Love, Medicine, and Music

Prologue: Masked Ball

Rising above the pulsating dance hall, soaring astrally out of my body, I saw the whole scene below with me as I was connecting it all to the whole universe. The LSD was peaking, and I felt one with everyone there. Smiles on most faces. shining peace and love. Some just sitting in a meditative mood while others danced around the stationary human forms.

A pretty young girl around 17 years old, eyes shining, headband and beads swinging on her loose madras dress. Her hair wrapped around me as she kissed me, hugged me, rubbed up against me, and whirled off to another human flower like a honey bee. People’s personas manifested in what they wore or didn’t. Most people wore blue jeans and strong shirts, like me, but many folks were clad in costumed gaiety.

The longshoreman’s hall was shaped like conical saucer. As the hall vibrated, I felt like we were lifting off of the ground, drifting into unknown universes as one.

A Hells Angel danced with a commedia del arte, who danced with a Native American leader, who danced with an Arabian caftan, who reeled with an African dashiki, circling as one with a Mexican poncho, as the Grateful Dead played for the collective and then sat down on the stage, contemplating and looking at their instruments and hands. Everybody did whatever they felt, and it was all OK. Dancing, loving, kissing, hugging, crying out, somersaulting, climbing up the walls. Yelling like Tarzan and Captain Marvel from the balconies. Another woman kissed me. This dance scene was very different from the restrictive dances girls-on-one-side-boys-on-the-other dances I’d attended as a young boy.

This anything-is-possible, do-what-you-want-to hedonism was the highest I could be in my life. Everything was right. I was experiencing the elusive ecstasy. I wanted this to last forever.

I sat in a corner, watching the scene, feeling in a meditative mood. Parts of my life were flowing before me. I thought back to the age of 7, to my mother’s death. A large sadness entered and then left just as fast, like an unwanted junk feeling being passed out into the ether. I remembered the restrictive and tame 1950s, the double-breasted suits, crew cuts, stylish cars, and very little deviation from the norm. My stepmother Mildred and her daughter Sue came into my life at age 11. She tried to bring organization and meaning into our family; however, her demanding ways and smothering questions did not work, and subsequently, I stayed away from home a lot. My friends and I drove convertible Chevy Impalas, listened to rock ‘n’ roll and try unsuccessfully to pick up girls.

My stepmother was obsessed with cleaning and social climbing, manipulation and materialism. Even as a kid, I would sneak down watching the grownup parties as they got drunk and amorous with each other. Mildred, who was very loud in general, would become even louder and dance with all the men. I remembered how I was sent away to prep school early, as I was reticent in general, not doing well in school and not getting along at home. Prep school taught me how to be social, which was as valuable as the educational curriculum. The teachers and administrators were like a sideshow of eccentrics. We had to wear suits and ties; they were trying to train nice little gray flannel conformists whose goals were to make money, pursue careers, find wives, and have 2.5 children and own two TVs and two cars and appliances that were newer and faster than their neighbors’. I remembered being disillusioned with the world.

I went back to my education and focused on how I could actually change myself, and the world got better. I embraced travel and adventure, and I soared above the din and threw off my shackles, only to find liberation and many loves and ecstasies, and bam. Here I am again at this gathering of the tribes and spirit souls, feeling united and loving as we all passed the acid test. This is my story.



Chapter 1: Harlem Renaissance

Sitting on the sandstone stoop in Harlem with Chickie, my main man. Sun beating down on us. We could be anywhere. It was a lazy afternoon. Looking at the clouds, Chickie said, “That one looks like a limo.” I looked to the skies sometimes to escape the pain I felt on Earth.

Chickie, the warlord of one of the toughest gangs, The Mystic Knights, happened to be my best friend. Chickie was handsome, tall, with a mustache and an athletic physique. His skin was a creamy coffee pastel. This was one of the rare times that Chickie sat for a while. He would sit with me, which I considered a compliment, since he was usually on the run. Maybe he was on amphetamines, but he never told me that. “I got to take care of business,” he would say, and speed off somewhere.

He would never stay at one place very long. When we walked together, he walked the back alleys of Harlem, and he walked really fast, like he was hiding something. When he talked, you knew there was more for him to say, as if he had a private place inside, only his, not to be shared with anyone else. I understood this, as we were both Scorpios. Maybe that’s why we got along.

Down one step, sitting near us, were Top, Moochie, and Smoke. Top said, “That cloud looks like a bush.” Smoke offered, “Nah, the cloud looks like a jaguar pouncing.”

I started to notice that in my life, I would befriend adventurous, smart, influential friends. That became a boon and a wealth for me: my friends.

I looked at the scene, children running up and down the steps nearby. Some other children were opening up two fire hydrants with monkey wrenches that they borrowed from their fathers. Soon, water gushed up and out, cooling the dancing children waiting underneath. Then one kid used a bent pot lid, shaped under the water flow, to direct the spray toward some children across the street. The water was a relief, like people in India and Mexico waiting for the start of the rainy season.

We saw a guy named Ron walking down the street. We’d nicknamed him The Butler because he looked like he was wearing a suit even if he wasn’t. He was bit of a snob, a yes-man toady type, thus the moniker.

The kid saw The Butler trundling down the street and he squirted the water right on him. The Butler charged across the street at the kid, sputtering. We observed the kid’s older brother step out and thought, “Oh, no, Butler!” as we saw the scene unfolding as if in slow motion. The Butler charged right into the fist of the older brother and went down for the count, then got up and slinked away around the corner.

Miasah and Sondra, two foxy-fine debs in tight skirts and peasant blouses, walked by with an attitude, knowing all eyes were on them. They chirped, “Hello, Roger,” ignoring my drooling friends on the stoop. Chickie, Mooch, Top, and Smoke looked at me in disbelief. One wanted to be close to the debs, because they were very territorial; they taped razor blades in between their fingers, and if they didn’t like someone, they would swipe their open hands upside his face. I would see many local man with scars on his face, like African tribal scars, from getting on the wrong side of a deb.

Top had a bandana holding his afro in, tied tight in the front with a little bow. Dixie Peach hair-straightener goop stuck out of his pocket. A smile resonated out of his ebony skin, muscular and quiet. Moochie was short, shy, sort of sullen, didn’t say much, a follower of Chickie’s. Smoke, on the other hand, was vibrant, tall, with a big smile and luck on his side. He told me one of his side jobs was rolling a kilo of marijuana for the organized crime mobs in Harlem. He rolled thousands joints of reefer in one night. He was playing a tall conga drum, punctuating the life that went by.

I was from the suburbs, Scarsdale, a rich town. I was in a gang of friends, but there was no territory to defend, just forest and trees that I used to walk in for long periods of time, when people were in their houses at dinnertime, the pastel sun going down into semi-darkness, the people like television screens in the lit windows, sitting down to eat, me outside feeling comforted by nature and the darkness. There was no community there, no children playing in abundance. People got around by cars, not knowing the neighbors well, no loud music and sounds of greetings like here in Harlem.

“What’s happening?”

"Splivey, slip me five.”

“Where you been?”

“Got next to my old lady again.”

On the next stoop, Willie, a tall older man, was drinking some Thunderbird, and next to him, another man was drinking Ripple, both cheap wines that were passed around between five, then six men. A brief fight would break out like dogs, growling and then subsiding just as quickly. Jazz music came out of Wilt’s, a bar owned by Wilt Chamberlain.

In this so-called ghetto of Harlem, New York, I found more communication, community, honest friends, and life than anywhere else. Most of the people hated Whitey, and very rightly so, but I was able to break through all that.

Nelson, the numbers runner and a mobile bookie, ambled by in a tailored suit, his pockets full of cash. He was one of the regular donors to the tutorial project HEP, which I was also involved in. We, the Harlem Education Project, didn’t take government grants, as strings were always attached, so he was one of the main sources of funds.

I thought back: How did I end up in Harlem? Or, more specifically: How did a white kid from Scarsdale end up in Harlem? It was when I met Carl Anthony, who was living on the Lower East Side . . .



The Lower East Side

The Lower East Side consisted of 14 blocks south to north and about six blocks east to west. An area like none other in New York City. Cobblestone streets filled with open barrows or carts, tenement buildings with cold water flats.

The Lower East Side was a ghetto, but instead of a single ethnic group, it comprised many peoples living side by side: Jewish immigrants fresh from Ellis Island, Puerto Ricans, Eastern Europeans, Russians, Ukrainians, Poles, Irish, Italians, Chinese. White liberals and the newest admixture artists, poets, writers, musicians looking for the lowest rents in the city. The flats were old and similar.

A small cockroach crawled on my hand as I went to the small stove. I watched as the glistening brown beetles scurried out when I opened the oven door. They disappeared into hidden parts of my apartment. The little thugs crawled over you day and night. It was part of living here. Rats could be heard in the wall; they sometimes came out at night. I’d heard the squeaking near my ear. I would bang a rolled-up magazine down hard on the floor, and they’d run back into the wall, only to come out again later. I did not kill them.

“The roaches and rats are flourishing,” I thought, as a refrigerator suddenly whizzed past the back window into the yard below, which was a rubbish heap. People threw their garbage right out of the windows to the pile below, as it was much easier than carting the refuse to the basement. No elevators here. No doorman, just the super sitting on the stoop, drinking a cerveza.

Even though the roaches were overwhelming, the crunch of a small shiny body under a shoe or broom was too much for me to bear. I was becoming a vegetarian anyway. Maybe that’s why they say cockroaches will survive even after a nuclear bomb drop.

The vibration of music and voice noises came through the open front window. New York was a constant din of energy and sound even into the late night.

I wanted to wash. The only method available was unheated tap water and a primitive enamel bath tub with a metal cover that doubled as a table, right next to the stove in the kitchen. I removed the metal cover in order to bathe. I would take sponge baths, as there was very little hot water.

Also in the kitchen were an old refrigerator and a few closed pantry cabinets to store food. The single mattress on the floor was pushed up against the wall with a tasteful cover. Ever since I left junior college, I had been sleeping on a mat or sleeping bag. I had few possessions. Sometimes a small altar. No television but always a radio, a turntable, and some special books, in a makeshift bookshelf made of cinder blocks painted black with wooden shelves. Cushions were strewn about when people visited, and the mattress could lean up against the wall for more room.

There were three segments to this apartment, like the parts of an insect. It was a cold water flat that ran from the back room, through the kitchen and into the front room, straight through. No Ls, no alcoves, foyers, or even doors. A small enclosed toilet was wedged in the hall. Just a toilet—no sink, no shower—in that little nook. Seeing it helped me understand why, in Europe, they call the john a water closet.

There was a back yard, but it was filled with overgrown foliage, weeds, brambles, and garbage that, as I said, people just threw out the windows. The two front windows looked over the scene on East 4th Street: the playground, the apartment right across the street where my friend Sam Rowell, also known as SCR, lived. I could often see Coco, a Sarah Lawrence chick, sitting on the fire escape or staring out her window.

All the flats had fire escapes winding down the front. To many, the fire escape was away to escape the confines of the apartment; people set up chairs and flower pots, making a little front space. Some women were perpetually looking out their windows, and some rarely ventured off of their street. Always staring, always in the window or on the fire escape. The roof was also a nice refuge too. Some people raised pigeons on the nearby rooftops.

I washed in the tub/sink/table and put on my blue jeans that by now could stand on their own, a shirt given to me by a Native American, and sneakers. I ran downstairs, said hello to Pedro on the stoop, and high-fived Spanky, who dealt Colombian grass in nickel- and dime-bags. He was always looking and not looking all the time. He showed up on East 4th Street every morning around 10:30.

Some men were emulating dogs in a dog fight; they would bark at each other, reaching a crescendo, subsiding into whimpers, and then laughing loudly and embracing. The fight was over a car that one of the men had chopped at with a hatchet. I crossed the street anyway and shook hands with Rudolph, another pot dealer, who was wearing make-up, a blouse exposing his stomach, and a bandana—overtly feminine, yet conclusively the toughest guy on the street. When he was drafted into the Army, he beat it by wearing panties that read, “Be My Valentine” to the physical, then jumping on the sergeant and kissing him.

The ruse the U.S government played on its youth back then is that they issued draft cards at the age of 18. This was the standard ID, so kids wanted the cards so they can go to bars and drink. Many kids had fake draft cards, but like lemmings, the youth of the United States leaped to their own deaths, all for a beer.

In the end, I did not have to kill the enemy for a political regime I was protesting against. When they called me up, I went to a big hall wherein a hundred young men were stripped to their underwear. My plan was to be ambiguous. I did everything differently from the others. If they hung their clothes, I folded them. I had both the color blind number and the visually correct one and gave them both numbers. I did both bad and good on the written test. I felt like a salmon swimming the opposite way from the others, sometimes with great effort. I looked and acted differently during every test, but when the psychiatrist interview occurred, that was when I aced it.

In a thick German accent, the psychiatrist asked, “Do you take drugs?”

I answered, “I don’t want to answer that.”

He didn’t know what to think. I subtly scraped my right hand over my left, an affectation of addicts.

He then asked, “Are you a homosexual, hmmm?”

Again, I said, “I don’t want to answer that.”

He checked all sorts of boxes and said I could go. Then they told me to go home, that the Army does not want you. I left the hall happily. I didn’t want the Army either, so there.

To congratulate myself, I would go to hear some music at an inexpensive folk music club. I walked past the playground across the street, turned right on Avenue B and 12th Street, and walked toward Cooper Union and Gerde’s Folk City.

Bob Dylan and The Clancy Brothers were playing at Gerde’s on East 12th, with The Clancy Brothers as the headline group. Bob Dylan played at the downstairs dingy basement at Café Wha?, and sometimes at The Bitter End as well. Gerde’s was a step up, as he was started to be recognized as a unique folk singer with original poetic songs, that, like The Beatles, were saying what we were thinking, one beat ahead of the rest of the world.

Bob Dylan went to the small stage, almost meekly. The stage was just a little above floor level, and there were only about 12 tables, so it was a very intimate little place. I sat in the front row of tables, so I was about 15 feet away from Bobby. He was sandy-haired, with a nose that could open a tin can. His eyes went inside sometimes and then came out to penetrate the surroundings. His shirt was simple, tucked recklessly into some Wranglers. Dylan looked at no one down at his feet, strummed some chords, and sang out: “The times, they are a-changin’.”

The song ended with the appreciative applause. He humbly thanked everyone, and sang “Blowin’ in the Wind," accompanying himself on harmonica, appropriately. The guitar and harmonica blended with a beautiful hard edge.

SNAAAP! Suddenly, Bobby’s top guitar string broke! He finished the song anyway and left the stage, proceeding directly to the bar, where he ordered a whole bottle of wine. I went to the men’s room, as did Bobby, bottle in hand.

He had a presence, even though he was quiet and shy. He sat on the sink, eyeing me for a moment, and then said, “Man, my E string broke, Do you have an E string, man?” He handed me the bottle.

I took a swig. “I don’t have one on me, but I have a friend who lives right near here who might have one.”

He took back the wine. “I’ll wait here.”

Panama, my Cuban guitarist friend, lived almost in the same building as the Gerde’s. I climbed the three flights of stairs and knocked on his door. He looked through the keyhole in the door, unlocked the two police locks, and the swung door open.

"Hey, Roger. What’s happening, how you doing, come in, come in.” His pretty wife and a small child were there also. I greeted them.

“We’re just sitting down for some rice and beans, want some?” The saffron smell of the yellow rice wafted across the room to me.

“Maybe in a few hours. Right now, I’m listening to some groovy music at Gerde’s, and my man broke his E string in the middle of the set. Do you have an E string?” Three guitars were leaning on the wall, so I knew Panama might be able to help out.

“Right on, yeah, I have a new E string. I was going to restring my guitar.”

”I’ll replace it tomorrow.”

“Solid,” he said, and handed me the string. “Be sure you come back and get you some rice and beans, there’s plenty.”

“You can come and hear this singer, I think he’s special.”

“Nah, I’m hungry. I’ll catch you later.”

”Later,” I said back.

I ran down the stairs, entered the club, and went to the men’s room. Bobby was still there looking sullen, slouching on the edge of the sink. I handed him the new E string in the packet, wrapped in cellophane. He brightened up. “Thanks, man,” he said, and handed me the wine again.

I took another swig. He immediately began tying the top E string to his guitar and then threading it through the small hole in the bridge. He was like a magic troll or leprechaun in a forest. I left him alone.

Back in the club, Tommy Makem was playing a penny whistle solo; the Clancys in their matching sweaters chimed in.

“Whiskey, you’re the devil, you’re leading me astray
Oh, whiskey, you’re the devil, drunk or sober.”

My mind wandered back to my exchange with Bobby. Here they were, singing about whiskey, and he was singing about change and life. I didn’t really appreciate him until I heard him again later, downstairs in the dark at The Bitter End. His words were not absorbed by the brick walls. I heard them and they sang out _____________.

As I was thinking, The Clancy Brothers would make me laugh. “Broke his nose, I suppose . . .” “ . . . at Finnegan’s wake.”

Bob Dylan came out of the bath room, and the Clancys cleared the small stage. Usually, there was a brief intermission between acts so that the patrons can buy drinks, but Bobby wanted to sing, and so he did. “Positively 4th Street,” “Like a Rolling Stone,” and “Maggie’s Farm” lit up the joint, lit up my life. I experienced a very special singer and made a new friend.

The village was full of these new singers, poets, musicians, artists, and comedians: Woody Allen, Joan Baez, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, Hugh Romney (aka Wavy Gravy). I also heard Thelonius Monk at the Five Spot, Cannonball Adderley at the Vanguard, and Charlie Mingus at the Half Note on Hudson Street.

Back in the Lower East Side, the smells of Cuban cuchafritos blended with the aroma of pierogi melding with the scent of Russian deli pickles in brine mixing with the spicy, savory odor of hot links. I passed open-air carts selling fruits, vegetables, shoes, hardware and used tools, and sacred Jewish items and yarmulkes, I passed by Santeria shops, bodegas, spice stores, and the famous Peace Eye bookstore, run by Ed Sanders, a local radical writer who looked like Mark Twain.

Off of Tompkins Square Park, I saw a Ukrainian woman on a park bench, her orange stockings rolled halfway down her old legs, a relief from the hot sun beating down on us. Next to her was a Puerto Rican father and daughter. Dogs and children swooped here and there, as two half-court basketball games took place in the north end of the park.

East 10th Street still had fancy three-story brownstone townhouses inhabited by some of my friends. Living in one of them was Yoko Ono and Tony Cox. Their neighbor was another artist, Leon Golub, whose little boxer dog peed on his paintings before they hung in The Museum of Modern Art. Down a few doors was Alan Ribback, who co-owned the Gate of Horn, a folk music club in Chicago. He did field recordings of folk music in the American South. I attended many music jamming parties and feasts at his place.

The Lower East Side was full of free artistic events: There were concerts at St. Mark’s Church, and Peter Schumann’s Bread and Puppet Theater had open play rehearsals for their friends. Sometimes the puppeteers would march in protest with 12-foot- high puppets and masks and stilts. Leroi Jones’s loft was always happening: Like Andy Warhol’s factory, you never knew who would show up, from Marlon Brando to the Umbra poets.

I was on my way to meet my friend Carl Anthony at the Annex. The pub scene on the Lower East Side was a bar crawl beginning at, say, Stanley’s on East 12th to, say, Slug’s, or the Dom or McSorley’s (no women allowed) or the Five Spot jazz bar, all along the border of the neighborhood. The Annex, on Avenue B, was where poets, anarchists, and Lower East Side characters congregated. The nice thing about the Annex was that you could eat peanuts and throw the shells on the floor. The crowd was loud.

Harry Peace: tall, yellow, and flamboyant in his raccoon coat, like people wore at football games. He draped himself over my shoulder, grabbing a buck from my neighbor. I cracked open some peanuts from the bowl on the bar and ordered a dark and tan.

Harry said, “The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner and Last Year at Marienbad are playing at The Charles Theatre. Wanna go?”

“Sure,” I said. “Tomorrow?”

Carl Anthony, my neighbor on East 4th, was an activist and architecture student with a quick wit and a unique way of thinking. I introduced Harry to Carl; they acknowledged each other. Harry was complaining about his poor living conditions.

Carl laughed and said, “You can’t fall outta bed if you’re sleeping on the floor.”

Carl turned to me and said, “Roger, I’m going to a meeting of Student for Democratic Society. Wanna go with me?”

“Sure,” I replied.

Joe Johnson, a poet with almost androgynous beauty, came up to us with his smiling saintly face. He and Carl were already friends. I introduced Harry to both of them.

Joe announced, “There is a reading by the Umbra poets at St. Mark’s Church on Wednesday night. You’re all invited; do you wanna go?”

I said, “Sure.”

I thought about how different we all are. Carl, a student and protestor of the ills of society. Joe, doing the same, although more personal through his writing. Harry Peace, also very intelligent, but who stands on the street corner getting high, never working.

I agreed to attend these three exciting events, which were actually getting in the way of my education at The New School of Social Research.



Life or Academia

My father was a kind, understanding man. He was tall, dapper, and handsome, well-dressed, conservative-looking but with a liberal sensitivity in his thinking and politics. What really stood out was the many, many people who came to him for advice and counseling. He also had a subtle sense of humor and a gift for gab, both of which I inherited. He always tolerated and even encouraged my diverse and sometimes twisted path.

