On a visit to Seattle I stopped by Jimi Hendix's grave.
Twas not what I expected. I envisioned an unmown rise on a grassy knoll with a little black steel filigree margin and decades of tributes made vandalistically permanent.
There were indeed permanent tributes on this grey marble mausoleum but as I had my hands on his slab, sun on my face and Voodo Chile (Slight Return) in my ears, my experience was no more profound than any other time I heard his sound.
I expected different.
Cheesy but true, I had to do it, I made sure nobody was around. I never expected to write about it at the time.
Anyway, I'd heard Bruce Lee was in the same place so I set off in search of him. Two birds with one stone.
I was somewhat disgusted at the irony of crowning a military monument with a machine designed to put the names of military men on its plinth.
It was a pleasant enough day and strolling around a necropolis with Hendrix burning in your head and the sunshine shining was pleasant enough too.
There was a moment of incongruity, probably because I was paying no particular attention, when I started seeing little teddy bears and stuff, like lots of 'em.
Still no Bruce Lee.
Never occured to me that they'd bury all the babies in the same spot.
Anyhow, that was the end of that little sojourn.
Experience is what you get when you are looking for something else.
