I waited for Tim to come to the phone anticipating his breathy blend of scotch soaked vocals born on plumes of cigarette whorls. What would I say to him? What fitting elegy might I offer the dying high priest who had guided so many of my own symbolic deaths over the years?
For those of us who read his books, tripped with him and featured in various chapters of his life, death was an ordeal to be embraced and transcended with every psychedelic session. Now that he faced the ultimate transition on his own it was with no less eschatological zeal. And yet, he was one of the most indefatigable celebrants of life itself. He once said, “I’m the happiest man alive, and I’d love for you to prove me wrong.”