My father had a degree in law, but due to the Great Depression, he opted to become an insurance salesman and was very successful at it. He was a manager for Metropolitan Life Insurance and was the president of the Millionaires’ Club, wherein he would sell a million dollars’ worth of insurance every year. He sold most of it on the golf course, similar to the stories of battles won on the playing fields of Eton.

So, when I left school temporarily to live in squalor, Dad dealt with it, but he certainly would have liked me to pursue a career in law or medicine.

I was floundering around aimlessly on the Lower East Side for a while. But I love to learn, so I investigated the local colleges and universities, and the New School for Social Research stood out. One of the most avant-garde colleges in the whole United States, the New School was encouraging students to formulate their majors according to their interests and talents. It had a European philosophical tradition and such alumni students as Eleanor Roosevelt and author James Baldwin.

My courses were Music Appreciation; Race Relations; and Atheism, Agnosticism and Skepticism, which was taught by Paul Kurtz, who wrote the introduction to Bertrand Russell’s “Why I Am Not a Christian.” The final exam for that course was to compare two atheistic philosophies. Professor Kurtz had already given many arguments against religion and spirituality, so I thought a good final exam paper would be to document interviews with clergymen and other spiritual professionals on the atheistic viewpoints. The professor thought that was good idea.

I visited Father Allan, the hip priest who held free jazz concerts and poetry readings on Wednesday evenings at his church on St. Mark’s Square. He was honest and kind and real. We ended up remaining friends and working together in the civil rights movement. I visited a few other clergymen as well, who were compassionate to my searching and even took me into the inner sanctum to witness prayer ceremonies. In short, the spiritual people were nicer and more real than Professor Kurtz, who was an intellectual curmudgeon with no advancement goals.

A few weeks later, l met Carl Anthony again on East 4th Street. We went to his apartment, which was nicely decorated, clean, and minimally furnished. Miles Davis’s muted horn was on the phonograph.

Carl began, “Roger, I’m involved in a tutorial project uptown, in Harlem. We are tutoring kids in reading, math, and other subjects. You told me before that you love to learn; here’s a chance to share that with kids who need good role models. Can you come up to our office on 147th Street and 8th Avenue and maybe be a tutor?”

“I would be glad to,” I replied.

”Great, I’m going there every day next week; we can ride together.”

“Day after tomorrow. I have classes at New School tomorrow.”

Carl was smiling and doing a little dance in place. “Thank you,” he told me.

We rode the A train from lower Manhattan to almost the upper tip. I sang Duke Ellington’s “A Train” to myself, with the clackity-clack of the subway as a rhythm section. Carl talked about the project on the way.

”We are just starting, and I find that there is a lot of need to help these kids who society looks down on. Not only are they deficient in education, but in skills on how to deal with life and growing up, also. We need to find places to tutor. We just have the use of two church basements right now. We also need tutors, and we need more funds.”

We got off at 145th and 8th. There were crowds of people on the streets, which seemed to vibrate with music and life here. A sweet potato pie aroma came out of a little stand.

Carl continued. “We are also having a slow time being accepted by the community. Lots of outsiders have come into Harlem, and most take from the community without giving anything back. There are merchants who live outside, make money, and then go away. There are absentee landlords who don’t comply with the building codes, letting people live in horrible conditions and, again, taking money out of Harlem. Then there is the general subjugation of society looking down and keeping us in the ghetto. And even me, I am living downtown.”

We reached the address. Carl opened the office door, which was a storefront converted into an office. Hanging out in the back were a few desks and a growing library. We were greeted by Kathy Rodgers, a tall attractive woman, young, with a pale blue dress and matching light blue eyes punctuating her smiling face.

“Hello,” she said offering her hand in a warm welcome.

Carl ventured, “This is my friend, Roger. I think he can help us in many ways, but firstly as a tutor, just to get accustomed.”

Kathy smiled even more broadly.

The front door burst open and a little boy with a confident manner came in. He was about three feet tall, dressed impeccably in a tiny gray suit jacket, trousers, vest, and tie. His mother walked in behind the little man. “This is Papa,” she said. He really was a papa, a man in a little boy’s body. The mother continued, “My son wants some help in school.”

“We shall see,” Papa said wisely.

Kathy took out a form from a bookshelf for prospective tutees. It asked for a name, address, phone number, and a list of subjects you wanted help with. Reading was the most needed.

Papa and his mother thanked Kathy and went further into the office, where there were some sandwiches for guests. A sharply dressed man in a fedora hat came in, walked around, said nothing, and walked out. Three young men with their baseball hats worn to the side see-sawed into the storefront. They sat and then slouched down in seats, watching us, and eventually one of them, who I later knew as Sammy, came up and reluctantly said, “Can you help us in school?”

“Why, sure,” Kathy said with a smile. She grabbed three forms and handed them to Sammy and his two friends. They looked at the forms and fiddled with them for a while, then said, “Uh, we don’t know how to read or write.”

I saw that there was a need to teach reading. For me, books were a childhood comfort, through which I shared incredible journeys to exotic places, and they opened new ideas in me. Reading, I thought, could be the escape from ghetto life for these kids, whom may end up in prison or dead.

“OK,” Kathy said, “can you tell me your names?”

“Yeah,” they said collectively but didn’t venture their names. They were very reticent.

Kathy persevered. “So, what are your names?” she laughed, ignoring their reluctance.

“Frankie Climbs,” one of the boys spat out.

“Sammy Rollins.”

“Luther Wright,” the third one answered.

Kathy wrote their names on the forms. They also knew their addresses.

She made a few notations and said, “OK. next week on Tuesday after school, come here, and I will introduce you to someone who will help you to learn to read and write.” They agreed and sidled out of the storefront office.

Kathy turned to us. “They may or may not show.”

Another woman came in practically dragging her son. She was big and bold with a loud booming voice. “Rufus here wants to Learn,” she belted out, filling the room like an opera singer. Rufus was slinking down shyly. She pulled him up. “Talk to these folks.”

Very reluctantly, young Rufus muttered, “I’m having trouble in school, but I don’t want to go anymore. I only go because my mother makes me . . .”

“You better get down on your knees and pray, boy!” she boomed.

Rufus changed abruptly and got on his knees right there, bowing his head for a moment. He became very respectful. That is one answer. I thought, “If Rufus could read, then he could read about subjects he liked.” I made a note to myself to find out what interested people.

There were some people congregating outside the windows. Just watching, trying to figure out who we were and what we wanted. Many outsiders had come and gone before.

Then in came Lew Anthony, Carl’s brother, a smaller version of Carl with a mustache. He was quiet and thoughtful-looking, He nodded at us and went directly into the rear of the office, where he started taking tools and parts out of a bag and sat down to work.

Soon after, he came up to us and quietly said, “We have a telephone now. It runs on solar energy.” (This was 1963, way before solar energy was discovered for wide use.) This would circumvent a phone bill.

Two tiny twin girls came in with their mother. They were very cute, with little pushed-up noses and wide curious eyes, looking around, taking everything in.

“Can you teach my babies to talk? They can’t speak.”

Kathy and Carl were dumfounded and didn’t respond. I spoke up.

“Can they hear?”

“Yes, they can hear, and sometimes they make sounds.”

I smiled at the girls and they came to me. I put both of their little hands on my throat and sang out, “We can speak, we can sing.”

They felt the vibrations. I sung that over and over, and soon they were following, making almost verbal words.
The mother was amazed and ecstatic. The girls were curious and hopeful.

I asked the mother if she could continue that with them and she said, “Praise the Lord. Yes, I’ll do that! Thank you!” She wanted to know my name.

“Roger.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rogers.” She danced a jiggly dance and left, one twin in each hand.

Carl and Kathy too were pleased, and they asked if I would consider becoming part of their staff. “There are five other staff members so far. You can come to one of our meetings and see how you like it.”

I agreed. I felt needed. My academia was only satisfying on the mental plane; there was no practical applications to what I was learning. Ironically, the atheist course turned me into a spiritually minded person on the search. My friend Rose Resnick, who started Lighthouse for the Blind, said the meaning of life is “having something to love, something to do, and something to hope for.” The tutoring program was fulfilling all three.

At the time, I was working part time for a florist, driving a panel truck, going to the flower market and delivering floral arrangements. When the truck was full, each arrangement was in a square box, with bungee cords securing them. One day, the florist was entering an arrangement into the largest, most prestigious flower exposition in the city, held at the New York Coliseum. The hall took up a whole block and traffic went around the ovoid building, a modern Roman coliseum.

The truck only had one arrangement: three tiers of chrysanthemums styled in a pyramid. The lower tier represented Earth, the smaller middle tier represented humans, and the pinnacle, a single chrysanthemum, represented Heaven. I secured the single arrangement with bungee cords. On the way uptown, the traffic was erratic and dangerous, and I had to swerve around a corner. Because there were no other flower arrangements to deflect it, the arrangement fell over, and the chrysanthemum representing Heaven broke off and lay uselessly on the truck’s floor.

Well, I had to decide what to do. Should I return to the florist and risk criticism? It was getting close to the time of delivery, so I picked up the arrangement, re-secured it, and smished and scrunched Heaven into humankind.
I entered it and it won third prize. However, when the photo of the third-prize arrangement was sent to the florist, he said, “This wasn’t the arrangement we entered!”

I didn’t say anything. I’ve learned that sometimes in life, it’s better to ask forgiveness then permission.

Anyway, that job had soon wilted and I was ready to see what this tutorial project was about. And that is how I ended up in Harlem.



HEP: Harlem Education Project

The Harlem Education Project was a grassroots organization, part of the Northern Student Movement—itself the counterpart to the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee—which was the most effective group of young radicals because we both stayed clear of money grants that would shackle our creative brand of protests. Even Martin Luther King Jr. had to dot the Is and cross the Ts because he was interacting with the feds. We didn’t have to answer to anyone. Leaders like Julian Bond and Stokeley Carmichael came from the Northern Student Movement.

The Harlem Education Project recruited college students to tutor kids who were having trouble in academics. The tutors came from good colleges, like Columbia, Barnard, and Sarah Lawrence and taught the kids reading, math, and social studies. This pioneering effort spawned today’s No Child Left Behind Act. We experimented with one-on-one, one-on-two, and one-on-three groups and examined the dynamics of each interaction. We also had workshops on art, music, and survival.

Toby Denny was one of the tutors. She was unusual, as she was a friend to everyone and was able to fend off many people trying to hit on her, including me. She would go inside herself somewhere when she wanted to retreat from the world. I saw Top trying to get her to go out; she politely said no, but her demeanor said no as she retreated inside. It looked like someplace I would want to go.

She tutored kids and took us to her mom’s house on East 38th Street, in an enclave near the United Nations building overlooking the East River. She had graduated from Kent State University, so she had more time than the tutors that were still going to school. As I said, she was friendly to all of us, and she became one of the boys sometimes. She hung out with me a lot and became a confidant, as she was easygoing and had a steady, even temperament.

The staff grew eventually and consisted of Stokely Carmichael, the future leader of SNCC; Kathy Rodgers, an activist and Sarah Lawrence student; my Umbra poet friend, Joe Johnson; Theresa, a secretary and assistant; Bob Knight, a teacher and partner in many escapades; Danny Schechter, a writer and now a TV producer; Q. R. Hand, who today is a poet in San Francisco; Carl’s even-smarter brother Lew; Pigeon and Andrea Cousins, who were the daughters of Norman Cousins (editor of The Saturday Revue); and Julian Bond; the boyfriend of Pigeon Cousins and later a state senator and advisor to the President.

Q. R Hand is a poet as well as an activist. When he talked, he would look within, as if plumbing the best water from his well. Sometimes he would intersperse grunts or musical sounds into his poetry, as if in a jazz riff. If you listened carefully, a lot of profound stuff would come out. I heard him read at Bird and Becket bookstore just recently; he is 73 years old and more guttural, more profound. A big beard, spectacles, and a rumpled old straw hat adorned his skinny self. I remember one night with John Ross, we were passing four joints for only three of us at the Great American Music Hall balcony, as the jazz quartet soared.

Our protests included sit-ins, marches, selective patronage (a boycott of businesses and individuals that perpetuated injustice), and building neighborhood commons, or parks, in the middle of the slums. We also had educational projects like our tutoring sessions and workshops.

I started to spend more and more time in Harlem. I tutored twice a week and worked with a girl, Saida, who slowly became a friend as well as a tutee. She taught me about life in the ghetto and how someone in a minority culture thinks and acts. Self-esteem and survival. People looking down on you and keeping you down by forcing you to stay in the ghetto as much as possible (or concentration camp, or reservation, they were all similar phenomena).

I also went to the storefront office on 147th and 8th. Every day I went, I made a few new acquaintances, people inside the office, but also out on the street. Because I was friendly, some people reluctantly were friendly back.

The first staff meeting that Carl took me happened like this. Night was falling; the staff meeting started at 6 p.m. Chairs were set up in a circle by Lou Anthony, who rarely talked. The staff meeting consisted of the following agenda:

1) The need to establish friendly relations with the suspicious community
2) The need to find tutors
3) The need to encourage kids who weren’t getting much from school to enroll
4) Logistics of the tutorial
5) The need to find venues in which to tutor
6) Workshops in life and art
7) Fundraising

The meeting began. We were sitting in a circle. Kathy Rodgers was looking fashionable; I liked that she didn’t dress down to try to fit in. Next was my friend Carl Anthony and his brother Lew. Bob Knight, a tall, good-looking man with light ebony skin, smiled at me with a mischievous smile. He was the most politically astute member of the staff and liked to hear himself talk. Theresa, the secretary, was taking minutes. Italian and brassy.

Number one on the agenda changed a lot that day. We were going around the room giving opinions on how to encourage community relations. Kathy was saying maybe we can sponsor a street fair. Carl suggested that maybe we could print a leaflet saying who we are and what we are doing up here. “Which reminds me: On Number 5, I was able to get permission from Adam Clayton Powell’s Abyssinian Baptist Church to use their basement. I also met another minister who said, ‘It’s a fine thing you people are doing here,’ implying that we were outsiders.”

Carl imitated the minister clasping his hands together he stood and danced in place. “It’s a fine thing you people are doing here.” We all laughed.

Kathy, who was chairing the meeting, spoke up. “That’s nice, Carl, but let us stick to the agenda. We’re still on Number 1.”

Bob Knight, sounding like a government official, said, “It would be very good if we infiltrate the community and find indigenous leadership to help us out . . .”

The door swung open. A handsome, energetic man with honey skin came in. His hands were waving slightly in the air. It was my friend Chickie.

“My name is Chickie, and I want to welcome you here. I know you’re trying to help the kids. I’ve been watching you all.” He was dancing up and down and then paced one way or the other while he talked. “I see that you are good and really want to help. Other people have come before and just hassled us. I will help you. I can bring kids to you. I am here to help, here to help.” He wouldn’t sit down.

Kathy said, “Whew!” and we all felt his positive energy like a benign tornado in our small place.

Chickie then signaled to the door. From the opaque darkness, children started coming into our storefront. First two, then three, then four at a time. The place filled up with kids.

Kathy and Carl bounded up to them with enrollment forms. I started greeting people along with Bob Knight. Lew was in the back tinkering with the solar phone. Theresa also began greeting the kids. Chickie was dancing around everyone, herding the kids to us and directing the scene. He was a natural leader.

Bob Knight whispered to me, “Now, that’s what I mean by ‘indigenous leadership.’ The leaders should come from the community. We can get them started and then find new indigenous leaders in new communities.”

Twenty-five kids signed up that night; we had only been tutoring six before. This was a huge positive infusion to our project.

Chickie then signaled to the darkness outside and the well-dressed man in the fedora, who’d circled and said nothing earlier, walked in. He looked dap in his hand-tailored silk suit. He looked at Chickie, who nodded to him.

“You might need to buy some books or something.” In one smooth motion, he placed five 100-dollar bills on the desk and sauntered out, our thank-yous echoing in the air.

“Well, Kathy said we have to change the agenda of the meeting, that we have to recruit more tutors and find more places to tutor. Who wants to do what?”

Bob said, “I’ll go to NYU and other New York schools and put up notices requesting tutors.”

Kathy said, “I’ve already put up notices at Sarah Lawrence last week, and I have four girls interested. I’m going back there tonight and will continue recruiting tomorrow.”

“I will put up some notices at New School and try to recruit as well,” I offered. They turned in unison and thanked me.

Carl said he would continue looking for places to tutor and hold workshops, and again he imitated that condescending minister he’d recently met. “It’s a fine thing you young people are doing here,” wringing his hands and not offering any help whatsoever. “It’s a fine thing you young people are doing here.”

One day, Kathy and I were interviewing four girls from Sarah Lawrence, when Chickie showed up, acting especially charming and flirty. They all signed the tutor forms, and Chickie and I left together as he gushed, “Those little lovelies opened my nose.” Like a child, I was learning new black slang words daily. I didn’t have to ask what word meant very often. (However, if I don’t know something, I will admit it!)

“I’d like to get next to that tall blonde chick,” Chickie went on.

“Yeah, those little lovelies opened my nose too.”

I just said the words in my voice, not in Chickie’s accent. Some of the other white people who came to Harlem talked in the dialect when they were in the presence of black people, and it was really phony, how they changed the way they spoke to try and fit in. “Deeds, not words,” is what I believe.

Chickie and I walked together and he guided me up a hill, one block behind the storefront. We climbed the hill, above the din, midway between the edge of the ghetto and a richer area of Manhattan (____________heights), where the homes were nicer and Columbia students lived. As we settled on the hill, Chickie asked, “How can I pull her coat?

I knew what he meant. “Maybe you can tutor at the same time the Sarah Lawrence girls do,” I suggested.

“I don’t have book-learnin’,” he countered.

“She’s going to be a tutor with the others. Their names are on the forms. It’ll work out.”

He pulled out a marijuana joint and so did I. We laughed and shared our grass and talked till the sun went down. My relationship with Chickie grew and was every bit as important as my work with HEP.

I was soon officially asked to become a staff member. I relished the experience, the breaking through cultural barriers, the meeting of new friends, a chance to do something meaningful—maybe even change the world in some small way. I was experiencing a new vibrant way of life with the rhythms, music, literature, food, and colors swirling together, like looking through a kaleidoscope.

The people in Harlem turned out to be generally hospitable, wanting to serve in some way. Mothers brought in cookies and food to our storefront in thanks for helping their kids. Nearly every day was a small—or large—challenge or conflict to overcome, either a dilemma the kids were going through or an attack from some official trying to close us down. We had a phone for incoming calls but used Lew’s solar phone to avoid any outgoing phone charges. Danny Cassidy, a friend from the Lower East Side, brought us stamps and office supplies from his union job.

We also protested injustices and were taking more and more so-called direct action. We were encouraging “indigenous leadership,” which was helped tremendously when the kids put out a newspaper called The Harlem Voice. The number of tutors and students increased substantially as a result.

As well, in the end, Chickie and I did get next to the Sarah Lawrence chicks and were sneaking into the dorms at night, to sleep with our girlfriends. Chickie, Smoke and I even moved into the women's dorms for a while, but we were eventually discovered.



Earth and Yeast

It was an easy day, a day off. The kids I' tutored and mentored were just as much teachers to me, bringing me their culture, music, youth. Outside, Frankie Climbs, Sammy, and the twins who were learning to talk ran by.

Smoke’s drums were talking, just as they had in slave ships, transcending the differences of northern and southern African dialects. The slaves talked and understood one another through music and drums, sympathetically, universally from Africa, Arabia, Cuba, and Antigua to Harlem. The rhythms spoke, and we spoke via drum beats. Smoke laid down the main beat on the congas, while Top played bongos, Chickie was on timbales, Moochie was on another small drum and I was on claves (wood blocks), cow bells, soda cans, and pavement.

The sun was going down. I had an appointment with Mrs. Wells, the grandmother of my student Frankie, who worked on The Harlem Voice. The family had seen a turn-around in Frankie’s life, and they’d invited me to dinner to thank me. I rounded 147th Street and the light played on the red brick buildings; the drums, still in my head, turned my walk into a dance.

The stoop was only a few steps, guarded by decaying, once-ornate iron work railings. Two men sat on the stairs, sipping beer. I nodded to them, and they nodded back, perhaps wondering who this white man was and what did he want? I knocked on Apartment 3-D and was welcomed inside by the whole family: Grandma, Momma, Frankie, two sisters, and one granddaughter.

George Washington stayed in Harlem, where other elite New Yorkers lived, but the buildings that once housed the wealthy were now worn down. In one building lived a very special woman, Mrs. Francine Wells. In the midst of the activity outside was her family quietly preparing to sit down at their own commemorative dinner.

As they all thanked me for “helping Frankie out,” Frankie looked away, embarrassed by all the attention. He would rather have been The Invisible Man. Another woman, Momma’s sister, came from the kitchen with bowls of sweet and mashed white potatoes. Fried chicken, mustard greens, cornbread, and black-eyed peas made up the well-laid table. Red Louisiana hot sauce, mustard, salt, pepper, and ketchup were the centerpiece.

We all sat down; Mrs. Wells sat at the definite head. Little Gregory sat at the other end, just to punctuate the fact that Mrs. Wells was the elder. I sat in the middle. Momma didn’t sit at all—she hovered and supervised everyone’s plate, making sure that we all had enough to eat.

The plates were piled with steaming food, but no one made a move to eat. I could see that the kids already knew better, so I followed along. Were we waiting for grace?

