CHAPTER 23 Solitude and The Family Dog - Charly.
Solitude is a wonderful, healing thing. The problem with it is that you can never get quite enough. When you have come to appreciate it fully, there are those who will want you to share it with them, as though it were a new medicine or drug.
I connected with Scott and Robin again but this time I just popped in for showers. I wanted to be alone. They wanted that for me too. I took up residence in a parking space on The Point about 100 feet above sea level on the north end of the beach, just across from a tourist spot called the Cliff House. It was the kind of place you would want to explore. There were caves nearby on the beach and the ruins of an ancient public bath house that had been really grand in its time. A young girl, a Taurus, was dropped off for me from the back of a Harley-Davidson. I guess the Angels knew I was in town. We spent a pleasant night together in the camper having food, sex and pot. There was no need to talk. She was a Taurus, I was a Scorpio with my moon in Taurus. That was who we were and all we needed to know.
The Point for the months of June and July of 1969, was my center of the universe. From that vantage point I watched the entire Apollo moonshot on TV, cherishing the moment as if I were in the glory of God. I prayed the astronauts would make it. Me and God helped, but they would have made it without us. They were truly great. I kept noticing strange things, though - shadowa in places on the moon at amgles where there should be none. Fuzzy edges to the shadows in certain spots. Shouldn't the edges of the shadows on the moon be sharp?
The beach had public bathrooms that were my relief station, often visited by aging homosexuals on the prowl. The beach also had occasional sea shells and sand dollars that could be harvested by any patient and observant stroller. There were and still are, lots of patient and observant strollers on the beach. Don't bother them. They are a Pandora's Box of worries. Trust me. I was once one of them.
There were a number of adventures during my stay on the point, not the least of which were occasional crashers who slept on the floor of the VW camper after only a brief introduction. I was able to perform the miracle of Loaves and Fishes a number of times for the local starving hippies, most of whom seemed like helpless sheep.
They couldn't know it, but the meals were prepared from throwaways in the produce garbage cans and at the bakery a few miles away in the Market District. I concocted wildly exotic dishes of cucumbers and seasoned rice, almost from midair. People came from nowhere to eat and enjoy. It gave me deep satisfaction to share my meals with some of these lonely friends who were uncommonly appreciative. They would have gone very hungry without me sharing my garbage with them.
Drugs were plentiful and questionable in quality. I helped smoke a small amount of "Peyote tar" once and wondered why the guy even bothered with it. On the other hand I had a taste of the legendary Panama Red one day that was unquestionably as represented. That afternoon somehow seemed to combine with several other afternoons and at least a week of very pleasant afternoons went by in the space of a few hours. "Glass Onion" by the Beatles comes to mind.
Down the street was The Family Dog, a concert hall of considerable reputation in those days. It had brought forth the Grateful Dead, Frank Zappa, Country Joe, Janis Joplin and many others. I had my own moment in the sun one evening at a gathering of religious zealots.
There was a zen teacher named Steve Gaskin, holding regular sessions there once per week. I dropped in for enlightenment and found myself in the middle of a conversation between the zen master and a german shepherd dog. For some reason the pooch took to me. Without even a wag of it's tail, the dog came between me and the zen master. Then, each time the zen teacher would attempt to speak, the dog would bark at him as if to say "You don't get this one". It was embarrassing and funny at the same time. It kept on until I voluntarily left.
The Point had nickle-telescopes at the Cliff House. Battery Park on the hill adjacent to my little parking area, had me and twenty-odd other inhabitants. The feeling of Deja' Vu was strong. I found out later that my father had been stationed nearby during World War II.
Hippies camping in those days were like the homeless in these times. What appeared to be a pile of leaves and trash under a tree would quite often be someone's sleeping bag with a someone, or sometimes two someones, in it. Across the street in another parking area was a wild assortment of mobile living quarters similar to mine, ranging from Conestoga Wagons built on the back of flatbed trucks, to converted school buses. One friend I met had stripped the bed of his pickup to the frame and built a miniature house of shingles, complete with a kitchen and skylight.
With my camper and TV I was living in the lap of comparative luxury. It was lonely though, and I made several apologetic calls to New York.
Betty finally agreed to return to me. I went to the airport with several "Welcome Home" banners hanging inside the camper. Our reunion was pleasant but ill-fated. On the way to my camping spot at the Point, the engine blew a piston. We spent the night on the freeway in the camper, about two miles north of the airport. When I say we spent the night on the freeway, I am not talking about the service road. We were parked on the inside median of the north bound freeway with the metal barrier rail on our left and the fast lane on our right. You couldn't open the driver's door on the left, it was so close to the rail. To go from the right side to the camper in the back, you had to wait for a rare lull in the traffic. I understand this was the same stretch of freeway where musician Harry Chapin was killed years later. It was a tight squeeze. Gigantic 18-wheel trucks passed within two feet of us all night. The next morning I got the VW running enough to get Betty back to the airport. She was after all, a New Yorker.
