girl, Valerie?”
“The manager!” the
little girl pointed to the end unit on the building, “Go to the manager.”
“Okay, thank you…” they
shut the door quickly. I walked to the manager’s door, feeling very confused
and getting a very bad feeling. I knocked on the door and heard a loud
television turn down and then a big, beer belly redneck looking man opened the
door and I said, “I’m sorry, good morning, but I was told...are you the
manager?”
“Yep.” the man squinted
at me, rubbed his belly and spoke in hick, “Wha’cha waant?”
“I’m looking for Rachel
Chayefsky...or Chalmers, she has a little girl, they lived in number 4?” I
shook my head, stunned that they moved but hoping they just changed apartments
or something, “I was hoping you know…”
“You know where she
is?” the hick snarled, “Those fucking dyke bitches owe me three fucking months
of rent!”
“What?” I wasn’t sure I
understood him, I again asked, “Do you know where they went?”
“Naw, they fucking left
in the dead of night…” the guy belched and burped, adding, “Skipped out and
gone!”
“Did they have the
little girl?” I started to say, “Valerie…”
“Oh yeah, cute kid.”
the guy shook his head, “I guess, they didn’t leave her here.”
I sat at some
Interstate diner, my mind wondered, wandered, I felt so very cold and alone. I
was terribly confused at the same time, I was very angry. I fucking hated
Rachel at that very moment, probably more than I had ever hated anyone before;
I wanted to kill that fucking bitch! I eventually drove back to Chicago that
evening, the entire journey home my mood shifted from pain, sorrow, sadness to vengeful, hateful, angry rage. Over the next few weeks my attorney tried to
find Rachel through the Michigan court system, but there was no trace of them
at all. In the meanwhile, my mother tried to find out where they went by contacting
Rachel’s parents. Rachel's father told my mother they had to have Rachel
arrested for stealing their money. The story was back in August Rachel
embezzled almost $50,000 from their retirement funds so Rachel was arrested.
She got out on bail, moved with Valerie across town and then never showed up in
court on the embezzlement charges. There is, Rachel's father informed mom, a
warrant out for Rachel but they have not seen Valerie since September. This
destroyed me, a very painful experience because I felt so helpless, so
paralyzed there was nothing I could do but pray Valerie was alright. I had a
lot of fear, Rachel was not a good person for a child to be around and that
child, Valerie, was mine. She was my child in the hands of a psycho-bitch.
Since I was running a high wave with my business, it was easy for me to hide
these negative emotions and simply stuff them in a little box somewhere in the
back of my mind. I continued looking for Valerie, we hired an investigator, we
petitioned the courts in Michigan, North Carolina and California for
information but nothing ever turned up. I did not give up, I kept Valerie alive
in my life, always on my mind, always with Love until I one day find her...or
she finds me. In the meanwhile, my regularly scheduled life simply continued.
The day after Christmas
of '85, without telling my family or friends, Peggy-O and I were on a plane to
San Francisco to spend a few days bumming around the bay area before attending
a couple of Grateful Dead shows on New Year’s.
I was riding a very big manic wave, still making tons of money, so as
Peggy-O and I drove through various areas up and down the coast, we stayed in
nice places along the way. I had a feeling this was the place I belonged.
California always felt like Home.
During those few days, while I enjoyed the
new energies of this almost mythical land, I did a lot of thinking. My birthday
had just passed, it was the dawning of another year and I always got reflective
in December. I thought about how great the past year had been, I contemplated
how I might live the new year but inside, deep inside my soul, something did
not feel exactly right.