Then Momma came out and put a plate of dark earth and a plate of block yeast in the middle of the table. Grandma Wells spoke up.

“We thank the good Lord for our being together here, and for putting this food on our table. We’re all doing fine now, Lord. I now put this earth and yeast in my mouth to thank you for keeping me and guiding my journey safely. You protected me, and you showed me the drinking gourd in the sky. Now, let’s eat!”

Later on, her story was explained further. Grandma Wells had been an employee of a man who treated her like a slave, acting as her master. In those modern days, it was seemingly different, because some wages were paid. However, she and the others were paid too little and made to buy goods at the company store, where they were charged too much to boot. The man not only abused her with words and fists, but one night, he tried to rape her.

She kept a pair of scissors in her frock. She fought him off, stabbed him, and ran away, with nothing but the clothes she was wearing and a block of yeast in her pocket that she chewed for nourishment when working the fields. She looked up into the sky and found the Big Dipper, known as the drinking gourd in the terminology of the Underground Railroad. The Big Dipper points to the North Star, and the way to the North, away from the South, to Harlem, Chicago, Detroit, or Toledo. All the way north, Grandma Wells ate the yeast and fresh dark earth, which kept her alive.

She eventually reached Harlem, where she found a relative, met a man, and raised a family. And that is why at her family gatherings, they ate earth and yeast.

The more I worked, lived, and loved in Harlem, the more academia was fading from my life. I missed most of my classes. My Race Relations professor heard about my work in Harlem and was intrigued. He wanted me to publish a paper describing the tutoring program and the breakthroughs between the tutors and students that were occurring daily. I was too busy as a staff member of HEP and did not take it seriously. Now, thinking back, it would have been good to publish at such an early age. I left school, taking incomplete grades in my classes, but I didn’t care.

At one of our staff meetings, Chickie came in more slowly, more somber than usual, and sat down. He stood and danced more than he sat, so I knew this was serious. He had charmed each and every member of our staff and became “my main man.” He also added so much to our project without wanting to be a staff member. In fact, he politely declined a staff position when we asked him.

He cleared his throat and started. “I’ve been running, I tell you, I’ve been running, My girl Ruby is going to have a baby. I don’t want to be warlord of my gang anymore, I got my girlfriend Hanna from Sarah Lawrence. But most of all, most of all, I have to tell you that I have been chipping and shooting smack.”

We were silent. Although Chickie and I were becoming friends and he’d already revealed Hanna, Ruby, and the baby to me, and even the part about not wanting to be warlord anymore, he’d kept the heroin use to himself.

“I want to stop, but it’s so hard, and it’s out there and available. It feels so good for a while, but then so bad and so expensive. I can’t do it all and help you too, so I’m asking you to help me to stop shooting heroin.”

We were all dumbfounded and told him in our different ways that we would help.



Cold Turkey

I told Chickie that he could move in with me downtown, away from the distractions and heroin dealers, and beat this. I said that I had experience “putting people through ‘cold turkey.’”

He agreed and asked me, “No matter what I say, no matter how much I plead, don’t let me go back.”

The next week, together we went through cold sweats and hot fevers, desperate pleading before, during, and after, throwing up. I had to lock us in when he tried to bolt out of the apartment. I would bring him blankets when he was getting the chills, and then he threw them off when he was feeling feverish. Fists clenched, writhing on the bed.

Patiently, I was there. After four days, I was pacing and resting and finally eating, but I still had to hug and restrain him simultaneously. After eating, he would rest, and there was a calm after the storm.

Chickie was an exception to a street rule that I had: to not let anyone strung out on heroin or speed know where I lived, because they were notorious for stealing to maintain their habits. They’d resort to taking things from their friends. Chickie considered my friendship and care to have saved his life, and we as friends went on many adventures together.

We also had similar thoughts and interests like music, which strengthened our bond. One day, he chased my father’s car down the street to tell my dad how much he loved me. Chickie turned out to be an excellent motivational speaker and leader. I heard him talking to some kids once: “I was there; I was you on the street. It’s ghetto thinking, ‘I want to be an athlete, musician, or pimp as a way to get of here,’ because there is more out there. Listen to these folks they have a lot to say. We can help you to learn and then earn in ways other than crime. I don’t want you to end up in jail, strung out, or dead.”

Chickie repaid my saving his life one day by interceding when someone was threatening to cut me with a switchblade. He stepped in and took out his own blade. The man retreated on Chickie’s reputation alone. However, Chickie caught up to him and beat him up, saying, “You better not touch my man, Roger—he’s good people. Tell your friends.” So because of Chickie, I had a pass in the war zone called Harlem.

Some mothers watched their children play while on the next stoop was a card game with observers and kibitzers surrounding. Two groups were “playing the dozens,” which was an improvised teasing contest. You picked a subject like someone’s wife and kidded each other about it. The judges were the spectators. (This was also prevalent in countries like Trinidad: Lord Invader, the Calypso singer, was famous for his quick wit and stinging barbs.)

I felt at home here. I walked down the street with people greeting me, knowing my name and why I was there. In fact, I was more in touch with the street and the grassroots then all the other staff members.

As I said, we all learned from each other. My student Saida and I had just finished our tutorial session that had started out with reading and ended with a discussion about the teenage puberty changes she was going through.
She also had hopes for a future. “Roger, I am starting to like boys more than school,” she giggled.

I answered, “It’s natural for you to be curious about boys now. And there’s a lot of boys in school, so you can check both out at the same time.” We both laughed.

My message to stay in school was flimsy, for about one quarter of the students we tutored dropped out. “If you can, try to stay in school. It’s not only about graduating, and I know some of the subjects are boring . . .” She screwed up her face in agreement. I continued, “The real importance of going to school is learning ways of thinking, learning how to think.”

“But they teach us so many boring things like American history, all the dates that don’t mean much to me up here in the ghetto." Saida squirmed as she talked.

I went on. “You’re right, many of the things that went on in history don’t mean much now, but we can learn from the stories of history, even how to rebel. This country was founded on rebellion. It’s true we also forget a lot of the useless dates and facts and figures five minutes after we leave school, but you can still use your mind, think logically, and learn new things. And also meet boys, that’s fun.”

We thought about these things as we strolled through the streets of Harlem. We finally parted at 7th Avenue at 137th, or “37th,” as every street in the ghetto above 114th was referred to without the 100—hence, 125th Street in the ghetto was 25th Street. Saida was going uptown toward the ’hood, and I was headed to 25th, to the Apollo Theater, where the names of Dizzy Gillespie and Sarah Vaughn graced the marquee in giant letters.

Although the Apollo was large, a feeling of intimacy was in the atmosphere. The Apollo was famous for its talent shows, where the audience would boo someone off of the stage or cheer them to new fame. It also hosted headliners for inexpensive prices. The stage was not far from the audience, who, during the performances, would call out, dance, or even jump out from the seats, like young aspiring bullfighters, running into the corrida unauthorized.

The music soared to the heavens, guided by Diz’s spire-like horn. He played with Afro-Cuban musicians, other trumpeters, and a percussion section that combined jazz with salsa rhythms. Sarah was queenly, as usual. I sipped happily, as music is the elixir we can all drink of, from a single cup.

After the concert, on the subway down to East 4th Street, I thought maybe I could arrange a benefit concert with jazz musicians for our students. Pictures went through my head of musicians who might be interested. Possibly even Charlie Mingus, if his schedule permitted. But how could I meet the musicians?

I had Max Roach’s home phone, but his time was valuable, the same as with Mingus. Actually, when I called Max, he agreed to do a concert with his trio, if it didn’t conflict with his busy schedule. I knew Jackie McLean lived over in the projects by the East River. He was evasive, not because he didn’t care but because he was going through his own personal changes at the time. Walter Bowe was in jail for trying to blow up the Statue of Liberty, so he was out.

Meanwhile, a new upcoming trumpeter named Ted Curson was playing at a school auditorium, down in Soho. This was before Artists in Residence (AIR) lofts, galleries, and restaurants moved in. The area was still industrialized, and the fort-like school building had the stodgy appearance of the school in the movie Blackboard Jungle. Ted Curson could blow, and he filled the school with sweet music.

After the concert, I told him about our project and the upcoming benefit concert being planned and asked him if he would he play there. I already had the OK for a venue in the large 800-seat hall at Ebenezer Baptist Church in Harlem. Ted and his five-man band agreed to do it, and for the cost of transportation only!

Another great musician who also accepted was a large shaggy-bearded bass and oud player named Ahmed Abdul-Malik. I talked to some other Lower East Side musicians as well, such as Ornette Coleman, Don Cherry, and Charlie Haden, but they couldn’t do the gig. Kenny Dorham, singer and trumpeter, said he was in and that he would bring in other musicians. Joe Johnson was friends with sax player Archie Shepp, who said he would play if it didn’t conflict with another gig.

I invited Ken McIntyre, a horn and woodwind player, to meet me to discuss the benefit at a friend’s attic apartment on West 67th Street where I sometimes stayed. This apartment was tiny and held a bed, an upright pole lamp, and some cushions for guests. Ken showed up in a tuxedo, his wife in an evening gown. They thought the invitation was for a big dinner party or function.

I was dressed casually and sat cross-legged on the mattress; they sat with their legs sticking up like bird’s wings, looking uncomfortable. We were all mutually embarrassed. They did not agree to participate in the benefit concert.

Anyway, in the end, the concert was a success, with some great sounds, and a lot of smiling happy folks. We were able to buy office supplies and start a youth newspaper from the proceeds of the concert.

The tutoring program was turning out to be a success, which was very nice, but we wanted to correct the other injustices. We were essentially rebels. I heard powerful speakers like Malcolm X, Adam Clayton Powell Jr., and our own Stokely speaking in front of Louis Michaux’s African bookstore, with large paintings of Lumumba and other African leaders, on 125th and Madison, across from Hotel Theresa, where Fidel Castro stayed. Adam Clayton Powell Jr. would get the crowd in the mood with his flamboyant and sarcastic jokes, defining what was wrong in society. He said, “Unless man is committed to the belief that all mankind are his brothers, then he labors in vain and hypocritically in the vineyards of equality.”

Then Malcolm X would stride up from his seat and look over the crowd. Malcolm stood tall, addressing the people in the street below the stage in front of the African bookstore, laying out how the white man subjugated the black man. He called for rebellion, not nonviolence as advocated by Martin Luther King Jr. Malcolm continued with force and conviction behind his words.

“Nobody can give you freedom. Nobody can give you equality or justice or anything. If you’re a man, you take it.”

“Power never takes a back step—only in the face of more power.”

“You can’t separate peace from freedom because no one can be at peace unless he has his freedom.”

“Take it now.”

“Time is on the side of the oppressed today, it’s against the oppressor. Truth is on the side of the oppressed today, it’s against the oppressor. You don’t need anything else.”



At the Apollo Again

I would often stop off at Wilt Small’s Paradise Ca“bar”et in Harlem on Monday evenings, when musicians would come by to jam. I stayed quiet and listened to the music; I was recognized and left alone. Sometimes I would stop by the Cotton Club, but I felt underdressed and out of place in its grandeur. I felt the Apollo Theater was the place to go uptown for good jazz headliners.

One night, Chickie and I were going not only to hear Nancy Wilson, Horace Silver, but also Malcolm X! The only seats left were in the balcony. The crowd was boisterous in anticipation.

Parting the plush curtains of the Apollo Theater was Malcolm X. The strong warrior looked the audience straight in their collective eye and loudly announced, “The white man is the devil. The blue-eyed devil has taken everything from you, and still you want to be like him. No, you are better than him, for you’re not enslaving people. Be proud of being black.”

Although Malcolm was talking about liberation of black people, I felt he was talking to me, and to anyone oppressed or persecuted by bigotry. Like I heard before, “Nobody can give you freedom. Nobody can give you equality or justice or anything. If you’re a man, you take it.” And again: “Time is on the side of the oppressed today, it’s against the oppressor. Truth is on the side of the oppressed today, it’s against the oppressor. You don’t need anything else.”

Some folks around me were getting restless, and I felt eyes boring into my back. I whispered to Chickie, “These people don’t like my white self being here.”

Chickie answered, “You ain’t white.”

I whispered, “You may think that, but these folks don’t know me.”

Malcolm went on. “By any means necessary.” “If we have to use force, then we will.” I felt the hate stares even more, and then Malcolm X was finished speaking. I almost felt like beating myself up. The folks near us were restless.

Immediately, the curtain opened, Nancy Wilson came out, and she sang a soft ballad about “My Man.” She held me and the rest of the audience in her sweet hands, and everyone settled down to enjoy the music.

I could understand why some would not like me, as a symbol. I transcended the situation, trying to become invisible, or more like a Buddhist, becoming a hollow conduit, letting the hate pass through or over me. What I really wanted, though, was for me and Chickie to get out of the theater safely.

The concert ended, and as we left, we ran a gantlet of stares, but no one attacked us. They were tamed by the music, as I was. As they say in Harlem, “Feet move.” I split fast, which was prudent many a time in Harlem anyway.

Someone once asked the writer Jean Cocteau: “If there is a fire in your house, what is the first thing you would remove?” The question is food for thought for anyone. I thought of my writings. Jean Cocteau’s answer, however, was: “I would remove the fire.” At the Apollo, Chickie and I defused the situation by removing a very certain component: us.

My feeling, however, was no different than what every black-skinned person experiences every day. The hate stares are deflected or received by every immigrant, including my grandparents, what every newly arrived Russian or Mexican feels. That’s why people seek out their own kind, where they don’t have to explain who they are or have to change their accent. After all, to an immigrant, Americans speak with strange accents. Yet anyone who speaks differently is, to many Americans, a foreigner to be shunned or looked down upon. Anyone who looks, acts, talks, smells, or eats differently is often shoved into the caste of the unknown, to be avoided, feared, or controlled.

That experience at the Apollo was healthy, so I could empathize and relearn that hate and prejudice exist, and that through meeting, interacting, and sharing, we can overcome these barriers between the races. We are all in the same global boat. We must row together; otherwise, the boat will go every which way and not make any progress toward the shore of coexistence.

At the time, we were meeting regularly with other notables such as Bayard Rustin, A. Philip Randolph, Bobby Dylan, and Joan Baez, discussing what types of action we could take. One night, sitting in Theodore Bikel’s Washington Square apartment, a circular view of Manhattan, east to west and north to south, lay before us from the balconies and windows of the high-rise flats. Parts of Greenwich Village, Washington Square Park, and New York University sprawled out toward the Hudson River.

Large couches ottomans and cushions were set in a circle. The meeting has started and soon into the agenda, Bobby began fidgeting, while Joan shook her head in excited agreement. People were talking in abstractions, in a bureaucratic language that I still don’t understand. Bobby did not like political perspectives and solutions to everything. Politics were being dealt in broad stereotypes, like an Ayn Rand novel, like I am doing in this critique.

I grew to feel the same way. He was ahead of me. He chose to speak through poetry and music, which reaches people’s hearts, without the usual rhetorical barriers.

Back on the active front, our protests were manifold. We sat across a whole road, preventing bulldozers from razing an old folks’ home. We invited the press up to the slum rooms where large rats were biting sleeping children. The New York Times, The Daily News, The New York Post, and The New York Herald Tribune all sent reporters.

When they entered the small room with a baby’s crib in it, I turned the lights off. Two big rats with glowing eyes slunk out of the wall crevices. The reporters yelped and ran out. I telephoned each reporter and told them that the children could not run away like they did, so please write a credible article. They all did.

The next project HEP facilitated was the construction of a neighborhood commons, wherein we, with the community, turned a garbage pile behind a square block of buildings into a park for the residents, built by the residents.

One night at our staff meeting, a short-haired, blue-eyed son of a preacher, Charlie Jones Jr., walked into our storefront office. He told us of the freedom rides from up north to protest the injustices in the South. We heard of Fannie Lou Hamer’s sit-ins. He told us about his friend’s pregnant mother being beaten while marching, that the police deliberately hit her in her belly, causing her to lose her baby and of the beginning efforts of Dr. King’s leadership protests.

With great conviction, Charlie said, “In the process of working in the South, going to jail, getting beaten, in mass meetings and on the lines, we started to sing this one particular song. I’m going to ask you stand up and cross your right hand over your left, join hands and sing this song with me.”

“We shall overcome
We shall overcome
We shall overcome
Some day
Oh, deep in my heart
I do believe, Lord
We shall overcome someday
We are not afraid
We are not afraid
We are not afraid
Today
Deep in my heart
I do believe
Oh, we shall overcome someday”

My heart soared. I found out there were other freedom songs. I was full of hope. Right then and there, the whole flavor, the whole intent and content of the civil rights struggle gained new meaning. We started paying more attention to the struggle in the South and the overt injustice there.

I was called by an unknown force and pledged that I too would go south to help in the protesting. I’d heard it was risky, but I was determined to go.



Chapter 2: Keep Your Eyes on the Prize

Journeying to Birmingham, Alabama, in the spring of 1963, into the unknown South, I had a sick feeling in my stomach. Riding on a bus next to Chickie, we were going into battle. It was not some politician’s whim, sending young men to kill the faceless enemy. I believed in this cause.

Bob Knight, Q. R. Hand, and Danny Schechter from the Northern Student Movement also were on the bus. This battle was to counteract the many injustices forced on African Americans since the times of slavery. I’d heard how in the South, ignorant white folks harassed black folks and made them to feel inferior since birth, how blacks were pushed off sidewalks and roads, forced to drink at water fountains that didn’t work, which were labeled “For Colored Only.” The segregation was status quo in bathrooms, restaurants, country clubs, churches, even vending machines and shops. Separate yet together. “Knowing your place” was part of the status quo; if you didn’t know it, you were called an “uppity nigger.” I was told how people were losing their jobs, if they spoke up. I heard how my brothers and sisters in social justice were being beaten, jailed, and beaten some more.

I also felt an intrinsic connection to these folks because my own Jewish ancestors experienced the same persecution, like walking close to the wall in Eastern Europe, placed in ghettos, forced to be money lenders, banned from country clubs, or attacked by Philistines and Arabs.

“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.” A freedom song broke out in the bus, and it gave me strength and resolve.

Back on the bus, as the others were sleeping and the road undulated beneath us, the fear returned. I had the same feeling when a bully at school would tell me he was going to beat me up after school. The ol’ flee or fight response. I was riding into an unknown war zone.

In the book On the Road to Freedom, John Lewis said, “I was, for the first time in my life, actually eating out. As we passed around the bright silver containers of food, someone joked that we should eat well and enjoy because this might be our last supper. Several in the group had actually written out wills in case they didn’t come back from this trip. It was that serious. It was that real. As for me, just about all I owned was packed up in my suitcase. There was no need for me to make out a will I had nothing to leave anyone.” Charles E. Cobb, On the Road to Freedom (Chapel Hill: Algonquin Books, 2008), 68

The hate was blatant, just a part of life in the South. In the North, the racism was hidden, but it was there—under the surface, a current of racism, segregation and slavery existed even in Washington, the nation’s capital. I was told that the racism situation in the South was better than in the North, because in the South, you knew what to expect. Also, in the South, there was so much interaction between the races, they knew each other better than people in the North, living in separate ghettos.

Not everybody in the South was racist or degrading toward others, of course. Some of the interaction was harmonious. Racism is so strong, however, that usually hospitable people can still show hatred and bow to the yoke of injustice.

The bus pulled into Atlanta and up to a sign reading “Emory University.” A spacious college campus unfolded with weeping willows, poplars, and oaks draped in Spanish moss, which were interspersed with old Southern neoclassical antebellum buildings. The campus felt like a lazy afternoon. The atmosphere was soon broken, however, as we left the bus.

We were welcomed by a smiling couple and led to the gymnasium. “Hello, brothers and sisters! Welcome!”

Many people stood in groups. Some chairs were set up in another part of the large room. Someone was addressing the 10 folks who were sitting and listening. I saw many men wearing big baggy farm overalls in different colors. They were worn to boycott the department stores and to identify with the working poor. The woman wore sensible blue jeans or African flowing dresses with colorful bandanas.

We were led to the chairs. I recognized Charlie Jones, who introduced “We Shall Overcome” to us. He welcomed us but didn’t remember us at first.

“Brothers and sisters, thank you for coming down here. We are on the front lines here. Every day, we are being put in jail. Every day, we are beaten. Every day, we go on; every day, we stand together; every day, we get stronger. Some have even given their lives for the cause.”

Some people shuffled in their seats.

“I want you to know what you are up against. If anyone wants to back out, we understand. Now, we are going to finish the orientation, then break up into strategy groups.”

Charlie Jones was still not sure where he knew us from. When he was finished speaking, I approached him and said, “We met in Harlem. I thank you for teaching us ‘We Shall Overcome.’” His eyes lit up in recognition, and we hugged each other. He thanked us for coming and directed us to another part of the room.

My comrades from the bus were already walking there, again led by a smiling woman. Once seated, a large man addressed us:

“Down here, we are segregated and forced to think like slaves. We have to sit in the back of the bus, go to different toilets, different restaurants. But when Mrs. Rosa Parks refused to sit in the back of the bus, things changed, and now we are standing up for our rights. It will be tough for you white folks too. They hate you ‘nigger lovers’ and ‘Northern commie Jew agitators.’ This next orientation we are going to show you what you might encounter.”

