Motherlove says our success at the border didn’t surprise her at all. The Tarot prophesied the whole thing.
Peter said one night that if Archie Fiesta didn’t make it, we’d all go down the drain. He said we needed everybody. So, yesterday before we left New York, I reminded him of it. I asked him if he thought we wouldn’t be able to create the golden age now, because Archie hadn’t made it. And Peter said, “Oh, please, never pay any attention to the things I say. I must have been stoned. Of course we’ll make it. Don’t you know that?”
SPATAFORA STREET, YORKVILLE, NOVEMBER 4, 1969
The Toronto Anti-Draft Committee found this rooming house for us. We have an entire room, with a big bay window and everything included, for only $55 a month. We’re not supposed to have more than two to a room, but nobody pays any attention. We share the kitchen with about twenty other freaks, but Motherlove doesn’t mind. We weren’t in here five minutes before she was down there doing her thing with the soup pot.
Roy’s sitting on the floor next to me writing his father a letter. He could never write him from New York because he didn’t trust him enough. He was afraid Dr. McFadden would give his address to the Army.
With fathers like that around, who needs the CIA?
Father. What a strange word. I’ve been sitting here tripping out on it. If you repeat a word often enough, it really goes through some changes. Now it’s like a word I’ve never heard before. Our father who art in heaven. Hello, father. The poor child had no father. Father’s Day. God the father. G. W. was the father of our country. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of my father for days and days. She had a falling out with her father. And now, my children, we have left the fatherland. Father father, quite contrary, how does your daughter grow? The father I go, the less I know.
I’m freaking out. Better take a walk.
The Zumburger Cafeteria on Bloor Street, later in the afternoon
Felt the need to be alone. But when I got about a block from the rooming house, I started feeling anxious again. I wonder if I’m getting neurotic?
Getting?
Ever since we got here, I’ve had the feeling that just south of us a few miles there’s this enormous suffering animal, moaning and screaming with sadness and trouble, writhing and kicking and giving off smoke and dollar signs and poisonous gases and noise. And the name of the animal is America the Beautiful.
I wish I’d known it when it was beautiful. Maybe I did. In some other incarnation. Maybe a hundred years ago I crossed it in a covered wagon. Maybe I traveled then across the same country we passed last night, and with the same companions. None of us has changed much either. Mother-love even wears long dresses, just like she probably did in those days. No doubt Lu was our Indian amigo, turning us on with his peace pipe. And I’ll bet Joshua drove the horses. I wonder what John and I were? Abandoned children they picked up along the way?
Just now, when I wrote about the sad suffering animal called America, I flashed on Hank, sitting in his lonesome kitchen on Staten Island, drinking his whiskey, thinking about me. I know what that means, too. It means that if there’s suffering in America, I’m part of what caused it.
Canada is beautiful. The sky is enormous. And there’s plenty of peace, space, time, air, freedom, everything a person could want. The streets are wide and clean, and nobody’s mad at us.
There’s only one little pocket of ugliness, a street called the Strip that’s just like St. Mark’s Place in New York. The same grimy-looking freaks sitting on doorsteps. I suppose they’re on smack or speed just like the ones back home. The dumb shits. I had my usual schizoid reaction. Part of me wants to gather them up and help them—as if I’d know how! Part of me wants to spank their poor lost stupid little asses for them.
And a third part of me wants to grab a needle and join them.
Why am I so unhappy?
Spatafora Street, twilight
When I came back from my walk, I saw a note on the mailbox downstairs—
SEWING—CHEAP
buttons—5¢
patches—10¢
See
Motherlove Ford
Room 9
And there in the kitchen, right this minute, sits Mother-love, putting new elbows in some freak’s fatigue jacket. Between stitches she stirs the soup pot.
If she’s not a pioneer, the Pope’s not Catholic.
Tonight I’m going to find some quiet corner and stay in it until I rot—or until I write a truthful letter to Hank Glyczwycz, my father who art in Staten Island. And if it’s not truthful, really truthful, I will remain in outer darkness forever and ever amen.