A little gnawing feeling, almost pure instinctive
energy that sparked with the potential to ignite an explosive reaction. Peggy-O
pre-ordered her tickets months ahead but I didn’t have any tickets until we got
there and a friend of hers hooked me up for the first night's show. But for the
second show, New Year’s Eve, I didn't have a ticket and it was very unlikely I
could find a ticket at all. We went together the first night, Peggy-O and me,
we played it very mellow and just hung out high in the rafters, smoking a lot
of dope with her college friends. When the show was over I felt a little sad
because I thought I was going to miss the Main Event, New Year's Eve. I don't
know if it was simply in my karma or if I'm just one very lucky mother fucker,
but as we left the parking lot, three young hippy girls ran up to us. They were
upset, one of them cried while she explained how a friend was in the hospital.
Another of the girls put her hand on my arm and squeezed it while she asked,
almost pleaded, could we please help them get to the hospital? We were about to
say yes, when the girl who gripped my arm gave me a gentle tug and said, “I
have an extra ticket for tomorrow night, I’ll give it you for a ride to the
hospital”
So there we two were,
Peggy-O and me, on New Year’s Eve of 1985, walking to the stadium in the balmy
late afternoon and hanging out all day in the parking lot scene. By the time
the doors opened, we separated. Peggy-O dashed off with a long lost girlfriend
from college. I wandered around, clutched a journal close to my chest and
smiled a sly smile at everyone I made eye contact with until a woman, she was
maybe in her 40's, stepped in my path and stopped me. “You look very Grateful
to be here tonight.” she said, “How about another miracle or two?”
“Excuse me?” I looked
at her face, it was warm, friendly and somehow, strangely familiar to me. I
looked at her hand, she held two small purple micro-dots of LSD. I smiled, “Is
that for me?”
“You tell me, is it for
you?” she held her hand higher, “Take them, if you want or not, but enjoy the
show.”
“Thank you.” I smiled
and scooped the two tiny hits. I asked, “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing but a good
life, man...” she walked away backwards, disappeared into the crowd, “Be well.”
 |
| This how I remember seeing the first set... |
When the show started,
as The Grateful Dead kicked the evening off with a powerfully engaging
rendition of “Not Fade Away” I took both hits of acid, about to take the ride
of my life. Time stopped, there was nothing but music and lights, bodies of warm
souls and I felt invisible, I felt transparent, I felt the energy of
everything, time and space and matter, all of it colliding between my eyes and
ears while the music floated my liquid body away. I don't know where I was most
of the time but by the end of the first set, while the band jammed an amazing
“Let It Grow”, I was tripping balls harder than I could ever remember.
 |
| An actual photo after midnight...1986. |
I was
sweating hard and had been dancing and running around the arena in a crazed,
dazed state of mind. During set break, when the house lights come on for a
reality check, I found myself near the back of the arena. I sat to write, but
that was not possible so I scribbled while I caught my breath. Eventually, a
little before midnight, I stood up to find a better place to be when the show
resumed.
 |
| This is how Kesey looked when I met him |
As I rounded a corner near the back of the stage, there he was, big
and tall and larger than life, The Merry Prankster himself, Ken Kesey! I
couldn’t believe it, I had been searching for this man, he was my hero, my
idol, the man I wished my father was and I slammed right into him without
looking! I almost did a face plant into his big barrel chest when he grabbed me
by the shoulders, slightly shook me and said, “Whoa there, space cowboy!”
“You’re Ken Kesey!” I
stumbled back to get a good look at him, “I’ve been looking for you for so
long!”
“Well, you found me!”
he laughed, “What’s your name, son?”
“I’m d’Philip, from
Chicago…” I was going to explain to him how I had followed The Oregon Trail to
find him but I found Babbs and then Lennon was shot so instead of being a
writer, I went back to pursue music again, but all I said was, “I’m a writer.”
“Me too!’ he again
chuckled in a friendly bear sort of way, “Are you in school?”
“No, not now, but…” I
stopped as his smile grew wider, “What?”
“You should be in
school.” He shook his head and added, as almost an afterthought, something that
stayed with me for the next two decades, “If you want to be a writer, whatever
you do, avoid fame at all costs!”
“Avoid fame?” it was an
odd statement, “Like how?”