I saw Dick Gregory, the comedian activist, across the hall and also spied the Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth, who was part of Dr. King’s Southern Christian Leadership Conference and who survived two assassination attempts and many beatings.

The activist Fannie Lou Hamer, who was famous for her bravery, was also present. Born to a family of sharecroppers, Fannie worked for landowners that kept her family in debt by taking more of the 50/50 split than they were supposed to. When she tried to register to vote, she was prevented, firstly because she could not pass the literacy test. Later, SNCC workers tutored her and she was able to pass the test. Again, though, Fannie was prevented from registering to vote, after a poll tax was imposed on her.

“I guess if I’d had any sense, I’d have been a little scared, but what was the point of being scared? The only thing they could do was kill me, and it seemed they’d been trying to do that a little bit at a time since I could remember.”

“I do remember, one time, a man came to me after the students began to work in Mississippi and he said the white people were getting tired and they were getting tense and anything may happen. Well I asked him how long he thinks we had been getting tired? . . . All my life, I’ve been sick and tired. Now I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.” Sheila Hardy and Stephen P. Hardy, Extraordinary People of the Civil Rights Movement (New York: Children’s Press, 2006)

We’d heard that story in orientation and it inspired us to forge on. “How long?" civil rights workers yelled out from time to time to remind us of her words and deeds. “Not long” was the answer.

Birmingham was known as “Bombingham” and, instead of the nickname advertised by the tourism board, “Magic City,” we called it “Tragic City.” There had been 30 bombings since 1947. One man was castrated in 1957, and several lynchings had occurred.

For the next hour, we were sitting at a makeshift lunch counter, being hazed in preparation. Men surrounded us and blew cigarette smoke in our faces, called us names, generally harassed us.

Then we were warned about getting pulled over when riding in cars. and how whites should ride with whites and blacks should ride with blacks. Cars were moving targets for the police, and they’d arrest us on any whim. They also told us to never go out at night alone. We were taught to go limp if we were arrested, which would make it harder to for the officers to lift us into their vans. “How long?” “Not long!” rang out across the room from a small workshop group.

Then we were shown the different strategies of protest: selective patronage (or economic boycotts), marches, sit-ins, alternative bussing, the Gandhian tactic of “filling the jails,” and voter registration. We were led into another big hall, where lots of food and tables were set up for us, and we sat and ate. I felt apprehensive yet supported by this group of rare individuals, serving in danger to counteract injustice and hate. I liked the way everyone called each other “brother” or “sister.”

After dinner, we were led back into the gymnasium, which now was our group dormitory. (There had been some college dormitory rooms, but they’d all been taken.) We were told to bring sleeping bags; I unfolded mine near to Chickie and Danny Schechter, lay down, and tried to sleep.

The next day, we were given a history of what was happening since the recent inception of the civil rights movement. We were asked to fill everyone in on what was happening in the North and Northern Student Movement. We were given the philosophy and examples of nonviolence, as well as Gandhian logical principles, such as “Violence begets violence.”

Martin Luther King Jr. came in the hall and gave us a brief but inspiring talk about nonviolence. Here was the man, Dr. King, so eloquent, standing so close, saying such words of inspiration. He was professing nonviolence, as opposed to Malcolm’s X’s message of “Whatever means necessary” and Stokley’s message of black power. Both advocated the possible overthrow of the American system.

I was for nonviolence because I knew fighting would be met with more fighting, and also because I’d been in only a few physical fights in my life and I wasn’t very good at it. I preferred peace to war. Chickie, on the other hand, had trouble with the concept of nonviolence. It was much harder for Chickie, who was used to reacting fast in Harlem for his own survival. We had many talks about his personal struggle.

The next morning, I was awoken by someone’s lips all over mine. Annie Pearl, one of the girls from the area. Cocoa-skinned and shapely, she climbed into my sleeping bag. After I realized what was happening, we made love.

The meetings that day were more palatable as a result, but the subject was still serious. We were marching to integrate Kelly Ingram Park in Birmingham and protesting segregation of lunch counters. It was very hard to recruit workers and protesters from the local community, because they were afraid of being fired or killed. The middle-class blacks did not go along with the protests, as to keep the status quo, so subsequently, we had whites and blacks against our tactics. After all, they thought there had been some progress--wasn’t Atlanta called the “Athens of the South?” I don’t know, I never heard Athens referred to as the Atlanta of the East, especially in those days of turmoil.

Mostly students and church people made up our ranks. A second contingent from NSM came down and got oriented rapidly. In Birmingham, a march to integrate Kelly Ingram Park was planned for May 3, 1963. There were 30 or so workers from the North and South. We met at our makeshift headquarters in a church outside of town; about a dozen other brave souls from the town joined us. We marched three abreast and sang:

“Keep your eye on the prize
Go on, go on, go on
Keep your eyes on the prize, go on.”

We reached the main road leading into town. Some of us held signs reading “Open the park for everyone” and “Stop racism in America.” I was walking with Chickie and Allison in the middle. Allison was a librarian and student with pulled-back hair, very tall and gangly, pale from doing work indoors. She organized our tutoring office and expanding, library in Harlem when she was not working and going to school.

We saw a mob up ahead. I remembered a story I heard about perseverance: Once, the ocean took a mother sparrow’s new baby egg. The sparrow called to the ocean, “Bring me my baby back!” The ocean did not reply. The sparrow shouted, “If you do not bring me my baby, I will drink you all up!” Again there was no reply. The sparrow then began drinking the ocean, drop by drop. Due to her determination, the huge ocean felt sorry and brought her baby egg back.

So I too could be determined in the face of adversity. We marched on. Soon, we were met at the edge of town by a horde lining both sides of the road. Up ahead was another mob blocking the road. We marched with our arms intertwined. The police were part of the mob and were armed with billy clubs, pepper spray, and guns, with leers and fat bellies. Their dogs were alert.

We sang out, “We shall overcome, we shall overcome . . .”

And as we got nearer to the gantlet on both sides of the road, we sang, “Ain’t gonna let no police dogs turn us round, turn us round, turn us round . . .”

CLUNK! An unopened beer can landed in front our group. Allison, Chickie, and I were five rows from the leaders, including Stokely, John Lewis, and Ivanhoe Dondalson in the front. When the lower end of the gene pool, the angry racists, saw us—a black man, a white woman, and an interfering white man, all marching with arms around each other—they were infuriated, and their eyes became redder, as did their necks. “Nigger lover,” they yelled at us. As the march continued that day, the police blocked the way. Loud sounds of hatred came our way.

“Keep your eyes on the prize, brothers and sisters.”

“I’m not sure what the prize is!”

“The prize could be the goal, or freedom, or God, or self, or self with God.”

Whatever the prize was that our eyes were on, we kept marching, walking, beating the pavement, falling, rising and continuing on. A glass bottle hit a man two rows back, opening up a gash across his head. I heard thudding sounds and cries of pain. Chickie’s fists were clenched and his jaw tight. He started to charge at one of the men in the crowd who had just thrown a rock.

I held him back. “Cool it. I know it’s tough, but we promised to remain nonviolent. If you strike out, then they have more cause to hurt us.”

Chickie cried out, “But, but, but . . . they’re already hurting us!”

I countered, “Let’s try . . .”

It happened so fast, like being swept up in a tidal wave: a 200-pound blast from the fire hose sent the protesters sliding down the street and pinned others to the wall. Then, whizzing right past me, a cherry bomb exploded near Allison’s right eye. Blood gushed out; I held her oozing head in my arms.

The angry mob stopped abruptly, seeing what they had done. It could have been their own sister. The crowd parted like the Red Sea for Moses as I carried her out of the line and away from the mob. Someone called an ambulance, and I went with her to the hospital. As we left the scene, we heard and saw the ignorant mob regroup and restart.

I talked to Allison all the way to the hospital, trying to comfort her. How brave she was. What a wasteful, futile action. She had planned to be there for only a few days; she lost her eye and more.

Others were brought to the hospital that night, and many were arrested at the park. But that was part of the plan: So many were arrested that day that it clogged the system. It was the first step to integrate the public park.

I went back to the jail and helped with the bail process. Then I went back to the church and helped with the feast for the workers soon coming out of jail. These church women, the unsung heroes, were so sweet, so hospitable and fun. They were so grateful to me; however, their goodness was powerful and I was grateful to them.

A local TV station televised the some of the events, exposing the police brutality—beating mothers and children—to the rest of the country. Dr. King said, “As Birmingham goes, so goes the South.”

From there, the protests continued, trying to desegregate lunch counters, bathrooms, and fitting rooms in stores and to get a few promotions for local black workers. Some concessions from the establishment were given after that demonstration. Slowly, we began to see some progress.

After that, I went on a string of sit-ins, marches, and gatherings in Georgia and Mississippi. The names Selma, Macon, and Montgomery were all hot spots for blatant change. During one demonstration, without warning, I was branded by an electric cattle prod in my leg, hit in the head in another protest, and beaten with billy clubs in my ribs and stomach. In yet another, I was picked up by the skin of my inner elbow when being thrown into a police van. I was jailed many times. I was on the front lines of change, and all the time I was being harassed verbally and physically. That only made my resolve stronger.



Voters’ Registration

At another strategy meeting, we discussed the injustice of the voting system and how we could elect our own candidates to change the system from within. There were many qualified candidates ready to go: Julian Bond, Andrew Young, and Hosea Williams, for instance. Eventually, due to voter registration, all of these fine people became representatives in the U.S. Congress.

I was approached by Charlie Jones and Bob Moses, who told me that there were more people available to march and that I could make another valuable contribution. They thought I’d be perfect for convincing people of the values of voter registration, which was going to be our next big instrument for change. I agreed. The next day, Fannie Lou Hamer and others trained me. We did role-playing, but I found the real experience was harder.

I was sent out into very rural areas, at first with another worker and then alone. I faced this nice humble couple who lived in a one-room shack, their children foraging for food and barely surviving. “Please come with me to the court house to register to vote,” I asked them.

Their facial expressions revealed their thoughts, seemingly reflecting, “Why?” They were very reluctant to the idea, as the backlash would be severe for them, and I was a stranger. I’m asking them to risk their life, for a seemingly abstract concept of change. As well, many of these folks never went to school and didn’t know how to read or write, so they were ineligible to register anyhow.

After four full days of soliciting for this voter registration, one woman agreed to go with me to the courthouse to register. When we got there, we were met with the town skeptics, yelling, “Where you going, boy? Better get your ass back up where you came from, Yankee!” They told the woman, “Don’t you be making trouble here.”

We proceeded into the courthouse, ignoring the threats, where we were met by an uncooperative clerk who read us the registration test questions. “Explain the 2nd Amendment of the Constitution of the United States,” the clerk asked. The woman was baffled and silent.

In another part of the room, a white woman was asked, “What is the capital of Mississippi?” When she answered, “Jackson,” she was told that she was eligible to vote in the next election.

I protested that this was not fair, that a harder test was given to black folks. The courthouse staff laughed right in my face. They guffawed like mules, showing their teeth and slapping their knees. I knew there was no reasoning at this juncture. We left, taking the fuel out of their small fire of derision.

After we left, I wrote articles exposing the injustice in the registration system in the South. I contacted our organization’s headquarters and they also pursued a fairer system. After some time, the registration exam was corrected to be equal for all, whereupon we obtained the questions beforehand and taught the answers to our prospective voters.

Again, after uphill treks and battles, we made slow progress and got a number of black people registered as voters. The argument that persuaded the folks to be brave and vote was the fact that they could vote in their own candidates that way, who would fight to end Jim Crow laws.

When the three civil rights workers—Chaney, Goodman, and Swerner—were found buried in a swamp, the news services radio and TV rushed to the scene to broadcast the crimes. They could not be hidden any longer. Washington had to act; they sent in the National Guard to manage the riots. It was tantamount to the U.S. Army occupying foreign countries when internal fighting got out of hand. Indeed, the South at the time was like a foreign country, with its own language, a slower pace, and a different way of life than the rest of the world. This insular lifestyle allowed and even encouraged the demeaning, harassing, enslaving, or even killing a group of people. The nation and the whole world were now seeing what was going on that, something that had previously gone unchecked for years. Sheriff “Bull” Connor’s insidious tactics were exposed; they were not fashionable anymore. The bigots had to take a long, hard look in the mirrors of their souls.

The clincher to more positive change was the fact that segregation was not good for business. The business community supported the integration, and soon the changes were tactile and could be felt. All our cries for fair treatment, the demonstrations, marches, and sit-ins started to reap fruits.

The next year was called Freedom Summer, as thousands of young college-age workers went south, glutting the jails. Chickie had returned north months ago, and I was working practically alone. The times, they were a-changing, and for the better.

One day, Charlie Jones came up to me and hugged me for the work I was doing. He told me, “The NSM folks need you back up north.” I was still a staff member, and it was true, much work was unfinished. I would take my experiences from working in the South and share them with the other staff members back home.

I was stronger, more committed, and even more politically savvy. I said my goodbyes to my many friends in battle, as well as to Annie Pearl, with whom I carried on a sketchy between-wars romance. As I rode the bus back up north, I was both relieved and sad to not be on the front lines anymore, but I was missing the intenseness, the hunger for change, the camaraderie.

Things heated up again on June 11, 1963, when Governor George Wallace blocked the doorway of Foster Auditorium at the University of Alabama, as he pledged in his inaugural speech, preventing three black students—Dave McGlathery, James Hood, and Vivian Malone Jones—from apply to the all-white university. He shouted for the whole nation to hear: “I . . . hereby denounce and forbid this illegal and unwarranted action by the central government.”

Washington was involved now and sent Deputy Attorney General Nicholas Katzenbach to tell Governor Wallace to step aside, under orders from President John F. Kennedy. Katzenbach said, “The students will register today and go to school tomorrow, thus Wallace’s blockage was counteracted, and his attempt to stop the students from attending classes was foiled.”

I wrote a poem summarizing the experience:

WE MAY NOT BE HERE TOMORROW

Following my beliefs and heart
I joined students and professors from up north
some southern local folks too
As one, we walk into stranger towns

Southern sheriff
grabbing my elbows
kicking my ribs
blood flows
where junkies poke
my skin stretched and pulled
remains underneath
angry barbarians nails
mixed with red neck bigotry
and warped motor earl.
They are yelling
“nigger lover”
at me
I think, “Okay”
We bravely tremble as one
We may die today.

We sing in unison:
We shall overcome!
we laugh as one
to still our cries
an old remedy

As we walked
a cherry bomb was thrown
at us
blood gushed
from my friend’s face
hate wounds
Allison lost her eye
We went on

We marched together
as the world began to see
and understand
many new friends
deepen
at day’s end

Tomorrow we will march again
though we might not be alive tomorrow
no amends
no remorse
singing out
for our cause

Southern sheriff
shouts
obesely
obscenely
water hoses and dogs that day
beatings and jail

I observe
detached
as if above
watching ourselves
strong with purpose
and unafraid

Strange streets
in strange towns
were marching strong
red, white, and brown



Chapter 3: Back Up North

Numb, shell-shocked, I rode back up north on a public Greyhound bus with Danny Kalb, another worker who was on some of the marches with me. As the miles separated us from the battle lines, I felt a tight fear slowly leave me. Each fleeting mile massaged me, and I relaxed slowly in relief from the constant intensity. We didn’t talk much. We were both shocked from what we went through.

We were following the drinking gourd, the Big Dipper, up north to freedom from oppressive thinking and actions.

We rode to the terminal, encouraged each other to keep the faith, and parted. I took the IRT subway down and across town, got off at the Cooper Union stop, and walked there from 12th to East 4th Street. It was early morning and the city was smelling fresh for New York, as the street-cleaning trucks sprayed water on the curbs. New York City was so different then the hot, slow South. There, it was hard to hide. People knew the business of their neighbors, sometimes the interactions were like an open exposed wound, with fault-finding flies buzzing around the festering sores. In New York it’s less open, more hidden. It’s easier to be invisible in a city than in the country. Each room is a realm ruled by a lonely insular people. I wrote a poem about this:

Endless Beginnings:

LONELY LORDS

Feudal
Fertile
Fetal



A universe within other universes
today even more possibilities
of isolation
The rulers of solitude
play droning televisions
making it sound like someone home
Advisor, friend, flapper
the only voice
the lonely lord hears
Time in neatly designated half hours
his eons
his history
measured by T.V. guides

Plastic garbage cans
lay in corners
Towers of aluminum cans fallen
like dilapidated minarets

A marble fireplace mantel once
covered over by four colors of paint
designating who lived there before

This transitory kingdom
of one

Looking out through strained fire escapes
at other realms
the lonely lords
overseers of all they survey
within the pigeonhole
hovel
they rule.
N.Y.C. 1979

Back in jazzy, vibrant, too-fast-paced New York, the sun was rising as I climbed the three flights of stairs to my apartment. I unlocked the door and was greeted by a phalanx of cockroaches running into their hiding places and habitats in the walls, ceilings, floors, and kitchen pantry shelves.

I’d asked Hank, a tutor friend, to stay in my apartment while I was down south to water my plants and watch the place in general. In the back room, Hank was sleeping with a long, lanky girl named Jody who hung around the HEP. They woke up and were very happy to see me. My apartment looked like it had been a scene of a party. There were bottles of beer, remnants of food, and marijuana joints and cigarettes in the ashtray. Another mattress lay on the floor in the next room.

”How was your trip?” Hank asked.

I started cleaning and tidying up. “I will tell you all about it tomorrow.”

They could sense that I wanted to be alone. “OK, man, we are going to split.”

“Are you going up to the HEP office today?” I inquired.

“Yeah, I’m going there.”

I asked Hank to tell the staff that I was back and safe and will be there tomorrow. “OK,” he said, walking out the door with Jody.

I sang, “Later.”

“Later,” they replied.

Ah, alone again. Quiet time. A chance to be with myself. I relished the velvet comfort of alone time. I did not have to react to others or display any masks or images. I could be myself. The time of reflection was very important to me and I did not want to misuse it by wasting time or fooling myself. Even though searching one’s inner soul is not always pleasant, I was honest, and I used the quiet time to figure things out—meditate, if you will—and sometimes come out a better person for it.

I lit up a joint. The feeling up euphoria and relaxation pervaded me. Slowly, the whole experience in the South whirled around inside and entered waters of my consciousness. Some idea-like streams turned into inner rivers, some into small tributaries, and some of the unwanted shocks were the small rivulets that eventually dried up and left me in a feeling of purity, as if exorcised forever.

I was also tired from the trip—the battle, the constant interactions—and relishing my alone time, I soon fell into a sleep. I dreamt of Ku Klux Klan members burning crosses and beating up Santa Claus, Bambi, and Gandhi. They were rescued by ethereal angels, and as they rose, they rained flowers down on the scene.

In the late afternoon, I awoke and went out on the fire escape and saw the street life below. Children playing in the playground. Spanky dealing his nickel-bags on the street. People going to work, some in aprons, some in uniforms or hats, telling me what profession they represented. Some in suits, going to offices uptown. Motorcycles roared. Vendors pushed carts on the way to the even older cobblestone streets below Houston Street, when shopping there was like being in Russia in 1940. New York was humming, a far different feeling then the slow South that I’d just experienced.

Another poem sprang forth:

RHYTHMIC REALM

Roaring din
hum of the city
on lower east side rooftop
many sounds in cacophony

What if the car horns ceased?
Schoolyard children became silent
The running people froze in time
All the small sound stopped
a silent pale covers the whole city
Quiet between the swinging pendulum
of time
and
the space of no time

just before
and after the clock hands
smoothly glides
arcing
to another swinging ride

Tingling in the bones
the ripples of a whispering cosmos
wafts into the inner ear

In the midst of artificial
man made sounds
an oasis of natural sounds
pierced through the chaos
Like hidden power spots
they await in the din around

In the eye of the typhoon
when we can quiet our minds
our souls
We can feel the pulse of life
and know that we part of the rhythmic realm
all around us
as peace is found

My wounds were healing, both physical and mental. Going against the establishment and society made more sense now than joining it.

I started uptown. The city was buzzing, a cacophony of children’s shouting from the playground din at the school yard across the street. Truant kids played in the spurting hydrant waters. The aroma of breakfasts from Irish, Mexican, and Russian apartments. The bodega emitted the symphony of spices and hot chili peppers. Pedro, the super, saw me on my way out and said, “Eh, mano, where you been? I missed you, hombre.”

“I missed you tambien,” I said back. I did not tell many about my work. He had no idea what I did, but he still accepted me.

I made a mental note to hear the genius Thelonius Monk who was playing at the Five Spot Café bar. Spanky saw me and slapped me five. My friend Clarence walking by laid a National Guardian newspaper on me; he worked at the office of the radical and outspoken periodical on East 4th Street.

On the subway, people nervous, not talking, not looking at each other, looking bored or haggard. The stop at 145th Street showed through the almost-opaque subway windows. I disembarked. New York was so grungy, but I didn’t know it until going someplace else.

Back in Harlem, a unique place so different than any other. Viscerally, all the sounds, smells, people, and activities blended and came back to me. When I rounded the corner on 148th Street and as I was entering the storefront of HEP, some of the children ran up to me and yelled in glee. Another hugged my knees.

As I entered the office, Kathy Rodgers came over and gave me a big hug, whispering in my ear, “Good work.” Then Carl shook my hand. “Good to have you back. We’re having a staff meeting today, lots of things to tell you.”

Bob Knight gave me a big hug. “Welcome back, brother. You really showed them crackers.”