Dear Hank,
If you’ll just read this one letter with an open mind, I promise never to bother you again. After that awful day in your kitchen, I wrote you a letter from the ferry on the way home, but I didn’t mail it, because what I wrote wasn’t true. I said I hadn’t told you I was your daughter because I was afraid you were so bitter about my mother you wouldn’t have anything to do with me. Not true. I also didn’t want you to think I was the kind of girl who’d lead a man on, etc. But I am. This is hard to admit, but I have to because it’s true and I’m so sick of lying I just can’t bear to do it any more. When I was 12 and they first told me about you being my father, I started having all sorts of dreams about you. They said you were an anarchist and an intellectual and all kinds of ugly things I wasn’t supposed to like. But I did. In fact, all I could think about was finding you someday and getting close to you. And then when I did find you, something about you scared me I guess. So I tried to hate you. You seemed at first to be so bitter and tough I thought hating you would be really easy. But still I couldn’t keep away from you. I told myself it was because you were my father and I needed you. But now I know that wasn’t true. The real reason I kept going to your class pretending to care about government and hanging around you all the time was because I knew you desired me as a woman and I enjoyed it. I didn’t realize this at the time, but I do now. To help you understand this perversion of mine, I have to admit something else I’ve never admitted to anyone, not even my diary. Men don’t often look at me the way you did. I’ve always gone around pretending they’re all wild about me, but it’s not true. I don’t know if it’s because of my hips or my personality or what, but I just don’t turn men on the way some women do. (My mother, for instance.) Anyway, you’re a super-attractive man, I guess you know that, and the way you look at a woman makes her feel pretty fabulous. Maybe you don’t realize it, but women can get hung up on feeling like that. Even so, I had sense enough to know nothing could happen between us. I hardly ever thought about it even. But then on Moratorium Day night, when we were saying good night in the doorway at Canal Street, any sense I had left was shot. No man has ever come on so strong with me. And now I suppose you’ll think this is the worst part of all, but I might as well admit it. When I went out to see you the next day, I still didn’t intend to let you know who I was—not until after we’d become lovers. When it came down to it, though, I couldn’t let the lie go that far. Something in me stopped it. In my opinion this indicates I’m not hopeless. I suppose it looks like I’m writing all this to justify myself. Maybe so. But I’m also trying to be honest for another reason that’s more important. I got the feeling on Moratorium Day, and the day after, too, that you were beginning to like some of my brothers and sisters, especially Cosmo and Cissy and Terry, and I just can’t have you thinking they’re as messed up as I am. Because they’re not. They’re real people, true and honest, I swear they are, and besides, they love you, they really do. Also, they need you. No doubt there’s a real credibility gap between us now, but if you could just try to believe me, I’d appreciate it TREMENDOUSLY!
Love and peace,
Witch Gliz
P.S. When I left home this past summer, I changed my name. If you say it backwards, you’ll know why.
A BENCH IN QUEEN’S PARK, NOVEMBER 5, 1969
Three colossal pieces of news this morning.
1. Lu’s got a job. He’s going to be assistant mechanic for the limousine company that drives people to the airport.
2. I wrote the letter to Hank. Also, I mailed it.
3. John has a lover. He lives upstairs from us on Spatafora Street. They met in the kitchen and spent last night together. It must have worked out pretty well, too, because John’s walking around pinching himself. The boy’s name is Rio. He’s dark and short, with big brown eyes like Dondi in the funny papers. He’s a Mexican-Canadian, a student at the University, and he’s a Taurus. This morning John’s wearing a wooden love-cross Rio gave him. A love-cross, according to Rio, is just like a crucifix but it doesn’t have any dead bodies hanging on it. It’s supposed to remind you of love, which is what Jesus was all about.
John’s never had anyone follow him around like a puppy before, and he’s really digging it. Also it makes him walk differently. Overnight he’s developed this kind of swagger guys get when they think they’re pretty humpy dudes. And it’s quite becoming. I’ve never seen him look so manly and handsome before.