Even though the money and pawnable items ran out, I managed to raise $34.00 which is how much the new piston cost. Single handed, over a period of several days, I pulled the engine on the VW and made the necessary repairs, parked and camping right on the street near the Haight-Ashbury post office. Thank God I hadn't pawned my tools.
I had decided that I had paid enough dues for my indiscretion in San Diego and more importantly, I was being unfairly saddled with the responsibility of someone else's vehicle and possessions. I called New York again and finally cajoled Betty to return once more. This time there was no pretense at living the hippie lifestyle in San Fransisco. I picked Betty up at the airport and steered the nose of the truck south. We didn't talk a lot.
Betty had friends living in a converted barn in Santa Barbara. That's where I gave her the keys to the VW and picked up my duffell bag. We parted amiably enough, with her and her people giving me a lift to the highway. I reached Arizona faster by hitch hiking than I ever would have by Greyhound. You never know how things are going to happen on the road. It is said that God takes care of children, drunks and crazy folks. Food, smoke and friends just seem to come along at the right time. Come to think of it, anytime is the right time when you're on the road. Fly if you can, drive if you must, hitch if you can do neither. Buses are a slow, maddening grind.
Bill had moved from Starbright Ranch to a very strange and dilapidated house on 27th Avenue at the foot of South Mountain. It was really only about a mile away from Starbright Ranch as the crow flies. I later found out that my friend and lover Bonnie had located the place for him. The place had been owned by a lady artist who was into working with plaster. The interior of the house was a product of her imagination. It was full of sculptures of plant life. There were tulip shapes containing lamps and flowing vine-like shapes around wall mirrors. It depended on how you viewed the works. There was nothing delicate or natural about it. All the work could easily double as something demonic. Large sculpted tulip shapes that held light bulbs for instance, could be easily interpreted as demonic faces. Vine-like sculptures could easily generate the hallucination of snakes. It depended on your view of the world, the art, and your frame of mind. It was not pleasant. Still, there was a powerful feeling about the place.
Bill's lady of the time was a girl named Jenny, a secretary at the radio station and a good friend of Bonnie. They made a good couple. During my absence, Bonnie had moved to Jerome. What possessed me to reclaim my old station wagon from Bill and trade it for a 4-wheel drive chevy truck, I will never know. It was an unfair inconvenience to him and it wasn't like me to attach myself to material things. After several fruitless days of visiting and numerous playings of "Ummagumma" by Pink Floyd on the stereo, I headed north. Bill and I were not only no longer in tune, we were in different worlds. Trying to make a point, he and Jenny took me to see "Charly", a film about an idot-savant turned to genius through drugs and a desire for higher self-esteem. He slowly fell apart from his elevated conciousness.
Gee. Neat. Charly.
I connected with Scott and Robin again but this time I just popped in for showers. I wanted to be alone. They wanted that for me too. I took up residence in a parking space on The Point about 100 feet above sea level on the north end of the beach, just across from a tourist spot called the Cliff House. It was the kind of place you would want to explore. There were caves nearby on the beach and the ruins of an ancient public bath house that had been really grand in its time. A young girl, a Taurus, was dropped off for me from the back of a Harley-Davidson. I guess the Angels knew I was in town. We spent a pleasant night together in the camper having food, sex and pot. There was no need to talk. She was a Taurus, I was a Scorpio with my moon in Taurus. That was who we were and all we needed to know.
The Point for the months of June and July of 1969, was my center of the universe. From that vantage point I watched the entire Apollo moonshot on TV, cherishing the moment as if I were in the glory of God. I prayed the astronauts would make it. Me and God helped, but they would have made it without us. They were truly great. I kept noticing strange things, though - shadowa in places on the moon at amgles where there should be none. Fuzzy edges to the shadows in certain spots. Shouldn't the edges of the shadows on the moon be sharp?
The beach had public bathrooms that were my relief station, often visited by aging homosexuals on the prowl. The beach also had occasional sea shells and sand dollars that could be harvested by any patient and observant stroller. There were and still are, lots of patient and observant strollers on the beach. Don't bother them. They are a Pandora's Box of worries. Trust me. I was once one of them.
There were a number of adventures during my stay on the point, not the least of which were occasional crashers who slept on the floor of the VW camper after only a brief introduction. I was able to perform the miracle of Loaves and Fishes a number of times for the local starving hippies, most of whom seemed like helpless sheep.
They couldn't know it, but the meals were prepared from throwaways in the produce garbage cans and at the bakery a few miles away in the Market District. I concocted wildly exotic dishes of cucumbers and seasoned rice, almost from midair. People came from nowhere to eat and enjoy. It gave me deep satisfaction to share my meals with some of these lonely friends who were uncommonly appreciative. They would have gone very hungry without me sharing my garbage with them.
Drugs were plentiful and questionable in quality. I helped smoke a small amount of "Peyote tar" once and wondered why the guy even bothered with it. On the other hand I had a taste of the legendary Panama Red one day that was unquestionably as represented. That afternoon somehow seemed to combine with several other afternoons and at least a week of very pleasant afternoons went by in the space of a few hours. "Glass Onion" by the Beatles comes to mind.