"Just do, just be..." I think I heard him say as he walked faster, I tried to keep up but in my altered state all I could hear was, "You'll be okay."
“Okay…” a big burly
security guard stopped me as Kesey continued walking, I shouted after him, “Thank
you, you’ve changed my life!”
“Peace and Love!” he
held up his hand with the victory symbol, not turning around at all, his voice
booming as I lost sight of him, “You need Love in the Dream!”
I thought about that statement, I
thought about that conversation and how curious it was that I even got into the
show let alone get a great miracle dose then meet Ken Kesey. Later, years later
even after I retold the story over and over to all my dead head friends, nobody
believed me. It didn’t matter, it did happen, even if it was all in my mind, it
was an encounter that altered the course of my life. It was also the start of a
dialogue with Kesey, a conversation that continued into the future. But that
night, after the show, when the parking lot was cleared out and I went roaming
along the docks of Oakland alone I repeatedly whispered those words to myself,
“Avoid fame at all costs!”
“Do what?” Peggy-O
laughed when she found me looking out on the waters of the dark bay as the
reflection of the city lights sparkled back at me as I sat there waiting for
something or someone to show me the way. Peggy-O groaned as she tried pulling
me up, “What are you tripping on, you okay?”
“Life is awesome!” I
answered as I crawled back up on my feet, “I met him, tonight, during set
break, I ran into Kesey!”
“Ken Kesey?” she helped
me walk towards the street while we looked for a cab, “Did you get his
autograph?”
There was no way I
could sustain this level of success with Val Productions, my state of mind was
eroding, the stress of managing the bills, selling the services, completing the
production and still wear a positive mask was getting too difficult. I was very
busy in 1986, I accomplished some of my most impressive projects, I put in a
lot of hard hours and my studio was booked solid. Things started to catch up
with me, emotional things like Valerie's wellbeing and her exact whereabouts,
not knowing was eating away at my heart daily. All year I was trying to find
Valerie, I spent thousands on investigators, searching in her known locations
like North Carolina, Southern California and even Chicago, but I could not find
her. The entire year was one long, slow, awful slide from that manic high of
New Year’s Eve and finally meeting Kesey down to the lowest of lows I had yet
come to know.
By Spring Tour of 1986,
I was no longer with the girlfriend, Peggy-O and I went different directions. I
jumped on The Grateful Dead’s East Coast Spring tour with the shows in Hampton,
Virginia and crossed the country, zigging & zagging in California and
eventually came back to Chicago after Alpine Valley in June.
I planned to stay
in Chicago, but instead I had a huge argument with Charles about the business
and a second fist fight with my kid brother because I was insanely out of
control. The same night I drove straight through to Cincinnati, Ohio to catch
up with the tour.
The show was over by the time I arrived, but I made a few
friends and continued the tour until it ended in Washington D.C, on a late
Monday night, with the encore of “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” echoing louder
in my head than the music I played on the cassette deck. That song, a Rolling
Stones tune that I hated playing when I was a teenage rock star, somehow fit me at that moment.
I turned off the stereo and drove in silence. I took the non
Interstate route home to Chicago, along old U.S. 50, The Lincoln Highway and I
was alone. I drove in the dark, my eyes red and burning, tired and wasted; I
drove through the day, my neck hurting, my ass flatter than Ohio and my mind
racing with a thousand colliding thoughts. After the grueling 16 hour ride, I
was ready to rest my bones after this intense 1986 tour. I came home to a half
empty apartment, again. My brother and Charles decided to move back to North
Carolina because they had enough of my increasingly erratic actions and my anger and my rage that snapped unexpectedly for no apparent reasons and without warning. They were just gone, they left me with their share
of the rent and a sarcastic note that made me feel nothing but shit. I was shit. I slept for almost three days but the day I
went back into the studio, Jerry Garcia fell into a diabetic coma. I
started drinking heavily that day and although gratefully Garcia recovered, I
didn’t. I had already wasted more money throughout the year was quickly falling
behind on the bills. I really felt left out to dry by everyone I knew because I
was not living the high life any more, I was broke so nobody wanted to be my
friend, not even my brother.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
 |
| www.dphilipchalmers.net |
That was an excerpt from my book, “My BiPolar Reality; HowLife Goes On…” and I’ve decided to share this now because I’ve been thinking about the skyrocketing price of concert going these days...how do people do it now? Tickets are outrageous, gas is astronomical, hotels are insanely over-priced and where the fuck can anyone camp anymore?