This park is other-worldly. There are leaves of every color, even purple. The sky is so blue I can hardly look at it.
The sky’s not the only thing I’m having trouble looking at.
Now that John has a lover, I can’t pretend any longer that he needs me.
Oh, he needs me, of course. We all need each other. But what I mean is he doesn’t need me.
And hasn’t for a long time.
And won’t for a while.
And that’s that.
Wow.
It’s Suzy Solo now.
Time to take a walk.
Another bench
This is weird. I’ve never felt so alone in my life, but I’m actually digging it. Refusing to face it got fairly heavy there for a while, but that’s all over now, thank God.
Tomorrow I’m going back to New York.
Suzy Solo hits the road.
And she’s feeling pretty fucking groovy about the whole thing.
SPATAFORA STREET, 7:30 a.m., NOVEMBER 6, 1969
Gorgeous, fantastic snowstorm. The whole city is covered in white and it’s still coming down. Perfect for hitchhiking. I’ll look like a waif and all the motorists will take pity on me.
Motherlove is cooking oatmeal for me. She calls it “a good hot meal for the road.” After breakfast the entire family except Lu, who has to start work this morning, is taking me to the edge of town. We’ll all climb into the back of the bus and have a Zap. Then I’ll get out and stick out my thumb.
Last night they gave me a farewell party. Freaks from across the hall brought grass and everyone got stoned and gave me presents. Lu gave me a box of raisins. He says they’re the best food for hitchhiking, lightweight and nourishing. Joshua gave me his jew’s-harp roach clip, and Mother-love gave me the longest scarf I ever saw. It’s a brown wool herringbone and you can wrap your entire head in it. I didn’t like to take it at first, because her godmother knitted it for her a skillion years ago, but Motherlove said I had to, because when she first left home, she hitchhiked from Minneapolis to Chicago in it. Rides came along like magic. She says when the right moment comes along I’ll pass it on to some other wintertime traveler who needs luck. Motherlove has a real feeling for tradition.
The present from John blew my mind even more. It’s his love-cross from Rio. I started to put up a really big protest, but Rio was right there at his elbow, urging me to accept it.
Rio has this irresistible Taurus dearness. I felt sure that if I asked him for his knees, he’d start right in trying to figure out how to get them severed and delivered.
“You have to take it,” he said, “you have to.”
“But Rio, this cross is—special.”
John said, “That’s why you have to take it.” He turned to Rio. “Right?”
“Jess!” That’s Mexican for yes! His tone was so final I was afraid it might tip over into anger, so I kissed him and let him put the cross around my neck.
Then John said, “What time tomorrow?”
“I thought early’d be smart. What d’you think?”
He nodded.
“Saying good-bye is going to be a real super-bummer.”
“Oh, c’mon,” I said. “It’ll be worse than that, won’t it?”
“Yeah, right. It’ll be superbummerscaryawfulMcSadd.”
“Knew you could improve on it.”
“Dig the McSadd?”
“Totally.”
“Thought you would.”
Then we both shut up and got into each other’s arms. He whispered in my ear, “If you ever forget how beautiful you are, call me up and I’ll tell you.”
I promised I would.
The oatmeal’s ready.
Later, in a very nice man’s car
I am a peculiar girl.
I am not on my way to New York.
I am on my way to Belle Woods, Michigan!
Can’t write more. Car or something making me nauseated.
BELLE WOODS, MICHIGAN, NOVEMBER 7, 1969
I feel as if my soul had grown about 24 years’ worth in the past 24 hours. It turns out that for all my self-doubting and self-chastisement, I’ve been doing everything right, wonder of wonders.
For instance:
Going to Toronto was right.
Leaving there when I did was right.
Coming home was right.
Everything I’ve ever done in my life has been right. Life is guided. There aren’t any mistakes. Not really. There’s confusion and self-doubt, but there aren’t any real mistakes. If I fuck up, it’s because I’m supposed to—for growth. I have this perfect clarity about everything now, and oh, God, I pray I can hang on to it for a while. It’s so beautiful to see things making sense for a change.
