“He did say something though, didn’t he?”
“He wasn’t too coherent.”
“He said something ugly, didn’t he?”
“You really want to hear it?”
“Yes, please. I have to.”
“Well, like I said, he was very drunk.”
“I know. But tell me.”
“He said you were like your mother, that you’d like to have a—certain experience with a Polack, but . . . “
Cosmo said, “Come on, man, spell it out for her. She asked to hear it. It’s her life, isn’t it?”
Terry looked at Cosmo and nodded toward the driver. “I don’t think it’s cool to spell it out right now.”
Cosmo said, “Oh. Okay, I’ll shut up.”
“He said that,” Terry continued, “and then he said you wanted to make a fool of him. Only I’m not sure he wasn’t talking about your mother. Like I said, he was drunk.”
I asked if he’d said anything else.
“No, he just told me to get out. So I said, ‘Okay, Mr. Gliss, but we still love you.’ That got him really sore and he called us all some names. You know. The usual. So I left, and that was it.”
We rode on in silence for a couple of minutes. Then Cissy said, “Why do they get so angry when you tell them you love them?”
“Maybe they think we’re lying,” Cosmo said.
“What about it, Terry?” Cissy said. “Were you lying? Or did you really mean it?”
“No, I wasn’t lying. I think we all love him, don’t we? I know I do.”
“Me, too,” Cosmo said. “He’s a fantastic man. When he gets really tuned in, he’ll be a giant.”
“Truly,” Cissy said.
“You agree?” Cosmo said.
“Oh, truly I do,” Cissy said.
ORANGE—WILL’S GREENHOUSE, OCTOBER 31, 1969
Happy Halloween, dear journal, you gruesome, tender, relentless sonofabitch. Sally Sunflower has gifted me with a complete set of Magic Markers and Nyoom has comforted me with a small but superb chip of Lebanese Blond. And so tonight, for the first time, in honor of all the souls in hell, Ta-tum-te-ah-dah, ta-taaaaa! I scribble you in color, a lovely sweet orange to brighten this dark, moonless, high-flying night. Your mistress has ascended on her pure white broomstick to the rooftop, where she will pass the magic hour plying her wondrous crafts by candlelight. With the aid of one and a half tokes of Brother Nyoom’s hash, I have achieved THE SUPERIOR ALTITUDE OF ALL TIME. And now, with Sister Sally’s Magic Markers in my pointed hat, I will fly through time, coloring everything superpluperfectfantabulousMcWow!
BRIGHT GREEN—THANKSGIVING 1970
The greatest day in the history of the world! Blue sky, thrilling air, Indian summer sunshine! And peace!
Nixon got on TV last night and made a full confession.
The war is over.
Amnesty has been declared for all draft refusers.
Also I have a lover.
I was sitting on the grass at the thank-in in Central Park this afternoon, playing my guitar and singing—
(Yes, I’ve taken up music. Not quite Judy Collins yet, but pleasing and true, and so much easier than diary-writing. Don’t be offended, my love, but you are a down head, you know. You’ve always brought out the worst in me, forcing me to pick over my life like some ghastly deathbird that . . . Ah, but never mind, no recriminations!)
Um, where was I?
Ah, yes, the meeting with my new lover.
I was sitting on the grass at Bethesda Fountain, singing a John Sebastian song—
“I had a dream last night.
What a lovely dream it was.
I dreamed we were all all right,
Happy in a land of Oz”
—when suddenly I became aware of a dark, smoky voice in my ear, singing with me.
“What a lovely dream it was.
What a lovely dream it was.”
His sound was a cool glade in a deep forest. Mine ran through it like a river of sunlight. At the end of the song, I turned to look at him.
It was Will, of course.
He was still wearing his black and white striped prison uniform. The second they opened the gates for him, he raced out to look for me, too eager even to stop and change clothes.
“Sally wrote me about you,” he breathed.
“I know, I know,” I said. “And your alcove under the stairs. If you knew how many nights—”
He silenced me with a kiss. Hand in hand, we walked together into the trees, where the rites of love took place on a high secluded knoll, accompanied by Hare Krishna chanters.