Danny Schechter from the Baltimore office came up and sang, “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine,” Even in Harlem City, I’m gonna let it shine.” Danny was becoming my friend, as we were on many marches and events together. He was a Jewish intellectual with communist parents, lots of fun. As he sang, he imitated different singers.

Frankie Climbs and Sammy came in. “Hey, Roger, we missed you.”

Somehow, Chickie heard I was back, and bounded into the office. He hugged me and hit me softly. “You’re back, you’re back! I missed you, man! Missed you, man.” He hugged me again and sank into my arms.

Then everyone present formed a circle around me and applauded me. What a greeting from everyone! I hadn’t realized how much I was appreciated. Since Charlie Jones had introduced us to freedom songs, we started the meeting by singing “We Shall Overcome.” The song meant even more to me after my experiences in the South.

The next morning at HEP, I telephoned my father to tell him I was safe. “I was worried about you, son,” he said. “Have you thought about returning to school?”

“Right now, Dad, there is so much to do at HEP, and I am on the staff, so I want to do this for now.”

“OK, whatever makes you happy makes me happy, but I am worried about you. in the ghetto, in the South. . .”

Another time when my father was in Harlem, Chickie came running up and said, “Mister See-goo, I want to tell you how much I love your son, and he is doing very good work.”

My father said to Chickie, “Nice to meet you.” He seemed to be convinced that I was all right. “I just want my son to be happy. . .”

Carl began the meeting. “Roger, a lot has been happening, so we want to tell what’s going on. News from the South is that it’s still going on heavy down there. Meanwhile, we are finally becoming part of the community here. You helped, Roger; every day, people were coming here asking about you.”

He went on. “The program has increased to 150 tutees, and about 110 tutors. We learnt that Fannie Lou Hamer was coming to Harlem. Of all the organizations in Harlem, she’d asked us to host her because we, the NSM, were the young, vibrant counterpart to SNCC in the North. Fannie Lou Hamer is coming to town and we have to host her and set up places for her to speak.” I drifted off into thought about Fannie, who had been at Emory University in Atlanta when I was there.

Fannie Lou Hamer was known for her activism and the risks she took in the course of protesting. She had been shot at 16 times one night inside a house, an incident that wounded two innocent children. She became the oldest field representative for SNCC and sang out “This Little Light of Mine” from the back of a public bus. She was kicked off of a plantation, where she was working as a time keeper, for registering to vote. When the plantation owner confronted her, she said, “I was registering for me, not you.” When Fannie went to register to vote, she was arrested and beaten in jail by black “uncle Toms” twice and then beaten again by the white cops. She sustained permanent kidney damage, among other lifelong injuries.

Carl’s voice broke into my mental journey. “We can all work on hosting her nicely. She can speak at Adam Clayton’s Powell’s church, I’m sure. They were already letting us tutor there. Also, Bayard Rustin has asked us to help plan and facilitate a march on Washington! I am talking with him later to see how we can help out.”

After the meeting, Chickie asked me to accompany him to his apartment on 149th Street. “Hey, man, I missed you.”

“I missed you too!”

”I gotta talk with you, gotta talk to you.”

I interrupted softly. “Before you do: How are you doing staying off smack?”

“Yeah, man, I got some methadone as a substitute for H, and then I slowly got off that too. And reefer takes the edge off of everything. That’s the only thing I do, and a drink some times. Anyway, after the time down south with you, I thought about a lot of things. I don’t want to waste my life anymore. But sometimes it’s hard being in the ’hood here, coming across old junkies, and I get tempted again.”

I said, “You can choose to change. You are stronger than any smack.”

He slapped me five in agreement, smiled, and said, “Besides, you folks are keeping me busy at HEP. I’m doing some good for folks, Frankie, Sammy, and them. So I don’t need smack anymore.”

He went on. “But there is something else I want to talk with you about.” We arrived at his apartment and climbed the stairs. His mother was there cooking rice and collard greens in the kitchen.

“Hi, Roger. Want to stay for dinner?”

“All right. Thank you, Mrs. Simmons.”

In another front room Ruby, Chickie’s wife, was watching TV and looked up in a bored way. “Oh, hi, Roger. How you doing?”

“Just fine,” I answered. She was very pregnant. Chickie kissed her on the cheek and took me to room in the back, where we could talk privately.

“Man, I’ve been running lately.” He started off, spewing. “I got to stop. The gang still wants me to be the warlord, but I feel older than that, and don’t need to fight anymore. For what, man? So I told my brothers that I wanted out, and they don’t like it.

“Then there’s Ruby and the new baby. Before when I was dealing H, I had money, but I also had a habit behind that. From the get-go, I knew I was going nowhere. Now after meeting you people, I know there’s more to life. And then Hanna opened my nose . . . those little lovelies. They have always led me . . . yet and still There is Ruby and Hanna to deal with. I’ve got to take care of business. I got to stop running.”

I thought how appropriate slang language was—or jive talk, as jazz musicians called it. For instance, “Opening one’s nose” refers to falling in love. When passionate, the nose flares, open thus “she opened my nose.” Stokeley Carmichael sometimes pointed out how simple slang could be compared with “the King’s English.”

Finally, I said, “Yeah, you’ve got a lot to deal with. I think Ruby and the Baby are the most important, and your mother is there to help out too.”

“Thank the Lord for my mama,” Chickie intoned.

I continued, “If we get some funds, maybe you could become a staff member of HEP. You’ve already done a lot. But right now I get subsistence pay and sometimes nothing at all. But you have to decide about Hanna, like I have to decide about seeing Lynnie.”

Lynnie was a girl who also went to Sarah Lawrence, very smart, but it was a long ride to Sarah Lawrence in Bronxville. We didn’t have “shorts” (cars), and there were so many college girls and slum goddesses from the Lower East Side coming on to me that I didn’t want or need a committed relationship, and especially not a long-distance one.

“We might have to cut them loose,” I suggested.

He nodded in agreement. “Maybe you should live with me downtown for a while. It is too tempting up here, all your old friends, all the dealers coming on to you.”

Chickie did move downtown with me for a while, and so did Hanna. While Chickie was living there, someone tried to break into my apartment, and Chickie chased the guy up to the roof and beat him up. The robber yelled out, “Mercy.” Chickie responded by hitting him upside his head. “You’re in the wrong business for mercy.”

So Chickie protected me as he had in Harlem, now again in the Lower East Side. He had my back, and I had his.



March on Washington

Back in Harlem, activist Bayard Rustin had reached out to the Harlem Education Project, asking for help in planning the upcoming March to Washington. Rustin, along with A. Philip Randolph, had originally planned a March on Washington in 1941on behalf of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, aiming to protest the poor treatment of the Pullman porters, former slaves who worked for the Pullman Palace Car Company. At the time, President Roosevelt knew how a march like that would disrupt things; he issued the Fair Employment Act in response, and the march was called off.

In 1963, A. Philip Randolph was planning what to ask for, and Bayard and others were planning the logistics required in organizing protestors from all 48 states and subsequently transporting them to Washington, D.C., in one morning.

The march route was also planned and permits were required. Then there was the issue of where to place the podium. The Lincoln Memorial was chosen, as a natural long parade route flowed to the site via the National Mall. They also had to plan leaders, singers, and guests to speak at the podium and determine how long each should speak.

The march was planned for August 28th, 1963. The office of Congress on Racial Equality (CORE), headed by Whitney Young, was where we met. Letters had to be sent out, inviting-like minded groups and individuals to take part in the march. Telephone calls were also being made. All of this was accomplished before fax machines, Internet, and email.

I helped out in any way that was needed: stuffing envelopes, making phone calls, whatever I was asked. I also had to talk our staff at HEP and decide how we would take part. Who would go? Certainly any tutors, and some of the tutees could come. How would we get there? We eventually chartered two buses, carrying 40 people each. HEP was sending 80 folks with lunch bags to an event that was life changing.

The most amazing planning was executed, when all the people assembled in their own towns, parishes, cities, states, and counties. We had to organize the routes into Washington, then figure out what time each group had to arrive there and where they had to assemble in order to take part in the parade.

The day of the march arrived and ultimately, 250,000—and some say as many as 400,000—souls showed up with signs and strong feelings. From all over, people came: 10 chartered planes, 21 chartered trains, and 2,000 buses brought them to Washington. Some carried signs saying, “End Racism in the U.S.” and others read, “March to Washington for Jobs and Freedom.”

Some young girls had signs drawn on their foreheads. Some signs were lists, starting with “We March for Integrated Schools,” followed by “Effective Laws,” “Equal Rights,” and finally “Now.”

I marveled at how seamlessly and smoothly the thousands had arrived, peacefully assembled, marched, and then listened to the presenters at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial.

The HEP contingent arrived 80 strong, and we assembled in a pre-designated field, awaiting the signal to begin the march. It was 9:30 a.m. and the field was dotted with a few groups here and there. We set up a makeshift campsite.

Soon others started arriving in busses and cars, some on foot. Before we knew it, the field was crowded with wonderful folks. Some had guitars, and freedom songs started to be heard. The atmosphere was filled with hope, and a party-type mood was happening. The weather was grand as the sun glorified and spotlighted the happening.

More groups arrived riding in: Trains, cars, airplanes from all 50 states, each one identifying its group by name and state. More and more people congregated in the field. The placards read Alabama, Kentucky, Connecticut, Texas, Hawaii, California, Michigan, Tennessee. Everyone accepted and greeted one another in this common cause. I felt I was a grand gala rather than a protest march. I was also glad to not be marching into an antagonistic town facing possible death or a sure beating.

Organizers wore armbands identifying themselves and told us where to line up. Chickie and Bob Knight walked with me; we joined the thousands walking with us. The wide boulevard was overstuffed with singing, smiling marchers. The sidewalk was not visible as the peaceful crowd swelled to the trees that lined the Mall.

Chickie was so happy. Everyone was happy as we could feel an actual change from injustice to some fairness.
The Kennedy Administration was trying to do good, and people even in Mexico had JFK’s picture on their altars. Both John and Bobby Kennedy showed by their actions that they were for social change and so-called equality. By nature, that will never be truly achieved. This, however, was a step in the right direction.

Among other songs, Bob Dylan performed “Only a Pawn in Their Game,” a song about hatred in the South, and he was joined by Joan Baez for “When the Ship Comes In.” My heart soared as a feeling of personal connection surged through me. The great Mahalia Jackson then sang out “How I Got Over,” a Gospel hymn about racial segregation.

When Martin Luther King took the stage and began speaking, a hush fell over the crowd collectively.

“Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

“But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

“I heard some of the words. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. They have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone. We will turn back.

“As we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, ‘When will you be satisfied?’ We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied, as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro’s basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their selfhood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating ‘For Whites Only.’ We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.”

He continued, “Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair.”

Then Mahalia Jackson yelled out, “Tell them about your dream.”

And Dr. King gave this speech:

“I say to you today, my friends, so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream. I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.

“I have a dream that one day, on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood. I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice. I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

“I have a dream today. I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification; one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers. I have a dream today.

“I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.

“This is our hope. This is the faith that I go back to the South with. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

“This will be the day when all of God’s children will be able to sing with a new meaning, ‘My country, ‘tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim’s pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring.’

“And if America is to be a great nation this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania! Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California! But not only that: let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia! Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee! Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi! From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

“And when this happens, when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, ‘Free at last! free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!’”

Dr. King’s famous “I Have a Dream” speech rang out eloquently. As he gained momentum, some people, inspired yelled out, “Tell it like it is!” “Yes, sir!” “That’s right,” “Run it down brother,” and “Amen!” just like they do in Gospel churches, all over north, south, east, and west. I especially remember the words: “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

At the end of the historic speech the crowd erupted in huge, clapping cheering, yelling, whooping, dancing, jumping, one big mushroom of praise. I could feel my heart soar. Chickie was smiling a broader smile then I’d ever seen on him. We didn’t feel alienated, struggling. We were not alone anymore. The ideals scoffed at by society, parents, teachers, politicians, society in general now had a voice, a reason of being, and it was broadcast and accepted simultaneously to the world. Finally, the beatings and courage bore fruit. Festive was the general mood. A golden glow pervaded, a calm after a long storm.

Danny Schechter said:

That March on Washington was not just a political event, not just a day to mark and remember. It was for me, and for so many others, a personal milestone, a turning point of possibility, a part of the reason I am doing what I am today. It offered us an immersion in the work of social change that defined our lives and times. And still does. It made us what we are and history what it is. It showed that movements from below can be more important than politics from above. I never suffered the way many in our movement did or made the sacrifices that claimed lives and destroyed souls. I have no claim to, or desire for, recognition, I was just a foot soldier in the Movement Army, but I do feel I did my duty and served as an American of conscience who shared, for a brief moment in a glory that was bigger than us all. I made a pilgrimage to the Lincoln Memorial in person twenty years ago for that anniversary and do so again this year but only with these sentences expressing my own spirit of nostalgia and dedication. Many of us never turned back even as we look back now.

Following the success in Washington, the afterglow was short. The hatred struck back: On September 15th, 1963, the Ku Klux Klan planted a box of dynamite at the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, killing four young girls. Denise McNair was 11 years old; Addie Mae Collins, Carole Robertson, and Cynthia Wesley were 14.

Cynthia’s best friend said, “Around 4:30 in the afternoon, we got a call that they were dead. Cynthia, Carole . . . I was sick inside. I was afraid. And then I was just numb. For the next week, I remember going to school and just being there. Even in Birmingham, I had four big brothers, and I always had the sense of being protected. Now all of a sudden, I wasn’t.” Charles E. Cobb, On the Road to Freedom (Chapel Hill: Algonquin Books, 2008), 257

Throughout history, a backlash prevails. “Maya (illusion) attacks when you are making spiritual progress,” I was told many years later by a great holy man. Massacres, assassinations, genocide, and desecration of holy places and burial grounds all have been reactions to good.

We hit the establishment fat cats in their pockets by implementing selective patronage, which involved boycotting stores that would not hire minorities. Economics and politics (war) go hand in hand. The boycotts worked.

Fannie Lou Hamer, bigger than life, reeking with conviction, graced our storefront office. She didn’t talk more than she had to. We arranged a comfortable place for her to stay and laid out our plans for her to meet us at Adam Clayton Powell’s Abyssinian Baptist church the next night at 7 p.m.

“The freedom singers are coming too.” She smiled in appreciation. “You will say something, Adam will talk, and Stokely will talk too. Meanwhile, are you comfortable? Anything you need, tell us.”

She smiled in thanks and said, “I would like to meet with Minister Malcolm X. Can you set that up?”

“We will try,” we answered.

I entered the huge church. It was like a large, decorated sheltering cave. I felt good inside churches ever since my experience with spiritual things at New School. The seats began filling up early. I saw lots of familiar and new faces. Church ladies in their big ornate bonnets, some with feathers or sequins, sat side by side with professors, activists, and students in denim. The staff of HEP was working hard to coordinate. I was a greeter; other tutors acted as ushers.

We were scrambling to get everything ready. I looked at Chickie and he said, “Ain’t no big thing,” which calmed me down. After all, we were sincerely doing our best, and that is all anyone can do. I.e., “Do not be attached to the fruits of your actions.”

Adam Clayton Powell started out welcoming us to his father’s church and was provocative and inspiring. Stokeley also was spirited, prodding us on in “the struggle". Then the Freedom Singers performed and we joined in as they sang.

Fannie Lou Hamer came out. She didn’t look like a leader; she was not tall. Her humility combined with strength showed. She told of her personal struggle, how she was fired from her job for registering to vote, how she was then prevented again for not paying a local tax. “I went on and they beat me so hard, I passed out.”

The church ladies took out embroidered hankies and wiped their tearing eyes. I, too, was impressed and choked up. She then sang, “Keep Your Eye on the Prize,” and we joyously and fervently joined her.

Some days later, Carl set up a meeting with Malcolm X. I wasn’t there, but we understand they came to a meeting of minds.

Meanwhile at HEP, we continued our Indigenous Leadership Program, headed by Chickie and Kathy Rodgers. Sometimes, when Chickie got too outrageous in his ideas, she would call him “Chicken,” as though that were his formal full name. We also embarked on the huge Neighborhood Commons project, which was very ambitious. Inspired by a University of Pennsylvania professor named Carl Lynn, the idea was to convert unused city areas into commons or parks. There were many empty lots throughout urban area that fit the description.

We chose to start in an area of four square blocks behind buildings, from 153rd Street and 8th Avenue to 152nd and 9th Avenue.

First, we had to convince the local tenants that it was a good idea. We wanted their ideas and permission. After many months of hard work, we had put together a neighborhood committee, and then we had to clean up the back of the apartments. Since Carl was an architect, he and Professor Lynn planned the future park with areas for playgrounds and benches. New trees were planted and a recreation room was built. The project was a big success and spawned community areas and gardens in many urban cities throughout the world.

Joe Johnson, who was a poet and staff member of HEP, lived on East 9th Street in the same building as Ishmael Reed, another now-famous poet writer. We shared more literary talks than political ones, and he suggested that I start to read some of the black writers. He had soft features and mannerisms and he became like an older brother to me.

I had already read Frederick Douglass, Marcus Garvey, W.E.B. Du Bois, and James Baldwin for my Race Relations course, but now Joe introduced to his fellow Umbra poets through live poetry readings. He gave me a list of authors: Langston Hughes, to Richard Wright, Eldridge Cleaver, even the photographer author Gordon Parks. One book stood out which was especially poignant for the wrongs forced on blacks, but also an individual underground alternative way of protesting, was Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man.

These books mixed with my previous doses of Sartre, Camus, and Rimbaud and spiced up the pot of my curiosity for an alternative to the political form of protest. I feel that a good creative art form can reach as many, if not more, people than political rhetoric that only meets resistance and derision.

The essence of Africa influenced me, where there are many indigenous people who live in harmony. They share everything, even pain and successes. Among them lives a species of spiders that weave their webs collectively.
The people and the spiders watch each other and learn, and the people interact with the spirits on a moment to moment basis. Although there are shaman for healing, each individual has a special relationship with the spirits, and do not rely on intermediaries such as priests. Nor do they limit the reverence to each presiding spirit to one day a week. Africa spoke to me.

I was leaning toward change through art rather than politics, but I wasn’t sure what to do. I needed advice from others. I did not know everything and felt trapped in a deep forest of dilemma. We all need help from others from time to time, as we do not have all the answers. Anansi is a very clever spirit ally from Africa, Also, one’s individuality is encouraged by the spirits and not diminished as in some other religions. In fact, it is said if one does not stand tall and jump up from the rest, the spirits will fly overhead and not see you.

Anansi, the spider spirit, is very mischievous—he represents primal creativity and pathological destructiveness, childish innocence and self-absorption. He gets into all sorts of things, and his sense of ridiculousness lets us all warm to him and learn at the same time. Even though he is a rogue, he is charming and somehow not threatening.

This African fable nicely illustrates that we do not know everything:

Anansi was walking along one day, and he found common sense. He wanted it for himself and stuffed the common sense in a calabash, lashed and tied it to his body, and started to climb a tree, in order to stash and hide the common sense.

Some children saw him climbing and they laughed and yelled, “You would be able to climb the tree easier if the basket was in back of you instead of the front.”

Anansi was indeed having difficulty climbing with the basket between himself and the tree. Then he realized that he did not have common sense. He got angry and hurled the basket into the winds, scattering the contents in all ten directions.

That is why we all have some common sense, but not all of it.

The meetings got longer, the topics drier, the ends seemingly insuperable. My fellow staff members got more verbose, liking to hear themselves, impressing but not getting anything done. I became tired of the political rhetoric, fault finding in nature, violent in tone. Sometimes the process takes over the personality. I didn’t want the me to be submerged. I got tired of the communal working.

Over the years, I got tired of so many meetings, and Chickie and I, along with Dwight Williams—another partner in crime with a great sense of humor—used to play hooky. I usually gave an excuse, but sometimes I just didn’t show.

Sometimes I loved it, loved the people and the building of ideas into fruition and change. Most of all I relished the feeling of more family and friends in my life.

What I didn’t like was the peer behavior expected, the similar jargon, hierarchies vying for power, which meant there were haves and have-nots. As always, the passive, humble folks got hurt, overlooked, and unrewarded. I was tired of being under a microscope of other people’s opinions and judgment and jaded by constant reactions to troubles. It was high school all over again.

I craved a change, and the final impetus came when a separation between black and white workers was being encouraged in the civil rights movement in general. That was too much. Black and white together, we’d all planned, ate, loved, and marched together from almost the beginning, and now this artificial schism and backlash was occurring. I saw friends becoming enemies. I saw simple folks now complicated, competing for power. I saw the already powerful becoming comfortable and less productive. I saw people manipulating others to keep the power. Many of our original ideals seemed to be submerged or forgotten.

Seeing black and white being separated again was the very thing I was fighting against, and now racism again reared its ugly head like a cobra within our own ranks. From childhood, I saw how bigotry, prejudice, and judgmental thinking promoted hate, misunderstanding, and separation that sometime turned into violence. I never liked racist jokes or slurs toward people. I was disillusioned.

When I consulted my professor friends, Harlan Joie and the late Howard Zinn, they encouraged me to leave the movement to pursue more creative things. I took their advice. I wanted a complete change.