When Joshua and John and Motherlove took me to the highway on the outskirts of Toronto yesterday, we were all sublimely high. Not on grass or anything either. It was love. We parked the bus on the highway and got in the back and held hands together, all of us determined to feel a sense of rightness and peace before I got out and started hitchhiking. If we hadn’t done that, who knows what would have happened? Anyway we did, and when the moment came for me to go, we all knew it was okay and that whatever happened would be good and beautiful.
And so of course the first car to come along was my ride. As soon as I saw it coming, I knew it would stop for me.
The driver was one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met, a baldheaded hardware salesman named Mr. Kaminski. When I told him I was going to New York he said that was fine, he’d be passing the New York turnoff on his way to Detroit and could drop me there. But the minute he said Detroit, something in my head went clang!
Pretty soon he started talking about this daughter of his who’d freaked out while she was at school in Kalamazoo and had to be sent to the Menninger Clinic, and how awful he felt because he knew a lot of her troubles had been caused by his own ignorance. I listened to the whole story and the next thing I knew I was forgiving him all over the place. As if I were his daughter or something. I told him mankind was going through the biggest social change it had come through since the days when we were swinging down from the trees 50,000 years ago, and nobody should blame himself too much for not knowing how to manage it. I’m not even sure where that thought came from. I must have read it somewhere recently. Anyway, I found all sorts of odds and ends in my head to comfort him with. I told him I didn’t believe it was fair to lay all the hangups on one’s parents. I said I was convinced that children are people with their own little trips going, and they’re quite capable of doing some pretty fancy numbers on older people’s heads, as well as the usual vice versa. I have to admit I was brilliant. I was like Peter would have been. Peter said once that the best thing you can do for somebody is let them off the hook. Meaning, help them over their guilt so they won’t be crippled by it and can be free to find ways to press on.
Anyway, Mr. Kaminski and I got really thick. He doesn’t smoke pot, b
ut he has a truly high grasp of things. He listens. He listens not just to the words but to where the talk is coming from. He sticks his ear right into your soul and digs it. I came right out and told him I wished I’d had a father like him, and I was sure that if his daughter had a freak-out, it was probably part of her Karma to have one. He didn’t know what that was, so I explained the law of Karma to him, how each person, because of some past incarnation, was born to have certain difficult experiences that would foster his soul’s growth. I said some really interesting things, stuff I’d heard from John and Sally Sunflower and Cary Colorado and God knows who else, all of which I sincerely believe but had never rapped to anyone else before.
I realize now that I’ve been doing a lot of sitting-at-the-feet-of this past couple of years, listening to all sorts of wise people and not doing much rapping of my own. And it’s nice to be away from my beautiful teachers, off on my own, making use of the wisdom I’ve been gathering. (WARNING: Didn’t I hear somewhere that only fools think of themselves as wise?)
Anyway, Mr. Kaminski needed to hear the things I told him. I’m sure he did. He went after every word like a pussycat lapping up spilled cream. Can it hurt to make a person feel good? Of course not! Besides, I was so high—and still am!—that I couldn’t possibly have been too mistaken about anything.
So: We got along like—I was going to say gangbusters, but why not be accurate? I was like a priestess hearing his confession and giving absolution. But that’s too cold. Priests are hidden in their little boxes and there’s no warmth or humanness. I guess it’d be more accurate to say simply that we befriended one another. Yes, we got along like friends.
Anyway, about three miles before the New York turnoff, we stopped at this little roadside place and had a bowl of soup together. Barley soup. Hot and delicious. It made me think of all my faraway families in New York and Toronto, so I introduced Mr. Kaminski to the pre-meal Zap. Life is truly fantastic to think about. There I was, Gloria the Fuck-up Glyczwycz and a baldheaded traveling salesman holding hands in a Canadian roadhouse at high noon. What a dear good sweet man he was. And to think, wow! that an hour or so earlier I’d thought he was just a stranger.
Season of the Witch Page 30