But that’s all I say about that, because, in
accordance with the contractual obligations I have with my publishers, I am
encouraged to expand on the metal health issues more completely (and stop
talking about the fucking Grateful Dead)!
.jpg) |
| Jerry Garcia circa 1986 |
This passage is essentially two of the most complex and
pivotal years during my “undiagnosed” period because the bipolar symptoms
presented so very clearly, in both extremes, during this 24 month cycle. I was
so very manic during the first part, in 1985, I was goddamn King of Chicago (or
so I deluded myself into thinking) and ALL my painful, sad, hurtful emotions
were squeezed into tiny holes in the darkest corners of my soul. I used that
magnetic quality of being manic, of being exciting and adventurous to inspire
other people, to make them see big pictures and in return, they gave me large
sums of money. I earned it, I worked hard to create masterful presentations, but
I never believed in myself really, so every time I went to sell myself, my
services, I put on the show, it was a macabre con-game inside my head. I didn’t
have to open my mouth, I could just show them what my Fairlight could do and
they would ask, “How Much?” but instead of just saying what the rate was, I
never had a set rate, I would “play” the prospect to see how much I could get
from them. I did projects for major corporations and got 5 figure rates, I did
jobs for other bands, I took a few hundred bucks and threw in extra studio
time. But what was dangerous about this unchecked mania was that I was hurting
people around me. I didn’t lose, not at all, not for two solid years. My ego
was out of control and I used both my intellect and ability to find and push a
person’s emotional buttons to get whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted it.
Nobody said no, at least, not until after New Year’s Eve 1985-86, the night I
met my hero, Ken Kesey…and he said, “Know.”
The second half of the excerpt is the flip side of the first
part, the manic energies I controlled (or controlled me) in 1985 flipped to a
different polar emotion and 1986 found me both severely depressed and extremely
angry. My sharp tongue cut even more ties, my arrogance and lack of
accountability eventually buried my business and credit rating. I went from an
easy going, chill, creative and mellow dude who smoked weed into an up-tight,
arrogant asshole who drank so much I could barely function let alone be
creative. I didn’t have control over it, but I thought I did so I blamed myself
which only contributed to the downward spiral effect.
During both those years,
although I didn’t notice it then because I was busy living through it, but
looking back from my vintage perspective today; I was always cycling between
those poles, that happy and cool dude and the arrogant asshole dude, in and
out, sometimes in a moment and sometimes over days…but during each year, there
was distinctive “dominant” polar point. In clinical terms this is rapid
cycling, one form of BiPolar and it is also BiPolar I, long term cycles, a
second type of BiPolar Disorder.
I wonder, does this make me BiBiPolarPolar?
The science of this disorder would indicate a lack of
chemical controls in my brain functions. This imbalance creates rushes of
emotions, often conflicting emotions, which triggers the erratic behavior in
the individual suffering with the disorder. The imbalance of chemicals can
cause a person to think in ways they never would naturally think, or in many
cases, not think at all…especially about consequences or ramifications, these
self producing brain chemicals cause cloudy thinking, poor judgment and it far
worse than the worst acid trip I’ve ever had!
 |
| This is a Jobs statement I'm sure he actually said! |
Ah, yes, I have taken LSD, a lot
of it in fact and so one must wonder, is this perhaps the cause of my chemical
imbalance? Maybe, I’m not sure but there are more people who have various forms
of bipolar disorder that NEVER took LSD and they have the same problems as I
do, so really, who knows, right? I might even admit that it could have prompted
the onset of my mental illness, but in truth, I have a much different experience
which I believe; I think my use of LSD indeed helped me deal with my confused
state of mind.
