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It wasn’t Outside Lands in Golden Gate Park, but Peekskill had its own kind of magic last Saturday night. The air buzzed with music and mischief—one band lit up Whiskey River on North Division Street, playing under the open sky while a Pee Wee Herman impressionist danced like he’d been summoned by moonlight and memory. Just down the way, Pugsley Park pulsed with heavy rock, the guitarist and drummer locked in a kind of sonic duel that made the trees tremble. It was the kind of distraction I didn’t know I needed. For a few hours, Painted People faded into the background. Zeno, Abel, Ahab, even Travis—ghosts I usually carry—drifted out of reach. But later, as I sifted through the photographs, something stirred. I turned one into Zeno Eliot, impressionist-style—a blurred self-portrait of me as him, or him as me. Another became Abel and Ahab, surreal and stripped of their signature black hair. Salt-and-pepper streaks replaced the ink-dark locks, as if time had etched itself into their scalps. They looked like they’d stepped out of Zeno’s wildest dreams—Erikson Brothers twisted by power, fate, and the slow unraveling of identity. The trees caught my eye too. They seem different now—greener, fuller, as if summer’s holding its breath. But some leaves are yellowing, whispering of early autumn. September feels distant, but it’s not. This year has flown by like a page torn from a book mid-sentence. And somewhere in the blur of music, memory, and mirrored selves, I’m still chasing the truth of who dies in Painted People—and why. A Music and Mischief Peekskill Weekend
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AuthorCHARLES PEARSON Archives
December 2025
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