"And we arrive here from Elat, a torturous twisting river-flow tunnel; depending upon ask Ma'am?? Ma'am Herthurnity // the Ma'am of my Ma'ametteness.
Haight-Ashbury, San Francisco, 1968. I spent the summer in Golden Gate Park.
When I was four of five, I had a fever dream, in my parents big double bed. I dreamed I was a ball of cotton rolling on a white plain, trying to get through the
Eye of a
needle. It was not the dream, but it was the feeling that most affected me, a feeling like bones rubbing together. Would have this feeling come upon me
intermittently most of my life, maybe once every few years. I did not like the
sensation; was afraid of it; and always shook it off; at least until this point in
my life. But now I had been in the Army, traveled all over Europe, was here in San Francisco in the world-famous Haight-Ashbury, and much of it by myself.
I ought to be able to explore this feeling.
I was sleeping in a tiny room, not spending much time there otherwise, on Page Street, one block north of Haight, and one block west of Ashbury close to Clayton. Every room in the place was rented, which in those days was called a rooming house, as cheap housing for the poor. There was a big kitchen in the back with a view of the backyard, and had a nice feeling to it, with Victorian wood-work and windows. I used it to make breakfast there every morning, mostly in those days bacon, eggs with bread and coffee or tea. I spent all my days wandering around in Golden Gate Park by myself.
For lunch I think I packed some kind of packaged sugar coated apple pastry, which I carried in a cloth shoulder bag, along with a note-pad and a book; the bag I had obtained in Athens from a local poet; who had a leather shop famous to some; along with my leather thong-sandals. For dinner I ate at a Chinese restaurant; at the southwest corner of Haight-Asbury with great giant street windows. There was a newspaper/magazine store directly across the street on the corner. Always there, was a husky, dark dock worker type, hanging out reading magazines; standing against the wall. Never could figure him out. Always thought he was some kind of mafia spy, for god knows what reason.
The largest and nicest room, where I was living was also in the back, and was occupied by a somewhat sophisticated type, probably six feet tall, slim, dark and handsome; with black-hair combed straight-back, clean shaven // no hippie and well dressed. Don't remember his name; not my forte, but we will call him Carter, a name suitable to his exterior appearance and demeanor. Carter was very friendly, but we seemed not too have all that much in common. It was a surprise to me, when months later; while I was living in North Beach, while sitting in the Minimum Daily Requirement, a coffee house famous for it's cheap, sixty-cent Pea Soup and fresh French bread; it was a big hang-out at the time. There came in one evening Carter with a tall flamboyant seeming drag-queen, complete with
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