I know it’s widely demonized and unless it’s the real deal,
it’s maybe with good reason because blotter, kids, is not really great LSD,
okay? I have used it from a dropper, freshly made and served on a sugar cube, I
have had it on both micro-dot pills that quickly dissolved and dropped drips
into my eyes too. I’m absolutely sure it did me good too, in ways I cannot
explain because, well it’s like trying to describe an orgasm or how it feels to
free fall from 25,000 feet…unless you’ve been there, done it yourself, you can
hardly imagine the experience. It’s not always been groovy good trips either,
I’ve been to some very dark and scary places too, I’ve had some bad trips…but
even then, it’s like trying to describe what it’s like to be in a war zone or
catastrophe, unless you’ve been there, you won’t really get it, dig?
My point is, however, LSD opened pathways in
my mind which have re-framed my thought process in a way that still operates
today. I have not done LSD since my 34th birthday (almost 20 years
ago), but it’s on my bucket list for something to do if I make it to a sprite
old age of 80; I think tripping when I’m an old geezer will be a lot of fun! If
I lived that long, nature willing, I’ll have to find a chemist friend to help
me read this formula, but otherwise, there’s always the Carlos Castaneda way!
To wrap this article up, I’d simply surmise that drugs, both
“street” drugs and “prescribed” drugs can and sometimes do help the individual
cope with these complex chemical imbalances. This is a reason why many people
with mental illness issues sometimes become addicts or alcoholics; it’s a
twisted form of self-medication. I’m fortunate to not have much of an addictive
personality, if anything, I get very easily bored by most things quickly
(including the drug culture/party atmosphere). Others are not so fortunate and
they have the burden of working on the addiction issues too, but everyone of us
has the capacity to over-come the challenges our very minds pose to us but it
comes down to one very simple, very common denominator; You. Only You. Truth be
told, there’s not a prayer in hell for you if you continue to self-medicate, so
stop. If I try to help you, in truth, this is best I can do right now and it’s
not really much. Perhaps you can start seeking a medical professional, if you
become involved in treatment program can get you on your way maybe. You know,
it really depends on what you put into it or what you get out of it, but it’s
long, slow and difficult. If you find turning to your religion or spiritual
beliefs can help you, you should try that too…after all isn’t there some bit
about “God helps Those Who Help Themselves...” or something? I don’t know for
sure, but if YOU look at every one of the last seven sentences, the most common
denominator, the word used more than a dozen times, is simply; You.
Thank you following along with this week’s article and I’m
always thrilled to get comments and delighted when you share my tales with
others, I appreciate that very much. Last week was hard nut to crack, I was in
and out of my prickly moods all week, I was a pain to live with and even
on-line, I was snappier than I really mean to be…sorry if you were someone I
emotionally bumped into, I’m a social klutz sometimes!
This week, as the sun
warms The San Joaquin Valley and the days finally feel longer, I hope for more
creative opportunities than I’ve had and I’m going to try very hard to be a
much nicer guy around the homestead. Again, on behalf of my publisher, The
Intrepid Editor Press, I ask for your support with the purchase of my latest
book, “My BiPolar Reality; How Life Goes On…”; the opening of this article is
from the second chapter (“Without Love In The Dream; Life Without Treatment”)
and there’s about 350 more pages after this which continue the tale and perhaps
shed some very unique light on this epidemic, horrific illness so You might
better understand, cool?
I’m most Grateful for your time, it’s a very precious
commodity and I’m blessed by you giving me a bit of yours!
As always, please
remember to take care of Yourself and Always Be Well!
Peace,
d’Philip
Monday, 9 March 2015
The San Joaquin Valley
Republic of California
Earth