I saw a copy of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. It called to me. I talked to a boyhood friend from Scarsdale, Gerry, who was also feeling restless, because he had a friend to drive across country in a Cadillac. I tucked my copy of On the Road into my blue jeans as we left New York, the rejuvenating open road calling. I felt a lightness as we passed New Jersey heading west.

I lay back as the soothing movement, scenery, and not having to do anything relaxed me. Waiting for me in Mexico, was Marla, a girlfriend and tutor, her dark Italian beauty beckoning me.



Chapter 4: The Road

As I said, my boyhood friend Gerry and his friend Howie, who was supplying his father’s car, were thinking about going across country. Howie was fearful from the beginning of our trip about even the slightest dent hurting the car.

I persuaded them to go, even though Howie was still not sure if he wanted to go. Howie, who was very conservative, very straight, very careful with his planning, was not having a good time. The arbitrariness, the variety, the free time that could merge with eternal time was too much for Howie. He did most of the driving.

We were headed toward California and Mexico! Crossing the George Washington bridge, I felt myself relaxing. Piercing through the stench of New Jersey’s factories, the Cadillac glided past swamps, wherein red wing blackbirds flew on the brown fuzzy cattails. My two friends from childhood sat in the front seat. I was in the back with some small suitcases. I brought a small backpack with one shirt, three pairs of underwear, two T-shirts, three pairs of socks, two books—Black Elk Speaks and On the Road—some pot, rolling papers, a lighter, soap, toothpaste, my camera and lens, and a flashlight.

The houses got sparser and the land flatter and as we rode west. The rolling road sounds soothed my soul. The sun went down. I put my feet up and saw that each state had a different type of geography or topography. I thought, “Sometimes we have to walk out of the forest of ourselves and take a look at our acts and feelings as if we are someone else.”

“If only the giftee (God) gee (give) us to see ourselves as others see us.” I thought back on recent events, took a peek, and saw that I’d needed a change. I still cared about the injustices and hatred in the world, but I had to figure out another way to try and change things. I was tired of swimming in the sea of politics. As the civil rights movement grew, like most groups, people wanted comfortable positions. By nature if a few want the same jobs then instead of cooperating for the good of the people they fight and fault find, which gets in the way of progress and productivity. The movement was adopting some of the very things we were fighting against.

I also wanted to find out who I was.

It was time to leave New York which was very hot in the summer, with soot from the factories covering the windows and fire escape. The winter in “Metropolis” were very cold, with frozen soot lacing the snow-covered windowsills. New York was romantic, magnificent, multicultural, exciting, crowded, insular, noisy, smelly, funky, grungy, full of dangerous and complacent people. It was time to feel a change, a new horizon.

Then there was the matter of the war and the Army. I still hadn’t heard from the draft board as to my status. War was emerging, and the threat of new wars were prevalent in the world. Many other protesting youth were leaving for Canada in order to dodge the draft. I decided to go to Mexico for the same reason; if I was in exile in Mexico, “The Man” would have trouble finding me, and I could avoid having to kill people that did me no harm. I asked my father to send any correspondence from the draft board to general delivery, Mexico City, Distrito Federal. As always, he was supportive, even though it was against his better judgment. The spirit of the open road, the unpredictable turns, the travel and adventure called to me. The greater the challenges the greater the rewards.

That is why we remember the inconveniences and misadventures, not the comforts, after a trip. As the country unfolded, I turned Gerry on to pot, which freaked Howie out, and he would not let Gerry drive anymore. The money I had with me was going fast. The story of America was told in the scenery, from industrial, to farm land, to heartland, and again some factories, small and big towns, freeways circumventing the real large cities, back to the heartland farms, some forests, cowboys and Indian roadside attractions, plastic shopping centers starting up, the precursor of the future “mall” phenomena.

We decided we would spend a few days in the famous Las Vegas, with the visions of my namesake Bugsy Siegel. When we got to Las Vegas, we decided to stay for a few days and found a very cheap motel at the edge of town. The money I had with me was going fast, so I would try to make some in Vegas. Gerry and I went into the heart of the Vegas strip, while Howie, who felt sick, stayed at the motel to rest. I borrowed Gerry’s ten-gallon Stetson cowboy hat.

I told Gerry, “Look, I made a fake wad of bills,” which was blank paper bills underneath and real money on the top. I got the idea from some film noir black-and-white gangster movies from the 1940 and ’50s: Hard-talking hoods drank and smoked and shot “rods.” Girls were molls or dames, guns were gats, legs were gams, and a phony “bank roll” was one of the educational visual aids a young curious kid could learn.

“Let’s try to find some rich chicks and gamble with their money.”

“But we must appear rich too.”

The bright lights, headline music like Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. drifting out of plush rooms, cheap buffets, and free drinks all say, “Gamble! Give us your money!” Gerry and I ate and drank and we circulated in the large roulette and black jack hall. The cacophony of sounds from roulette wheels, people groaning, yelling, clapping hands, cards slapping on felt, keno balls. Electronic poker machines and dice slamming against sideboards, swizzle sticks ringing against glasses and ice. I saw a tall blonde and nudged Gerry. He looked over with approval.

“Go for it,” he exuded.

I went over to her, tipped Gerry’s Stetson, and asked, “Would you like to be my partner?”

She looked surprised.

“. . . and gamble with me?” I added, as a save.

“All right,” she said, carefully eyeing me up and down. I pulled out my fake bank roll with only two 20-dollar bills on top. I could only peel one bill off at a time.

“What should we play?” I asked.

“Black jack,” she offered.

“Why not play with your money tonight, and I will cover everything tomorrow,” I ventured.

She frowned. “The man should take care of the woman,” she hissed with venom.

“Don’t you want equality? We can gamble together.” We suddenly realized that we were both playing the same game. I laughed she laughed. I showed her my fake bank roll, and she showed me that she also had blank paper under a wad.

We relaxed, cashed in $20 each, lost it soon, drank some rum and Cokes, and became friends for the night.

Even though it turned out all right this time, I realized if something begins with a false premise, everything else will be faulty and the foundation based on a lie would crumble. It is better to just be honest. Plus we don’t have to remember lies we told. The truth shall set us free. I parted with my new friend.

The next morning and Gerry, Howie, and I went to the Flamingo Hotel. They went into the gambling casino. I wandered into a large room with a boxing ring in the center. A large muscular man was sparring in the ring. He had bear-like features and huge gloves. His long reach kept the sparer away. He hit the man so hard they had to stop the practice.

It turned out to be Sonny Liston, preparing for the Cassius Clay—soon to be Muhammad Ali—fight. He wiped the sweat off of his brow, went to shower, soon returned, and sat down at some tables near one wall of the casino. I went over to him; he had a scowl on his face and his hands were like hams.

“I heard that you were helping some kids in Philly,” I said. He nodded and kind of grunted in assent.

“I was working with kids in Harlem and Mississippi.” He shook my hand. His huge hand enveloped mine. I looked at my hand and muttered to myself, “Where did my hand go?”

He heard me and kind of smiled in surprise. I could tell smiling was not his usual activity. “Well, all right, come with me.” He took me out of the casino gym and around the back of the hotel where there were some bungalows.
We went into a ranch-style house. seven or eight men lounging around inside; when we came in they sat at attention. Sonny introduced me. “This is the best trainer in the world, Teddy King. These are Gus, Rafique, Stanley, Herm, Jebadiah . . .” They nodded in unison.

Then he announced, “It’s time for some grits,” and he led me to a long table with 18 chairs. From end to end, the table was filled with food in bowls and trays, not individual plates. The other men sat down; four other tough-looking men joined us. Sonny stared at Jeb. Jeb evoked, “We thank you, Lord, for this food.”

Suddenly, forks and knives stabbed at the bowls. A feeding frenzy ensued. Big hands and spoons scooped collard greens. Hands grabbed corn on the cob. The ears spiraled across the table like footballs. Bread was buttered or dipped into gravy. Mountains of mashed potatoes vanished. Hands clashed reaching knives clanged as they hit each other trying to stab a yam.

Sonny sat at the head of the table and, overpowering Gus and Rafique, he grabbed the whole tray of links and tipped it onto his plate.

I figured I better get something before it was all gone. Waiters came in, however, and brought in steaming dishes filled with replacements. The frenzy went on for over an hour, with people jumping up and down. “This is some good grits.”

All the while, Sonny seemed grave and almost dour. He didn’t talk much, especially when his mouth was full of food. He shoveled it in like coal into a locomotive steam engine. When Gus got too boisterous, Sonny punched him with a long left jab, and Gus quieted down.

In the two days I was hanging around with him, I saw him lash out at his colleagues three times, connecting twice. His entourage were like samurai, always watchful always on edge. Sonny did, however, give special respect to Teddy King, his trainer, by not hitting him. At one point, he pulled out a real wad of bills and gave them to Teddy, saying, “Go try your luck with Roger here.”

We went to the casino together. Teddy was a soft-spoken, really nice man who became like another big brother to me. As we gambled, we got to know each other better. He told me how he rose above the streets through boxing. He tried it himself but became a teacher of pugilism instead. We played into the night and he handed me $100. I thanked him and said, “See you tomorrow.”

Sonny was holding another public training session including the small punching bag and jumping rope. He kept needing new sparring partners, as he knocked most of them out. I thought about how life is so strange. Here I am, in a very strange atmosphere for me. Loud sounds, bright lights, indoors as opposed to the outdoors that I loved since childhood. Hanging around with boxers, yet I disliked fighting and violence. But I thought, “Life is so unpredictable, so rich and exciting, if I just let the adventure unfold. The less I got in the way of things the more rewards seemed to manifest.”

I later learned that Sonny Liston was in and out of jail and reform school. He worked as an enforcer for gangsters. He even took a cop’s gun once. His life paralleled Jack Johnson, the outrageous, rebellious, and superb boxer. In reform school, he was taught boxing and it turned his life around. He still could not escape the past reputation, and during these racist times, he was considered a bad guy. His nickname was The Bear; he was 200 pounds by the age of 11. He was known for scowling at his opponents in the ring, and he scowled a lot in private too.

As I said, Sonny was getting ready for a fight with Cassius Clay, who was soon to become Muhammad Ali. Everyone thought Sonny would knock out Clay in the first fight. Clay pummeled Sonny, though, which resulted in Sonny not getting off the stool to return to the ring in the seventh round. In a rematch, Sonny was knocked out by “the phantom punch.” Many thought the fight was fixed.

Sonny was able to build his home for troubled youth, and I was glad to have met him and seen his softer side. I even saw a glimmer of a laugh when we shook hands. I enjoyed hanging out with Sonny and the boys, and especially Teddy King, who was another guide or mentor among many in my life. People I learned from by their words and deeds.

I thanked Teddy for his friendship. We shook with both hands. I told him how much fun it was to be with him and gamble with him. I thanked Sonny for his kindness and hospitality, and he smiled again and punched me on my shoulder playfully.

I returned to the motel; Howie and Gerry were just sitting around. They were interested in my tales of Sonny and were impressed when I showed them the $100. They were ready to leave Vegas, as they lost most of their money. I gave them $25 each, which surprised them, especially Howie.

We were headed toward California, as originally planned. I could tell that Howie was not a happy camper, as they say. Again, I was in the back seat of the Cadillac, watching the scenery change from flat to mesas and plateaus.
We headed north toward Reno and after Sparks, Nevada, we found ourselves adjacent to Pyramid Lake and the Truckee Mountain range, shimmering purple in the fading sun. We were on the Washoe reservation. Many spiraling rocks were piled on top of one another like a primitive obelisk that jutted out of the lake, giving it its name. The legends say that when Pyramid Lake recedes, a lake in Ohio rises. There are prehistoric fish within. Many hot springs spewed steam in the fresh air.

As we passed by beaches and cabanas, we headed further into the desert. We crossed some railroad tracks and saw in the sand—not the road—that there were tire tracks leading around a mesa. I said, “Let’s follow these tracks!”

Howie was reluctant to take the car off the road, and he was not used to so much spontaneity. “I can’t take it anymore,” he said. “I want to go home.”

Gerry, on the other hand, was having a great time and pleaded with Howie to follow the tracks.

“I don’t know, the car might get wrecked, I’m tired and want to sleep in my own bed.”

I thought to myself, “This monologue you are calling a conversation is a drag.” I didn’t say anything.

Gerry said, “You wanted adventure! Here is adventure.”

This finally convinced Howie, and we rode around the mesa. Steam from the hot springs rose in the blue sky. Native Americans in groups and small concentric circles were encamped around the springs having a powwow, where they met to dance, compete in games, and exchange news and gifts.

Three pyramids rose out of the lake where the hot springs went. The springs were also dammed-up in circles so that the heat could be regulated. The closer to the lake, the cooler the spring. Maybe 300 folks, some around fires, in trucks, campers, RVs, cars, motorcycles, and buses gathered. Some tepees and sweat lodges were scattered in one area of the powwow.

When they saw us they welcomed us, led us to a table, and handed us some fried bread and beans. “Where you from?” some asked, and were really tickled when we said, “New York City.”

“Where you headed?”

“California.”

One man replied, “Yeah, I have some friends on ‘the res’ there, if you get that way.”

Another smiling man in braids, Leonard, took us to an area where there was drumming, dancing, and prayers from the beginning of time. Ankle bells, feathers, rattles, drums put me in a trance state, and I joined in the dancing after a while. The hosts smiled and clapped me on the shoulders. Gerry was amazed; Howie rolled his eyes skyward.

I felt a kin to these folks. We were all so similar. Yes, we did similar things differently, but not that differently. The difference between our DNA is miniscule. The difference is what makes the world so wonderful. Celebrate our differences. Do not let them be a cause for separation.

Leonard Crow Dog sat with us and told us that he was hidden from the white men, so he wouldn’t be taken away from the reservation to a white man’s school. “They hid me in a cave and taught me the old ways and language, and I am carrying this on and teaching the young’uns the traditional ways.”

He passed a pipe around. Howie declined, but all in all was happy with the unique experience. He felt rejuvenated and ready to forge on to California, only a short distance over a few mountains.

We parted friends with the gathering of tribes and glided toward California, feeling fine. I had some relatives in Oxnard who I hadn’t met. My mother’s sister, Aunt Sonny, was an artist and painter, and Uncle Sam ran a shoe store there.

When we got to Oxnard, Howie decided he’d had enough. He had visions of Pancho Villa with two gun belts shooting at his father’s car. The car was pretty beat up after the desert, and Howie had to get back to New York and his life of regulated routine comforts. Gerry decided to go back as well, although I invited him to go to Mexico with me.


My aunt and uncle were very nice and fed us. The boys left me, and after a day with my relatives, I bought a bus ticket at the Greyhound terminal for Mexico City, where Marla was waiting. I hugged my dear relatives and climbed into the plush seat of the air conditioned bus. The sun was going down, and I sank into the seat thinking about the recent adventures and soon drifted into an easy sleep.




Mexico Scene

The air-conditioned Greyhound bus pulled out of Oxnard. The passengers seemed like cardboard cut-outs sitting on cardboard seats, on a cardboard coach, as they stared straight forward not talking to one another.
The flat southern California landscape floated by. I had $20 and change left—I put the bill into my boot for safekeeping and the change in my pocket.

Shopping centers sprang up on the middle of deserts. Sometimes palm trees would dot the horizon. Southern California was essentially flat and ugly with vestiges of beauty showing through the plasticity. Soon, we reached the border at Tijuana. After clearing Customs, we boarded another bus. The name of the bus company was Tres Estrellas de Oro. Three stars of gold. My Spanish was coming back. I took two years of Spanish in prep school at Milford Academy in Connecticut. I thought back to those outrageous school days.

The Spanish teacher was of unknown origin. He claimed to be from the Everglades. His name was Pancho Demerit, which was ironic for a prep school. Pancho Demerit had a facial tic that propelled his head to the right every minute or so. He taught Spanish, but got drunk a lot, so he would write 250 vocabulary words on the blackboard, for us to copy in his absence. He spoke with a slurring accent. He was given the duty as fire marshal and in one assembly, he slurred, “Teddy the Bear”—he meant Smokey the Bear—“says, ‘Prevent fire prevention.’” The whole assembly laughed, including the other professors.

The other professors were a mixed lot. Mr. Alderman would have his tie coming out of his fly, and when he turned to the blackboard, we would all move our seats up because he had claustrophobia, and he would run out of the classroom. Another professor from Germany thought we were all spoiled and would cry, “You are all moaner and groaners.”

Another absent-minded teacher would go to the wrong classroom, so his key would not work. Another, an Olympic hammer thrower, fell through the wall while demonstrating hammer-throwing techniques in slow motion. Another had a tic with his head shooting left, so when he and Pancho Demerit were together they looked like a synchronized gymnastic act, one head going one way, one going the other.

We were wild and played jokes on these exotic professors and ran the school. My valedictorian roommate found the combination to the safe which had the demerit book, so when we got a demerit, we would erase it. We had unending demerits.

I also took two years of Spanish at a junior college, and I learned some more from hearing Spanish in the streets of New York.

But I digress. The feeling in the three stars of gold bus was more human, as some people were carrying animals, others eating. A large altar over the front window of the bus had an image of the Virgin of Guadeloupe, framed by hanging flowers and beads. Smaller images with gold frames also were also present.

The bus rode into the night, sometimes stopping at little cantinas in the middle of the desert. I walked to shake off the sedentary sitting stiffness.

At first, the land was flat. Then, after a change of drivers, we climbed into the mountain roads, going around the S curves that seemed to take us along the edge of the roads with no fences or barriers. At the foot of one of the mountains was Guadalajara.

I arrived in Guadalajara, in the middle of the night. Even though the hour was late, the large Zócalo Plaza was filled with people, some dressed like skeletons. I was arriving on the Dia de los Muertas (Day of the Dead) wherein ancestors are commemorated and the tenuous moments of life and death are honored. All around were tables with little skeleton figures: A skeleton in graduation cap and gown, a policeman skeleton, a bride skeleton, a pope, a skeleton with a microphone. Cuerpos—or skeletons—were everywhere, in mask form, in small figurines or paintings. The skeletons depicted all ways of life. There were farmers, skeletal families, and corpses driving cars.

Guadalajara was in the midst of the festival. Mariachi bands interwove with other music groups. Special bread and cakes were baked for the month. The sweet bread covered in powdered sugar tasted good. Life here had meaning, rather than an escape into temporary comforts with no tradition except indulgence. Many traditions were bring lost in the modern world in the name of progress, so it is refreshing to experience “the old ways.”

After another climb, a long ascent down the pine-covered hills, and a trek through a level mesa, I saw the night lights of Mexico City shimmering like a sparkler. I slung my backpack over my shoulder, went to a bank, and retrieved the $20 bill, whereupon I found that my foot had rubbed out the pillars of the Treasury Building. The bank would not cash the defaced bill.

However, the bank manager took pity on me and helped me send the defaced bill to the U.S. Federal Reserve for a new bill. Meanwhile he trusted me and gave me the equivalent money, which would be repaid when the new bill arrived at his bank.

I found Marla’s address on Calle Shakespeare, in the Tacubaya district near Chapultepec Park. When I arrived at her address, I was shown to a rooftop room, with rickety metal stairs going to the entrance. She was not there. A young man named Ricardo was sitting on the floor, against one wall. He did not say much. There was a large pile of marijuana in front of him. He offered me some. He was in a stoned state, and he looked like a stone too, not talking or moving, like a gecko on the wall.

Finally, Marla showed up. She was taking classes at the American University up the hill on the way to Toluca. She greeted me, but not warmly. Once the three of us were in the room, there wasn’t much room left. We were once lovers; now she was cordial but cold. I did not know what her relationship with the young Ricardo was, nor was it revealed, but I knew I would not be sleeping next to her. I knew from the cool vibes that I would have to find another place to stay.

The next day, she took me to an old artist with long beard named Charlie who painted chairs in all positions intersecting, aptly sitting in a large chair, smoking Fiesta cigarettes and drinking tequila. I was introduced to a hardy-looking Welsh girl who was also there and going to the university. She was listing to Charlie pontificate about his painted chairs. I never saw Charlie stand up.

Somehow, I’d stepped on a splinter; I took my boot off to find my foot was swelling up. The Welsh woman, Terry, took pity on me: She bent down her knees and pulled out the splinter with her teeth. I was relieved and smitten simultaneously.

The Harmony, the collective consciousness, the convergence, the archetypes, the underground communications, the synergy all working together, in a magic cosmic dance. When we’re not getting in the way of ourselves, wondrous meetings occur and exotic unusual things happen. I met Terry, and her kindness softened my heart.

Charlie was still sitting on his chair. Terry and I sat on the floor in a corner of the room, facing each other. As we talked, pieces of armor and protective facades receded like layers of an onion. We exchanged our stories, aspirations, and preferences, and found that we were heart-melting souls with similar interests. As her blue eyes looked into mine, and as we first touched, the electricity and passion continued to stir. She asked where I was staying and I told her I was looking for a place to stay. She invited me to stay with her. “I have a roommate, but she won’t mind.”

We went to Calle Shakespeare. I climbed the rickety stairs to Marla’s rooftop room. Ricardo was still holding up the wall, silent. I picked up my backpack and told Ricardo to thank Marla for me. I said it in both English and Spanish, because Ricardo never talked, and he looked like he could either be a dark American or a light Mexican. I said good-bye and adios to Ricardo and joyfully skipped down the stairs to the waiting arms of Terry. I kissed her, and she kissed me.

