Acid for the Children: A Memoir

by Flea

Tears are not a sad or happy thing, they mean you care.

the same thing looks different to everyone from their angle.

The greatest fault of humankind belongs to those who think their view of what’s real is the only truth.

“That man is richest whose pleasures are the cheapest,” said Thoreau,

I loved those solo perambulations, and the freedom of letting my mind meander at its own cosmic pace.

There are things in life that you remember with different senses, some by image, some by sound or talk, some by physical sensation. Some memories are so transformative, so laden with guidance, so blissful and/or violent, it feels like God speaking directly.

A group of players communicating at the highest level with hair-trigger spontaneity, reacting to each other, one-upping each other, and being supportive of each other at the same time, turning songs inside out with often violent and revolutionary improvisations, or the most ethereal of contemplations, with nary a thought of ever kowtowing to an audience looking for a pleasant melody to hold on to.

West Coast crazy is different than East Coast crazy.

While reading, all my confusion and hurt dissolved, and when I reentered reality, I was a little bit better of a person, a little bit more capable of learning from my missteps.

A band needs to be more than good at playing music. It needs to tap a source, to awaken a feeling that lies dormant in the people, a freedom and beauty that is normally eclipsed by the shadows of everyday life, a feeling we didn’t even know we had. Anyone can learn to play an instrument well, but the spirits need to step in.