Later, walking down Broadway, bells and chimes ringing everywhere, still hand in hand, we were a breathtaking couple, I with my slim hips and Will with his statue-of-Prometheus build, tall and proud, receiving the adulation of the multitudes as people threw flowers from windows at the returning hero in his striped prison garb. Small children ran to—
Oh! But a woman in love has no time for a diary. Even as I write this, my lover is at my elbow, nibbling my ear, whispering . . .
RED—CHRISTMAS 1970
Enchantment continues. Nixon was so pleased by public response to his Thanksgiving show, he got on again last night and did a Christmas Eve number. He announced he was pulling the rug out from under every fascist dictator in the world. No more guns. The entire Pentagon has been turned into Third World headquarters, and all the $ is being spent on goodies.
Many surprise guests for dinner. Hank Glyczwycz with his terrific wife, newly returned from Pittsburgh with the two children, my half-siblings Andrew and Marie. Then there was Terry and Cissy and Cosmo, who said they’d given up their New America plans because Old America was getting so groovy. And Archie Fiesta, off dope forever, healthy and happy, and full of plans for getting his friends off their needles.
ROBIN’S EGG BLUE—EASTER 1971
Now that spring is here, Will and I have moved into the greenhouse. It’s heaven, but there are minor inconveniences. For instance, the smell of gardenias gets a bit heavy on warm days. And I suppose when the baby’s born, we’ll find it a little crowded.
MARIJUANA GREEN—FOURTH OF JULY 1971
Just got back from Washington. The smoke-in on the White House lawn was a fantastic success, thanks largely to Sally Sunflower. We haven’t yet learned how she managed it, but in the middle of the afternoon she suddenly appeared on the podium with Julie and David Eisenhower in tow. The three of them stood there and lit up a red-white-and-blue joint, publicly challenging the police to arrest them. But they weren’t into making busts today. Besides, while Sally was doing her thing with Julie and David, the police had their hands full trying to get J. Edgar back into his clothes. It seems the poor old thing can’t handle Acapulco Gold unless he’s naked. But he’s terribly cute, and has dimples in the oddest places.
TURQUOISE—LABOR DAY 1971
Things are happening so fast I can hardly assimilate them. For instance, I had the baby this morning. On the roof. Will and I delivered him ourselves. We’re calling him Free to make sure no one ever forgets who he is.
MAGENTA—NEW YEAR’S DAY 1972
Peter ran out of money. But it doesn’t matter any more. We’re all moving to Staten Island in the spring. Hank insisted. He feels Canal Street has become too crowded for us, and much too rickety. Besides, he wants his grandson to grow up in a country atmosphere.
PINK—BEAUTIFUL SPRING DAY 1972
Today we sail for Staten Island.
Later, on the ferry
There was no one to see us off on our voyage, because everybody came with us. However, departure was glorious. What a righteous-looking collection of riffraff we were, parading onto the boat. Joshua’s VW bus, bursting at the seams. Sally riding on top of it with Nyoom and Mary. Hank’s old station wagon, with beds tied to the roof. Jeanette, looking like she’d swallowed a basketball. Roy, the father-to-be, beaming with pride at her side. Doris, covered with pots and pans. Peter, carrying Percy the Cat. And all the others, ma
rching along behind, carrying bags and sacks and cartons and baskets. Terry and Cissy and Cosmo of course, and Cary Colorado with Lu and Motherlove Ford. And bringing up the rear, Archie Fiesta, our beautiful minstrel, playing his guitar and singing even sweeter than Donovan.
And me. I’m writing it all down as fast as I can because not a moment of it can be lost!
Now where are Will and Free? The last time I saw them was back at the toll booth.
Oh! There they are! Will has Free in his arms and he’s pointing out the Statue of Liberty.
PURE WHITE—THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1976
Dear oh dear. I’ve lost a few years, haven’t I? Well, no matter! It won’t take a second to bring it all up to date.
Obviously I’ve all but given up this nasty habit of writing. Much too busy living and grooving and being.