Down the street was The Family Dog, a concert hall of considerable reputation in those days. It had brought forth the Grateful Dead, Frank Zappa, Country Joe, Janis Joplin and many others. I had my own moment in the sun one evening at a gathering of religious zealots.
There was a zen teacher named Steve Gaskin, holding regular sessions there once per week. I dropped in for enlightenment and found myself in the middle of a conversation between the zen master and a german shepherd dog. For some reason the pooch took to me. Without even a wag of it's tail, the dog came between me and the zen master. Then, each time the zen teacher would attempt to speak, the dog would bark at him as if to say "You don't get this one". It was embarrassing and funny at the same time. It kept on until I voluntarily left.
The Point had nickle-telescopes at the Cliff House. Battery Park on the hill adjacent to my little parking area, had me and twenty-odd other inhabitants. The feeling of Deja' Vu was strong. I found out later that my father had been stationed nearby during World War II.
Hippies camping in those days were like the homeless in these times. What appeared to be a pile of leaves and trash under a tree would quite often be someone's sleeping bag with a someone, or sometimes two someones, in it. Across the street in another parking area was a wild assortment of mobile living quarters similar to mine, ranging from Conestoga Wagons built on the back of flatbed trucks, to converted school buses. One friend I met had stripped the bed of his pickup to the frame and built a miniature house of shingles, complete with a kitchen and skylight.
With my camper and TV I was living in the lap of comparative luxury. It was lonely though, and I made several apologetic calls to New York.
Betty finally agreed to return to me. I went to the airport with several "Welcome Home" banners hanging inside the camper. Our reunion was pleasant but ill-fated. On the way to my camping spot at the Point, the engine blew a piston. We spent the night on the freeway in the camper, about two miles north of the airport. When I say we spent the night on the freeway, I am not talking about the service road. We were parked on the inside median of the north bound freeway with the metal barrier rail on our left and the fast lane on our right. You couldn't open the driver's door on the left, it was so close to the rail. To go from the right side to the camper in the back, you had to wait for a rare lull in the traffic. I understand this was the same stretch of freeway where musician Harry Chapin was killed years later. It was a tight squeeze. Gigantic 18-wheel trucks passed within two feet of us all night. The next morning I got the VW running enough to get Betty back to the airport. She was after all, a New Yorker.
Even though the money and pawnable items ran out, I managed to raise $34.00 which is how much the new piston cost. Single handed, over a period of several days, I pulled the engine on the VW and made the necessary repairs, parked and camping right on the street near the Haight-Ashbury post office. Thank God I hadn't pawned my tools.
I had decided that I had paid enough dues for my indiscretion in San Diego and more importantly, I was being unfairly saddled with the responsibility of someone else's vehicle and possessions. I called New York again and finally cajoled Betty to return once more. This time there was no pretense at living the hippie lifestyle in San Fransisco. I picked Betty up at the airport and steered the nose of the truck south. We didn't talk a lot.
Betty had friends living in a converted barn in Santa Barbara. That's where I gave her the keys to the VW and picked up my duffell bag. We parted amiably enough, with her and her people giving me a lift to the highway. I reached Arizona faster by hitch hiking than I ever would have by Greyhound. You never know how things are going to happen on the road. It is said that God takes care of children, drunks and crazy folks. Food, smoke and friends just seem to come along at the right time. Come to think of it, anytime is the right time when you're on the road. Fly if you can, drive if you must, hitch if you can do neither. Buses are a slow, maddening grind.
Bill had moved from Starbright Ranch to a very strange and dilapidated house on 27th Avenue at the foot of South Mountain. It was really only about a mile away from Starbright Ranch as the crow flies. I later found out that my friend and lover Bonnie had located the place for him. The place had been owned by a lady artist who was into working with plaster. The interior of the house was a product of her imagination. It was full of sculptures of plant life. There were tulip shapes containing lamps and flowing vine-like shapes around wall mirrors. It depended on how you viewed the works. There was nothing delicate or natural about it. All the work could easily double as something demonic. Large sculpted tulip shapes that held light bulbs for instance, could be easily interpreted as demonic faces. Vine-like sculptures could easily generate the hallucination of snakes. It depended on your view of the world, the art, and your frame of mind. It was not pleasant. Still, there was a powerful feeling about the place.
Bill's lady of the time was a girl named Jenny, a secretary at the radio station and a good friend of Bonnie. They made a good couple. During my absence, Bonnie had moved to Jerome. What possessed me to reclaim my old station wagon from Bill and trade it for a 4-wheel drive chevy truck, I will never know. It was an unfair inconvenience to him and it wasn't like me to attach myself to material things. After several fruitless days of visiting and numerous playings of "Ummagumma" by Pink Floyd on the stereo, I headed north. Bill and I were not only no longer in tune, we were in different worlds. Trying to make a point, he and Jenny took me to see "Charly", a film about an idot-savant turned to genius through drugs and a desire for higher self-esteem. He slowly fell apart from his elevated conciousness.
Gee. Neat. Charly.
posted by freespeak@gmail.com at 7:00 PM
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