We walked hand in new, exciting hand, down the curvy streets in the Colonia suburbs, on to the more crowded Paseo de la Reforma, the main boulevard through the most of Mexico City, and all the peseros, cabs with drivers holding their hand out of the window with one finger. You could go from one end of the main road to the Zócalo at the other end for one peso. The pesero was a shared cab, with people entering and leaving the cab.

Terry and I were taking a bus outside of Mexico City called the Flecha Roja or Red Arrow. We sat side by side. The other passengers were peripheral images. The bus passed through some barrios, some more suburbs with high walls, fenced-in houses, and locked gates. The bus climbed up the hill past some jarraconda and willow trees. Soon, the houses became few and the land became hilly. The stars shone. As we curved up the hill, I saw Mexico City again shimmering like a river behind us. Terry took my arm when our stop greeted us. We were standing beside the road in an isolated place. The bus pulled off. The motor became noticeably louder as the driver pulled a chain and the muffler was opened to save gas.

Terry took me down some steps passing through a small campus on the hill, down some more stairs, into her rectangular apartment abutting a barranca (dry riverbed), which started small in a forest opening and became wider and deeper past Terry’s room, then dipped into a deep ravine lush with foliage. Eventually, the barranca got very wide and became a huge working quarry.

Terry’s roommate, a pixie with sparkling curious eyes, sat up in her bed. Appropriately named Puck, she eyed me and with some caution welcomed me, because Terry had. Terry went to the small kitchen to heat up some rice and beans. Puck went back to sleep. Puck didn’t talk more than she has to. That was one of the nice things emerging in this incredible decade the ’60s: People communicated in many ways. Being verbal was only one way. Words were not given the same importance as in the phony, treaty-breaking world of our parents.

Terry led me shyly to her bed. She whispered, “I am a virgin.”

That night, we cuddled and got to know each other, our bodies touching, warm and slow. I let her give me the signals, which became yeses and affirmations like hearts and legs opening, red seas parting, green lights OKing, soft skin becoming harder, Morse code giving the go-ahead, talking drums communicating, carrier pigeons flying home, white smoke from the Vatican rising, and subtle pyrotechnics, merging in our loving exchange.

Terry was a good soul, and a great listener. She saw good in people and things and reciprocated with enthusiasm. She was almost saintly without being religious.

The apartment was one long room with a hill as one wall and then glass walls on three sides, with a view out into the gaping barranca. A small yard abutted the rising trees. I got to know that barranca well; I eventually walked from one end to the other. Starting small up a hill and deepening, forests of trees surrounded and jutted out of the widening river bed, Small rivulets of water flowed downward, especially after the summer rainy season. Ancient trails wound besides and down into the barranca itself. At the end was a rise, and the forest became a plateau with a vista of Mexico City.

Around a bend was an overlook, and a quarry below. Trucks came and went, filled with the cut marble. I photographed the beauty and strength of this gaping chasm in the Earth formed by prehistoric glaciers. The allegory of the cave and reflections of the banyan tree discussed in the Bhagavad-gita were taught naturally in every step. The comfort and actions in nature were refreshing. No subterfuge, no con games, or as Joe Johnson my poet friend said, “You can’t jive the wind.”

Terry became my girlfriend and healing lover. She was going to the university just above the barranca, as was Puck, so I had my beloved alone time as well. Dotting the barranca were small houses filled with university students and teachers as well as expatriate artists, from as far as France and the Caribbean; I got to know them on my walks. Terry would also bring interesting people from the school to meet me, and people started showing up daily from Mexico City, Costa Rica, and the United States.

An underground survival triangle sprang up from New York to San Francisco to Mexico. Information abounded, such as places to eat, to score, and to stay. Somehow or other, our barranca pad was on the unwritten collective consciousness network, and new friends were made easily, as they could get something to eat at our house and sleep on our floor. There was a table on the middle of the room and a couch and chairs. Every morning, I would wake to find a new something on the table, like a never-ending Christmas morning. One day, I found a guitar someone kindly left us; another morning, a tequila-sodden woman was there. People would also leave sweets, poems, clothes, marijuana, tobacco, and magic mushrooms or the hard round seeds called ojos de venido (“deer’s eyes”), considered to be lucky on the table.

One day Jeff, a flamboyant rich kid from New York, the son of the city planner, showed up. He drove a blue convertible, which suited his extroverted personality. There were less than 10 convertibles in all of Mexico. Jeff was fun-loving, and soon he and a few of us hung out and explored Mexico City and psychotropics together. A gang emerged: Mike Hart from New York and his nasal, whiney, fearful girlfriend Ann. A muscular boxer from Costa Rica named Clay with an engaging smile and simple way of talking. He would become frustrated with Ann’s procrastinating and he would say, in his Caribbean accent, “Do it or don’t do it.”



The Plumed Horn

I was at the right place at the right time. My life was filled with endless beginnings. The underground triangle reaped many visitors.

One day, I ran into Alan Ribback, a folk/jazz club owner called The Gate of Horn in Chi-town. Odetta, Bob Gibson, Sonny Terry, Brownie McGhee, Theodore Bikel, and Lenny Bruce were discovered at his club, to name a few. Alan Ribback was known for his humane treatment toward the musicians. Unlike other club mangers, he was in it for the music, not the money. Through the years, I would learn how cutthroat the music industry is. Alan ultimately left to pursue his dream of recording and playing music. He was an accomplished guitar player. We became good friends.

Travelers on the way to Isla Mujeres, Puerto Vallarta, or Oaxaca stopped at our place, people constantly coming and going. They would relate their findings and adventures, who to stay with. Poetry, music and photography became my mediums. My muses were all these incredible musicians, artists, poets, activists, and thinkers. Up the hill was an art colony, and on one of my walks with camera, I came across a hut with a straw roof. A coffee-colored man, shirtless with smiling almond eyes, was sitting on the porch painting a canvas. Two, then three children came running around from the back of the house. A large woman, about twice the size of the man, emerged from the shack and called the children for dinner in a strong Caribbean accent.

The man called to me, “My name is Patrik, come on in. Take some trink or smoke wid me, mon.”

I smiled and said, “Thank you,” and sat by his side His wife brought out a ginger drink. A large spliff was in a homemade ashtray sculpted in the form of a jaguar. He lit it, took a long toke, and handed it to me. I inhaled the smoke, instantly relaxing. First listed in the ancient Chinese pharmacopoeia, known as ganga to East Indians, peje to the Lakota, also known as maryjane, gauge, hemp, grass, mezz, sacred herb, weed, or pot, it was my daily medicine and I gladly accepted.

We exchanged tales of our lives or “talked story,” as they say in the islands. Patrik was both an art professor and a student university. He moved here with his growing family while getting his degree in all the other art forms.

“I want you to meet my best friend, come wid me, mon.” We went down into a wooded part of the barranca. A large house in the forest was surrounded by a wall with a metal gate. Patrik pounded on the gate, and soon a dark, slight, wiry man opened the gate.

“Raphael, I want you to meet my friend Roger.”

Raphael smiled graciously. “Come in, come in.” He, too, had a Caribbean accent, but with an East Indian twinge, as his mother was from India. All over the house were sculptures, some spanning from floor to ceiling. Homemade furniture, paintings, and even shoes made by Raphael were everywhere. Tools in various colors lay on tables in different parts of the large main room. Through the backdoor, more projects could be seen, in a lush garden; Raphael led us out there.

Wire, papier-mâché, and glue were being manipulated by his deft hands as we spoke. He worked fast with endless energy. After the papier-mâché layer was done, he dripped a heated wax strip onto the sculptures, depicting men, woman, plants, and animals.

People would climb the wall in the backyard to steal his art. Raphael would then put some of his sculptures right out in the middle of the barranca’s forest, so they would not hurt themselves from the glass cemented on top of the walls. He had an engaging manner, peaceful yet energetic. He smiled all the time and saw the good in people.

It was getting dark, I indicated leaving. As we were going, Raphael said, “Come back soon, I will teach you how to make shoes.”

I did return soon, and he took me to the market early in the morning, because the first sale of the day had to be reasonable for spiritual wellness, and one could bargain effectively then. That was one of the many things Raphael taught me. We went to the leather market and he went to the used tools stall, setting me up with awls, scissors, knives, large stitching needles, and leather tongs. Tire rubber could be brought in strips, to be used as soles.

With Raphael’s guidance, I cut out patterns for a five-piece sandal—first the front and back pieces and then the straps and thongs. He taught me how to pipe the leather straps that lined the sandals, and how to put the whole shoe together with glue and stitching. He also showed me how to make simple sculptures out of chicken wire, papier-mâché, and wax. Then we would go to touristy areas, where we sold our sandals.

Raphael became my good friend. Although he was becoming famous in art circles, he remained down to earth and unchanged. I liked his patience, his creativity, his humor, and his peaceful way. Once, he brought a kite he made to our glass house. We had to go up the hill to the university campus to find enough flat ground to run with it. His lanky form sprinted with the kite, and as it rose into the heavens, he laughed and jumped up and down in jubilation, clapping me on the back, as his creation took wing and soared freely.

Sometimes Patrik invited me, Terry, and Puck to dinner. A Caribbean feast was laid out, and we would eat, laugh, and play as his large wife served us and his almond-eyed kids played.

One day, Raphael was forging a steel drum from a barrel. He and Patrik were standing in the open doorway, smiling broadly. Raphael showed me his steel drum and Patrik hit the bongo drum. l picked up my guitar, and Raphael would play steel drums jammed. Rachael and Patrik told me of a Caribbean Calypso game.

The game would be to pick a topic and tease each other through song. Lord Invader was the most famous of these Calypso singers. Harry Belafonte would sing, “Man smart, woman smarter,” which was a similar type of song. Street-debating contests called “the dozens” occurs in the black neighborhoods of the United States.
 I taught Raphael and Patrik folk or freedom songs, and they would teach me simple island songs like

this one:

“Once, dere was a lady, she had a little monkey

He took a piece of charcoal
and put it in his nose hole

Oh, lord, now me monkey is dead
Oh, lord, now me monkey is dead.”


I didn’t know what the song meant, but we sure had fun singing it, and we laughed a lot. The humor was light and never mean.


I was also continuing with my photography, using a darkroom at the university. I had brought many rolls of my hand-rolled bulk Army film to Mexico with me. I photographed the barranca, the children, the markets, and the two villages nearby surrounded by agave cactus. Living in the area were also tribes of indigenous natives who left Mexico City when Cortés invaded and retreated up to these hills. There were waterfalls and shepherds walking the trails, as their ancestors did. An old convent off the highway to Toluca, in the Desierto de los Leones National Park, was also a favorite place to walk, think, and photograph. There was a chapelle de secretos—a confessional room—in which the priest would face the wall in one corner of the room, listening and talking through a hole in the wall, while the confessor faced the wall across the room, thereby keeping the identities and the words confidential.


Terry and I were finding out more and more about one another and liking what we found. She was my first long-term relationship. The free love that was popular at the time did not promote commitment or marriage; however, Terry was so good and good for me that we grew closer. Although she was involved in school work, she loved the people and excitement I brought into her previously sheltered life. She was curious, happy, intelligent, and accepting; she liked me and what I did and said, that I was friendly and socially adept. She was a happy person having a good childhood and intelligent perspective. Terry added to all our gatherings, by a kind word or deed. She laughed a lot more in agreement rather than at humor. We grew together.

Simultaneously, our personal relationship and the variegated scene surrounding us progressed. Puck was a sidekick to us, a sprite, a good cook and companion. She, too, liked the scene I’d brought to the glass house. Many get-togethers and potluck parties took place in the evenings in the barranca. The artists would come from up the hill. The New York gang in Jeff’s blue convertible filled with groceries would crest the hill, and travelers from all around spiced the gatherings.

A poet/musician named Eddie Visitation came to us one day. He looked Asian, with a thin mustache and crescent eyes. He did not say more than he had to. “Nick from the Lower East Side sent me,” he told us.

“Welcome! Are you hungry?” I replied. He smiled slightly and nodded. We went to the table and, cross-legged, he ate, telling me he was a poet and showing me some of his poems. I showed him some of my photos. He saw the guitar and asked if he could play.

“Sure.”

He picked up the guitar and played the most beautiful blues song, singing original lyrics with unique phrasing. When he finished, he set the guitar down so softly, so peacefully.

Eddie was very quiet and observant. Like many I met, he was “on a journey to the East." We read Hesse, Black Elk, and Lobsang Rampa, searching by reading, sharing with others. I was looking for teachers, and we gained a little guidance from the books. We tried to emulate spiritual people without personal teachers or guidance, embracing the best of all cultures. Years later, I was told by an actual spiritual teacher that “Philosophy without practice is speculation; practice without philosophy is fanaticism.”

“Come with me, I want you to meet some folks,” I told Eddie. We rode down the hill and took a bus to an apartment in the outskirts near the university district of Mexico City.


We were greeted by Sergio Mondragón, a tall, scholarly looking man. The flat was filled with books and papers piled in the front room. He ushered us into another sitting room. Sitting on a couch was a very pretty and pregnant woman, Margaret Randall. They were editing a bilingual periodical named El Corno Emplumado, or The Plumed Horn, to which poets from all over the world contributed. Their house served as a meeting place for poets, intellectuals, and “existentialistas.”

Sergio and Margaret offered tacos and pot and animated conversations. They showed me how their magazine had recently begun to bridge a gap between Spanish-speaking and English-speaking poets. We became friends and I contributed some of my photos and a poem called “Tus Ojos Son la Ventana del Alma” or “Your Eyes Are the Window of the Soul.” Robert Kelly, one of these futuristic poets that visited Meg and Sergio, later wrote about El Corno Emplumado:

“I arrived in Mexico City with my son, Gregory. I had the name and address of the American poet Philip Lamantic, so I called him and he invited me over. In his apartment, in the Zona Rosa, poets would gather in the evenings to read their work. There were a number of Mexican poets, as well as a few from the U.S. and other countries. We read to one another, but it was clear that those of us from the U.S. didn’t really know enough Spanish to understand the subtleties of the poems in Spanish; and the same was true for the Latin American poets: their English wasn’t always good enough to catch the finer points of our poems. It soon became apparent that we needed a forum of some sort, a venue in which to make our work available in translation, to share it across borders. That’s how El Corno was born. The name The Plumed Horn represented the jazz horn from the U.S. and the feathers of Quetzalcoatl, the culture of Meso-America. The name’s translation was El Corno Emplumado.”


Robert's Kelly's synopsis of the ’60s: “which weren’t yet the 1960s as we speak of them—that Robert Kelly proclaimed for me (for us) a ‘poetics of desperation’ in which we came to share. In relation to that and what followed, the real 1960s (which included also the early 1970s) were a kind of time between—a liminal moment, as we liked to say, in which what was possible and hopeful dared to assert itself against the odds. And those odds, that oddness, meant a real war then in progress and a real clash of ideas in which we called for change and transformation—not just a change of political parties as now, but ‘a total assault on the culture,’ * and growing from that a total transformation, for which we thought (or some of us did) that poetry’s changes were a signal of the greater changes still to come.”

I saw that young people like me sought an alternative to the way their parents embraced materialism and war. We wanted peace. We liked to share, and were not afraid of the search. In my circle of friends we all wanted to learn, to find some spiritual practice, or we were at least looking for practices we could embrace. We absorbed wisdom from India, Japan, and China. Zen was fashionable, as were macrobiotic diets and Native American homeopathic medicine. We heard Rumi’s and Gary Snyder’s poetry. We embraced Lao Tsu and the way of Taoism, and often I consulted the I Ching and threw (tossed) the yarrow stalks for its guidance.

Another day, Eddie took me to the Monte Carlo Hotel on Calle Uruguay, near the Zócalo. This was one of the underground inns for the new beat writers and artists: Allen Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs, and Bill Bryson stayed in and sometimes wrote about the Monte Carlo, in addition to D. H. Lawrence. The Monte Carlo was the Mexican counterpart to the Beat Hotel on Git-le-Cœur in Paris or the Chelsea Hotel in New York.

The rooms were cheap, clean, and the open doors revealed clouds of pot smoke, half-naked people, oil paints, easels, plaintive music, and dreams. In one room was a man with pre-Columbian statues and jewelry being wrapped for protection and then hidden for smuggling. Another smuggler of marijuana invited us in. He was surrounded by bales of marijuana, also being wrapped and hidden. “The best day to smuggle is Sunday in Tijuana, during the bullfight, when thousands of people are crossing the border for the event.”

Eddie took me to one room wherein Tony and Monique, a photographer and French model, resided. They offered us champagne. Tony’s photos of Monique were hung all around the room. Two realities: the person Monique and the image Monique. Another allegory of the cave.

In another room was the sound of a typewriter pounding; in another, a saxophone; in another, the sounds of a party. Tequila and grass flowed; the guitar and sax kicked in, some small drums. An impromptu poetry reading began. The door to the party room was open and we were welcomed in by young man named Brian with short, combed hair. He had a plastic pocket protector with pens, screwdrivers, and pencils protruding.

Brian was cryptic in his speech and reminded me of the nerdy kid in school who ran the film projector, who was entrusted with keys to all the rooms, had few friends, and stayed in a corner by himself during recess. Now, Brian’s scientific experiments were of a different type: He was peering into “the doors of perception,” as Aldous Huxley put it, via psychotropic drugs.

Brian took us to the main room and then upstairs into another sitting room, the four walls completely painted in eclectic murals. The whole room was an altar. There was Buddha and Krishna, Crazy Horse and Che Guevara, Mao Tse Tung and Malcolm X, Tlaloc, Fu Man Chu. Brahma. Teotihuacán and the Taj Mahal next to the Sphinx, Fantastic castles in the clouds, some Pyramids, many moons, suns, and stars swirling around. Brian later took me to his mansion in Colonia Chapultepec inhabited by like-minded friends experimenting with many different types of drugs.

In another of the rooms with no decorations was a guy named Jack who had a wooden leg. His face was a pasty brown color, almost wooden-looking, the same color of his leg. He would ingest any substance, from peyote to acid, from DMT to pot, and in copious amounts. He could handle large amounts, mixing and matching, yet never changing his stoic demeanor. After we became friends, he showed me how his wooden leg had a secret compartment, in which he would smuggle his substances across the border.

In an open area on the back patio was a man with lots of brown, gelatinous little hills drying on white paper: Magic mushrooms.

John Lilly Jr. is the son of the John Lilly who conducted experiments with dolphins, which concluded that the dolphins were intelligent, friendly, and psychic. One experiment gave the dolphins two choices of boxes: one containing food and one containing an electric shock. The experiment was to determine how long it would take for the dolphins to learn to avoid the shock and opt for the food. When the experiment began, all the dolphins immediately went to box containing the food, never choosing the electric shock. Psychically, they knew which box contained the food.

Like his father. John Lilly Jr. was also conducting important experimentation, facilitated by Maria Sabina, a healer (curandero) who utilized psilocybin mushrooms as a way of life. She lived in Juatilla. John invited me to meet with Maria Sabina and take part in a three-day ritual. In the meantime, he made a tea-based drink and ate the mushroom remnants. He asked me if I ever tried magic mushrooms. I said I hadn’t.

He told me that it would open up new doors for me. “These magic mushrooms can enhance your understanding of the cosmic connection of all things. These mushrooms will let you see inside. Since you already like mota or grass, you will like this too. It is like an enhanced grass high.” He handed me the tea to drink.

I sipped the elixir, an earthy, bitter taste. I swallowed it all. Very quickly, a sense of calm pervaded me. The garden near us became brighter and much closer to us. Each flower was a friend. I stared at the red of the flower as it became translucent. I felt like I was the flower, and the sun warmed me. I felt that I was a part of everything, and that everything was a part of me. I felt a connection with a higher ally, a supreme being who was looking over me.

This benign journey lasted into the night. My doors of perception were opened. The rhythmic realm was introduced. My love for others increased. My compassionate understanding and connection to the universe became lucid and clear. I would never be the same.

John gave me some mushrooms to take with me. I got a ride up the hill to the barranca and shared the experience with Terry and Puck.

Jeff and his girlfriend Ann came to the barranca one day, bringing Clay from Costa Rica with them. They, Terry, Puck and I all piled into Jeff’s blue Impala and headed into Mexico City to Chapultepec Park, the grand palace of Emperor Maximilian representing an integral part of Mexican history. Afterward, we stopped off at the Monte Carlo Hotel, where another party broke out into the night.

At the party, I realized that I didn’t know many Mexicans. I mostly hung out with Europeans, Islanders and Americans. Sergio Mondragón was one of the few Mexicans I met, but beyond him, I knew few locals. I spoke with Terry about this and made a note to myself to try to meet more Mexicans and learn more of the history of the country I was living in.

My wish was soon fulfilled when, one day, I was hiking with my dog behind the village of Cuahimalpa, passing the square-shaped cultivated farm plots bordered by maguey cacti. People had walked on sheep paths there for hundreds of years, curving along the sides of hillocks. We went down a ravine, on a steep thin rocky path that led us into an open area with a waterfall cascading into a pool below. We climbed down and sat on the flat, warm rocks that surrounded a natural swimming hole. We were in a hidden paradise; I felt like we were in the jungles described in Green Mansions.

I’d heard that there were indios (Indians) living up here in the hills who had escaped from Cortés when the Spanish invaded Mexico City. We left the falls and trekked further, coming upon village made of straw and mud. Children came running, and the dogs gave my dog room. A grandfather came and took my hand and welcomed us in a Toltec or Otami language.