But I must make a few quick notes about what happened in Washington today. When the children grow up, they’ll be asking how it all was.
First, I suppose I’d better do a little shorthand version of the last few years.
The Staten Island move was a fantastic success. The family grew and grew and then other families came to join us, and pretty soon there was a tribe, and everything worked out so perfectly that the next thing we knew we’d become a model for other tribes. Then the movement started spreading like wildflowers and, well, there’s no use going into detail. Our history is common knowledge now. When the children begin to ask, we can take them to the U.U.N.N. Museum (Union of Utopian Non-Nations).
So! Back to Washington, and this afternoon.
Pat and Jeanette greeted us at the White House door. (They’re close friends now, sisters really. Roy, as Secretary of Enjoyment, has to confer with Dick a dozen times a day, so he and Jeanette and the baby and Archie are living in the Lincoln Suite. They miss the farm, but it’s infinitely more convenient this way.)
The crowd was enormous. There were so many people I wanted to meet and didn’t, but there’ll be other occasions. Anyway, Will and I had a lovely chat with Mao Tse-tung. He’s a real alta cocker and I thought Peter might enjoy meeting him, but I couldn’t pull him away from Kosygin and Timothy Leary and Huey P. Newton. The four of them powwowed all afternoon, working out details of the World Peyote Congress that’s planned for next spring.
I’m glad there were lots of movie cameras, because all the pencils and papers in the world couldn’t capture the extravagant costumes. The Beatles, wearing George Washington wigs, played together for the first time in years:
All together now
all together now
And then the Big Moment arrived. Everyone went out on the White House lawn to watch the raising of the flag. And it was the most beautiful flag anyone had ever seen. Solid white. Even whiter than the whitest cloud. The pure white flag of surrender, and as it went gliding up the flagpole, a signal went out to the whole world by television and Telstar, and everyone alive who has a voice was wide awake and waiting for it.
Cary struck the note. “Om.”
And then the sound of the universe was everywhere at once—
OOOOOM M M M MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM MMMMMMM.
Later, when some of the excitement had died down, I felt it was time to find Roy and get him to introduce Free to the president. These things are still important to little boys. Besides, I was anxious to get a look at him myself.
On the way up to the Lincoln Suite, we bumped into Jeanette on the stairs. I asked her where Roy was, and she said he was in the Oval Office with Dick. So she took us by the hand and led us down the hall.
The door was open, so Jeanette walked right in, but naturally Free and I waited out in the hall. Then we heard her saying, “Hi, Dick. Hello, sweetheart. Heaven, wasn’t it? Listen, Dick, I want you to meet a couple of old friends of ours. Got a minute? What happened to them? I thought they were right behind me. Witch! Free!”
Then Free and I walked into the president’s office.
Roy was sitting on the edge of his desk, and the president was standing behind it. I suppose meeting any great leader could blow a woman’s mind, but meeting America’s first turned-on president did a permanent number on my eyes. He’s gotten truly handsome in the past few years. His eyes have lost that awful beady look that used to frighten us all so, and his nose is much shorter than it is on TV. Also his hair, when you see it up close, has a lovely texture to it, and the length is perfect for him. It just touches the shoulders.
BLACK AND WHITE AGAIN—WILL’S GREENHOUSE, OCTOBER 31, 1969
Roy just paid me a visit. It was nice. He wanted to know if I was okay up here.
I said, “How would you like to read a capsule history of the entire world through 1976?” And I showed him my Magic Marker entry.
I thought it would make him laugh. But it didn’t. It made him cry. Not a big boo-hoo number, but it put tears in his eyes. I asked him why, and he said, “I don’t know, but I’d give my nuts if it could happen a tenth that good.”
Monday we head for the border.
ON JOSHUA’S BUS, ABOUT 100 MILES EAST OF BUFFALO, NOVEMBER 3, 1969
Joshua’s driving like there’s no tomorrow. His shoulders are all hunched forward and he’s leaning into the wheel like a racing driver. It doesn’t do any good though. The bus has a top speed of about 65.
Nobody’s talking much. We’re all nervous about the border crossing. If Joshua gets caught and sent back, the Marines will put him in prison and torture him. It’s hard to believe anyone could hurt such an obviously good and gentle person, but the whole idea of desertion turns them into sadistic maniacs. We’ve agreed not to think about this possibility, because if we think it, we’ll bring it about. That’s Motherlove’s theory, and if it’s valid, poor Joshua’s had it.
Lu is in the passenger seat with his eyes closed. Roy and Motherlove Ford and I are riding in the back. It’s like being in a covered wagon except that the pioneers didn’t have Crosby, Stills, and Nash playing on the tape deck.
Motherlove is giving herself a Tarot reading. Roy is studying the map of Ontario. A few minutes ago he announced that as soon as we cross the Canadian border, his name will be John again. He says there’s no point in moving to a free country if you can’t be yourself.
As for me, I’m just sitting here, maintaining. I have a feeling I’m not supposed to be along on this trip. In fact, I know it.
Last night—my last night in Will’s alcove!—I had a dream. The five of us are piling into Joshua’s bus, but there isn’t enough room. So we rent a little U-Haul trailer and hook it on the back. I insist upon being the one to ride in it. I forget why. I guess I felt it was my fault there wasn’t enough room in the bus. Anyway, while we’re driving along, the little trailer becomes unhooked. Nobody in the bus even notices. They just go driving off without me, and I’m left bumping along the highway with no motor and no steering wheel. End of dream.
This morning, like a dumb bunny, I went around asking everyone if they were sure the bus wouldn’t be crowded. Naturally everyone said there’d be plenty of room. So here I am. And now that it’s too late, I know exactly what the dream was trying to tell me.
I think I have every right to be a little bored by my own willfulness. Maybe with a little cunning, I could induce one of these peaceniks to kick my ass for me.
Oh well, there’s nothing to do now but make the best of it.
Ever since Roy decided to split for Canada, he’s had this feeling he might never see Archie again. This thought kept bugging him more and more, so yesterday he asked me to walk over to Spring Street with him. We climbed the six flights to Archie’s floor and then when we’d caught our breath, we walked down the hall to Archie’s door.
Roy knocked and the door fell in.
Apparently it had been torn right off the hinges and was just sitting there propped against the doorframe. So we climbed over it and went inside. The whole place was a shambles. The kitchen window was wide open and the wind was blowing in, tearing at the window shade. Most of the furniture was upside down and
broken. The mattress had been slashed open. The stuffing was coming out and there was blood all over it, dozens of big dried spots. At first I pretended—not only to Roy but to myself, too—that I hadn’t noticed the blood. I just wouldn’t let that word into my head. But then Roy looked at me in a certain way and I knew what he was thinking.
I said, “It may not be his, it may not be Archie’s.”
But we both knew it was.
I don’t know which was most horrifying, the blood on the mattress, or the way the wind kept tearing at the window shade.
I said, “Shall we get the police?” But as soon as I’d said it, I knew how foolish the idea was. Obviously there was nothing to be done, nothing at all. So we closed the window and left.
Chances are, we’ll never know what happened. And probably, for the rest of my life whenever I think of Archie I’ll see his beautiful face in my mind and I’ll hear that window shade flapping, flapping flapping . . .
After midnight
We’re safe! We just crossed the bridge into Ontario. The Canadian customs men are beautiful. All they did was ask where we were born and wave us on through.
I could actually feel the place where the USA stopped and Canada began. For the last fifteen minutes leading up to it, the suspense was terrific. Hardly a word was spoken. Then, at a certain point on the bridge, we all started talking at once.
Motherlove said, “Wow.”
Roy, who is now John again, said, “Jesus, I’m a fucking Canadian!”
Lu said, “Man, we’re out of it!”
Joshua said, “Nobody shit! Just think what powerful sphincter muscles we must have!”
Now he’s sitting back easy for the first time since we left New York. Even his hair seems relaxed. It doesn’t look nearly as electric as before.
Roy has his face pressed against the window, trying to dig his new landscape.
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