Some of the people stared as though they’d never seen a white-skinned man before, especially one wearing a poncho and Mexican hat. That meeting was enlivening. They shared mole and rice and corn tortillas and sopa with us, and we sang, ate, and laughed in three different strange tongues. I would return with Terry and Puck bringing my guitar, and again we ate and sang, laughed, and smiled. I returned to Mexico years later and revisited my friends here.

After weeks of waiting, I heard from the bank president, who wrote to tell me that my 20–dollar bill had been replaced by the U.S. Federal Reserve. I asked Jeff to drive us to the bank. Our party of seven strode into the building; the banker welcomed us. I’d printed a nice photo of a little girl’s eyes with the rain god Tlaloc framing her, as a gift for the banker. He’d already given me the money, but I thought I should thank him anyway. I presented the photo to the banker, who thanked me and gave me a donation of 200 pesos. It all helped.

A newspaper headline told us that Sonny Liston lost a boxing match to Cassius Clay aka Muhammad Ali. I thought, “Hmmmm, Sonny was so large and tough. Most of the sporting world had Sonny ahead on points and bet that Sonny would beat Cassius.” After the fight, many thought that Sonny “took a dive” and threw the fight on purpose. The second fight was over in a single round and again, the sports world thought that Sonny lost on purpose. I told the crew about our meeting in Las Vegas.

Later, we were at home when Eddie suddenly appeared, silently, as if he just popped up in our house. “I’m going to Acapulco to score some gold, want to come?”

”Sure, why not?” I had the 200 pesos from the banker, after all.

I said goodbye to Terry and Puck, and Eddie and I caught the Tres Estrellas de Oro bus. I felt good being on the road again. Something about moving was calming. I tended to get stagnant staying in one place too long. I once heard that the renounced holy men in India would only stay any one location for three days at most, so that they wouldn’t get attached to any place or anyone.

The bus let us out in the edge of Acapulco. The town was small with some taco stands, clothing shops, and souvenir booths. The town was for tourists, which we knew because a walk in either direction took us to large hotels on the beach. Straw-roofed tables, comfortable chairs, and beach umbrellas dotted the white sands.

Eddie and I bought some tortillas, arroz, and frijoles and walked to the beach. The sounds of drums were heard over the surf. We sat, listened, and ate. The drummer was very muscular, as though he lifted weights. He stopped drumming and approached us, as he could see that we were really enjoying his music. Joey introduced himself and we learned that he was in a band that played at a luxurious hotel.

After we talked on the beach for a while, Joey invited us to his room to meet his old lady. We went in through a back entrance. I peered into the large lobby, decorated with ferns, palm trees, and many varieties of Mexican art.

We met Joey’s girlfriend, who was from Scranton and very friendly, and Joey called for room service to bring tequila and food. Eddie and I offered some magic mushrooms and pot. The festivities ended when the sun came up.

“I’ve got to gig with my band tonight. Come by and hear our sounds,” he told us. We agreed. Eddie was my guide here. He knew where we were going.

We left the luxurious hotel and walked through town, and at a certain landmark, we began climbing up the hills. We saw Acapulco below, the beaches the hotels and beyond. Soon we reached our destination: four shacks on a flat hill and a budding marijuana farm.

The farmers greeted Eddie warmly. We sat. They offered us a huge joint to sample. Acapulco Gold was known for its uplifting qualities, heavy with strains of sativa, which enhanced happiness and energy. Some other weeds put one to sleep, but not this one: It was sweet, effective, and fresh. The price was right, too, at 100 pesos, or about $12 for a kilo (2.2 pounds)!

The farmers wrapped up two packets, one for Eddie and one for me. We each gave them 100 pesos and headed down the hill. Joey said we could stay with him, which was a relief because we did not feel totally safe, as staying on the beach was risky as well, because sometimes people turned gringos in to the police for money after they scored.

That night we heard Joey’s band, ate at his special table. The next morning, after our fond farewells, we returned to our glass barranca house above Mexico City. This adventure financed the rest of our time in Mexico, as I sold a good amount of the marijuana to the American students at the university. I also gave away a lot to my friends, and the table in the middle of the glass house was always piled up with a mound of fresh Acapulco Gold grass.

A big, blonde artist named Brigette, one of the best known artists in the colony, lived up the hill from us, near Patrik and Raphael, and like Raphael, her house was filled with all sorts of homemade furniture and clay pieces. She taught art at the university; the walls were covered with her oil paintings, which she also showed at galleries around Mexico City. She was tall and pretty, and everyone was a little in love with her, yet she maintained her independence.

One day, Brigette approached me. “I’d like to paint your portrait. I would be happy if you would be my subject.”

I thought about it for one second and said, “Yes, I will be happy to sit for you.”

“I can pay you 10 pesos a day, and if you want, I’ll give you a little puppy as well. Can we start tomorrow morning, here in the studio?” She did not give me an exact time, since we were living more like aborigines as far as time was concerned. Morning or afternoon was fine, and someone was as likely to not show as show up. We were in a vast time bubble where deeds superseded pre-designated time coordinates. We ran on “CP time:” not “colored people” but “cannabis people.”

I sauntered up the hill to Brigette’s art house. She was in her studio setting up a large canvas, about four feet high and three feet wide. Her long blonde hair was pulled up tight in a bun, so as not to fall in her eyes or into the paint. She was as beautiful in her work mode as she was in her play mode.

A comfortable, almost throne-like seat was brought in for me to sit on. I could see the barranca through the windows. Brigette wore a long, flowing smock with colors all over it, where she’d wiped her hands or dabbed a brush. Her curves were still visible through the long apron. Concentric circles of oil paint in every color patterned her palette. In between her canvas and my seat was a German Shepherd nursing six puppies.

I settled in peacefully and sat in a regal pose while I watched the barranca’s morning light change from brown ochre into brighter greens and yellows. I watched Brigette dance around as she painted. She was a vision as she created, first sketching an outline of me and the chair and the background. I liked representational painters, as you know they can both draw and paint. She became more beautiful as she got into her work. Every once in a while, Brigette would say, “Try not to move. Please,” and I would sit like a stoic statue.

I fell in love with her, yet I loved Terry. I also loved Puck. I loved the barranca and Nature’s soft and hard laws, and I loved how everything seemed to have a magic connection. Life’s play was a cornucopia. Sometimes happy, sometimes sad, flowing together like the changing of seasons, as the Bhagavad-gita says.

As I sat there, I thought, “Why do they call people who are posing ‘subjects?’” A witty anecdote entered my free-flowing mind. Benjamin Disraeli, British prime minister under the fierce Queen Victoria, reputedly could make a joke about any "subject." His rival, William Gladstone, tried to degrade Disraeli in front of the Queen Victoria by saying, “I hear you can make a joke about any subject: Then make a joke about our queen.” Disraeli replied, “The queen is not a subject.”

The six puppies were nursing eagerly; the mother lay on her side, giving of herself. They had little runt noses and would climb on each other’s back for the nourishment of their mother’s milk. One puppy stood out. He pushed one of his brothers or sisters away and dived into his mother’s teat. Then, he would stride away and explore his new life. Sometimes he would come to my foot and sniff around. It was as if he was picking me.

As well, I was picking him. He was also a different color then the rest of the litter: black and white in different designs, as if Brigette dripped some colors on him. I thought, “If I am going to take a puppy, it would be that one.” I did not want to make a decision about the puppy.

But by the second day of posing, and certainly by the third, I knew I wanted the little black-and-white pup. I brought Terry and Puck up to see the lad, and they agreed that it would be nice to have a dog around. Of all of God’s creations, dogs are one of the nicest. Not only does the dog have the same letters as God, but there’s also the adage: “Please make me the person that my dog thinks I am.” Dogs, if treated right, are the most loyal and appreciative of animals. They greet you with such eagerness and love even if you were gone for 15 minutes. Growing up, my parents were smart enough to have a few dogs in the house. We had a cocker spaniel named Smokey, and Thunderhead, a red wolfhound down the street, used to play and run with me. (When do kids stop running and skipping and start walking? I think that is when we become adults.) Another dog in my youth was named Nipper because he bit my stepmother. I felt like biting her sometimes too.

As I posed for the portrait, I observed the litter, and the little black-and-white puppy definitely stood out. He was a brave explorer, and he didn’t seem to be so needy as the others. So when the painting was finished, Brigette and I hugged, and she gave me 40 pesos and a new puppy.

I named him Que Tal, which means “what’s happening” in Spanish. It was appropriate because Q’s father was some sort of Great Dane mixture, so Que Tal grew up to be strong, confident, and fun, almost human in personality. We bonded over the years. Que Tal and I helped someone sneak into the United States. Once, he ran after a car I was riding in and followed me for four miles before I saw him. Another time, he guided a friend coming off of an acid trip to a house nearby. Years later, he got my wife and I kicked out of a California logging town, population of 6, for chasing sheep off of a cliff near the ocean. Que Tal the Wonder Dog hitchhiked across America twice with me, and lived at the house of one of the band members of Big Brother and the Holding Company.

Que Tal also knew all the bus drivers in San Francisco, as he rode the buses with or without me. Que Tal fit right in at our glass house. Sometimes one ear would sag and the other stayed straight up, as if he was questioning things. As he grew, he would accompany me on walks. He would be by my side constantly.

Once, we went on a walk to Cuahimalpa to see Barry, an American married to an indigenous woman named Maria. Barry had adopted the Mexican way of life. Maria was very shy and quiet. She made her own tortillas and cooked chile rellenos, arroz amarillo, refritos, and mole in the adobe kitchen as Barry arranged some pre-Columbian artifacts he collected sold and sometimes smuggled into the U.S.

As Que Tal and I were leaving the town, toward the fields of maguey cactus spiraling in sharp spikes, I thought about the uniqueness of these remarkable succulents that fueled the local economy. The cactus fields bordered small plots of land, as their sharp needles acted as natural fences. The local Toltecs also used the needles for sewing in ancient times. If the flower stem is cut before flowering, the magueys will produce a divine elixir inside the plant called aqua miel or honey water. After two weeks, the sweet water ferments and becomes pulque, a rancid-tasting drink that has some psychotropic properties. The cantinas serve pulque in place of beer as the main beverage in northern Mexico. The pulque can be further distilled into tequila. A common crime in this area was stealing of the sweet water that gathers in the hearts of these plants.

As Que Tal and I passed the fields and reached the edge of town, we were attacked by a pack of wild dogs. I had been attacked by a pack of dogs before, and at first, I had been a little slow to understand what was happening, but when I realized that this might be a life-threatening situation, I struck out with feet and belt, and the dogs retreated whimpering. This time I did not wait. I struck out immediately, and Que Tal was holding off three or four snapping dogs at a time. They, too, ran away, and I was happy that Que Tal was at once so independent and friendly.

The little dog grew and grew. We would interact well together, and he would read my thoughts without my having to say anything. I would rarely need a leash for him. He was as responsive as a thoroughbred, yet he was this great black-and-white mix of Great Dane and German Shepherd. Terry and Puck loved him too. Many people I know through the years remember Que Tal with fondness.

Eddie appeared in our midst one morning, and said he wanted me to accompany him to Ajijic. I didn’t question him further, as he always took me on adventures that nourished me somehow, like the meeting with John Lilly Jr.

As if some providential game was being played, Jeff came in with Mike Hart from New York. Mike was a pleasant sort, very giving interested in film and writing, so we hit it off. He was a good sidekick for Jeff, who was flamboyant, rich, self-centered, and sometimes oblivious to what went on around him. Jeff was also funny and he didn’t mind laughing at himself, which happened often, as either he put his foot in his mouth by talking too much or embarrassed himself by some overt extraverted action.

I kissed Terry, patted Que Tal, and then Jeff, Eddie, Mike, and I piled into Jeff’s convertible. “First, we stop off and pick up Brian, at his drug house, since he is the one who knows Tim Leary,” Eddie informed us.

So, we were going to see Dr. Timothy Leary. I’d heard him speak at Cooper Union in New York on imprinting and alternative realms of consciousness. I attended his simulations of psychedelia through colors, designs, and meditative music without the LSD, when he lived in Millbrook, New York. He had been recently expelled from teaching and doing experiments at Harvard, so he’d relocated to Ajijic in Mexico.

We collected Brian and took off for Ajijic. It was still early in the day. The mood was merry as we rode north. We picked up some mariachi music on the radio. Three and a half hours later, we arrived in Ajijic. Lake Chapala took up most of the landscape for many miles. Some fishermen were pulling up small silvery fish in nets, while others were drying and repairing their nets spread out on the beach. Brian directed us as we rode into the town past the plaza and onto a tree-lined street.

The door was open in the house where Dr. Leary was living. We waited in the car as Brian went in first. He soon reappeared and waved us inside. In the main room sat on a cot the distinguished Dr. Leary. He was in shorts and no shirt, tousled graying hair and a big smile on his face. Two pretty young girls flitted about. He welcomed us in and we sat around him in a circle.

He spoke something like this:

“I have been experimenting with LSD, or lysergic acid diethylamide, and I think if used wisely, it can change the world. If people explore inside, all the answers are there. I want to share this freely with you and other seekers. I have written bardos from the Tibetan Book of the Dead regarding the different layers of realization as the trip unfolds. You will be tripping for approximately eight hours or more, depending on your abilities of reception. Some people trip for days. This is not just getting high. This can show you realizations, liberation, and transcendence. Please make sure that others are around, in case you have a bad trip. One of the aspects of acid is the inducing of a psychotic state of mind, a psychotomimetic, so your friends can guide you back to calmness if it gets rough. Make sure you have water. Grass helps too, to take any edge off. Leave all business and functioning behind. It is best to have a day before to prepare and a day after the trip to reflect and absorb the experience. Here is some pure Sandoz LSD for you to try.” He gave Brian a plastic baggie with 50 hits of enlightenment.

An older pretty woman came out of the kitchen with steaming rice and beans, tortillas, and salsa picante. Horchata and Dos Equis beer was also offered. Tim was an optimist, a jokester. He liked his beer too, and was an Irish story teller full of blarney, a lover of life, and a learned guru. We saw that his place was small and thought it best to return to Mexico City and not inconvenience the good doctor.

We got back to Brian's mystic mansion in Mexico City as the sun was going down. Clay the boxer was there. Brian gave us each a dose in the form of a small triangle. At first, we were all together, but after about half an hour, as the acid began to peak, we each silently moved to different parts of the house to meditate on the experience.

A great energy soared through me like never before. I sat near a large plant and looked at it, into it. The plant was me and I the plant. I stared through my hand; it became like an X-ray, then translucent, then cellular, then dotted in impressionistic colors. Then my hand became as if detached. I became as if detached. I flew overhead and saw myself, in an astral flight. I felt one with everything and everybody.

I looked around the mansion. Eddie was sitting in a lotus pose with a beatific smile. Clay was running around, skipping and singing in tongues. Brian stared at the wall. Jeff was lying on his back under a blanket. Mike was walking and pacing and smiling broadly. I went into the altar room. The images wove into each other in some kind of phantasmagoria. The room was a kaleidoscope, a melting pot. All the images from Toltec to Buddha, to Christ to Krishna, to Chief Geronimo, all merged into one. I fell into a floating reverie and become more and more ecstatic. As the morning sun came through the windows of the mansion and the singing of the liquados vendors was heard, I slowly returned to my regular state of consciousness.

I made the rounds of the house. Brian was still tripping looking at the wall, rocking back and forth. Mike came over to me and smiled wisely. “What a trip, eh?”

I smiled back and clapped him on his back. Jeff was pacing around full of joy, even more exuberant than usual.

Clay was in a dark room, talking to himself. He was screaming softly and not enjoying his trip. I brought him some water and just put my arms around his shoulders and kind of rocked him. He calmed down and tears streamed from his eyes, and then, somewhat embarrassed, he lay down to rest, pulling a blanket over his head.

A sense of peace and well-being of mind, body, and soul stayed inside of me. The morning sun streamed into the mansion. I wanted to get back up to the barranca and share my acid experience with Terry and Puck, and to reflect further. Brian gave me nine doses and a terse smile from his thin lips. Jeff was still too stoned to drive, so I did. The residual effects of the acid were still with me as I drove very slowly, very carefully back to the barranca house.

Que Tal greeted me enthusiastically. Terry and Puck were at classes. I relaxed and reflected on my experience.
I knew what Huxley meant by “the gates of perception.”

My life was changed forever. I was even more at peace with the world and myself.



Brigette’s art show was opening at a gallery in Mexico City Centro that night. The portrait of me was one of the paintings in the show. Later in the evening, Terry, Puck, Eddie, and I stopped off at an apartment of a Dutch United Nations attaché and his wife, a couple who Eddie knew, to turn on before the show. Eddie didn’t talk much, but he knew a wide diverse group of people.

At the gallery, Brigette was attending to everyone. She flitted around in a gown like a bumble bee, making sure there were ample hors d’oeuvres and wine. All my friends were present: Eddie, Raphael, Patrik and family, Charlie the chair-painter, Ron Rice the filmmaker, Alan Ribback, Sergio Mondragón and Margaret Randall, Jeff and the gang from New York, Brian and his housemates. Clay was noticeably absent.

The representation of myself hung on the wall. I stood next to it to see if people would recognize me as the subject. My friends smiled, as they were in on the joke and social studies experiment. The people passed by the paintings without looking, without seeing even the essence, turning their backs on the paintings in order to talk to each other, about everything but the art. Some children were at the show, however, and they did notice that I was the guy in the painting, pointing at me and then dancing and jumping around. I started to laugh at the absurdities of some aspects of life. I wanted to be child-like, because children are able see more.


One evening at the magic mushroom mansion, we heard a dog crying and whimpering for hours. I looked over the high wall and saw a beautiful, sleek amber Chow/Doberman mix, straining on her leash in the yard. Terry and Clay and I climbed the high wall, putting blankets over the glass shards in the wall, and very quietly untied her. I handed the dog to Clay, and he deftly swung his legs over and handed her to Terry down on the ground. I followed quickly.

The little dog was shaking, so I put her in my lap and petted her, and then Terry petted her until she calmed down. I figured she had probably been beaten as well. We brought her back to the barranca and named her Trixie because she was so elegant and high-strung.

Soon her shaking subsided, thanks to nurturing and love from Terry, Puck, and me. Trixie also developed a new relationship with Que Tal and they became boyfriend and girlfriend. I walked with two dogs in my hikes into the jungle past the barranca thereafter.

The chaos and fun was so continuous that I hardly slept, and from the hectic lifestyle and the silty water, I contracted hepatitis. My eyes and skin turned yellow from jaundice. Terry took me to the American British Hospital in Mexico City, and it became a place of rest and relaxation.

At first, I was not hungry. They gave my rock candy and fruit juices. In a week, the jaundice disappeared, and my appetite returned. Friends started showing up at the hospital, coming through my window instead of checking in at the front reception desk, to bring me marijuana and push Que Tal and Trixie through the window to sleep in my bed with me. Each day, more and more friends visited, and one Saturday night, Jeff, Mike, and Ann, Clay, Raphael, Eddie, Terry, Que Tal, and Trixie plus two guitars all came through the window. Raphael was especially intrigued by the scene. Some young girls in hospital gowns also joined the party.

The nurse came in and ran out. Even though she liked me, eight people and two dogs along with the cloud of grass smoke was a bit much for the hospital. She came back with two doctors who broke up the party; Terry and Puck were the only ones to remain. After that, the doctors deemed me cured. If I could attend a party, I was fine. But too many parties sent me to the hospital in the first place, so they warned me to be careful.

I did slow my pace down. Terry and Puck’s school term was finished and their summer vacation had begun. Terry wanted to return to the East Coast to see her parents, while Puck wanted to go home to Chicago. As well, my six-month visa was expiring. So we decided to return to the United States. We—including the dogs—got our inoculations and took the train from Mexico City to Laredo, Texas, crossing the border without incident. We decided to hitchhike across the United States, as our money was running out.

Leaving Mexico, where there are very few billboards, and going back to the land of advertisements and shopping areas was a culture shock. What Mexico did advertise in 1963 was the one-sided upcoming election for Gustavo Diaz Ordaz, whose name was painted on mountainsides, trees, and rocks throughout Mexico, but that was all. Hitching was easy, as the two girls would stick their thumbs, while the dogs and I hid behind a bush. When someone stopped, we would appear. Even though surprised, most people gave us rides. We made it across the U.S. in six days, including a stop in Chicago at Puck’s parents’ house. The only incidents were being detained by the police in Oklahoma and another time when I was distastefully offered money for the girls. I told the girls (and dogs), “Let’s split immediately,” and we did.

The displeased looks from Puck’s parents also encouraged Terry and I to get on the road again, and three days later, we entered the gates of New York City again.

We went to see my artist friend Eddie Johnson, who had a big loft near Canal Street and could easily put us up. The building was an old warehouse and had no buzzer for the door, so I had to yell up to him, New York-style. I knew I was back in New York because it was common for people to yell up at the windows.

Eddie’s funny head popped out of the window and he threw the keys down on a homemade parachute. He invited us in. Paints and paintings were all over his loft. A bunch of couches were the living room area. There was also a bicycle on a stand, to ride around the loft; there was that much space.

Eddie strung up a rope and threw a blanket over it. That was our room. Terry, Que Tal, Trixie and I lay down together. I went to Mexico with $20 and change and returned with more money than I left with, a girlfriend, and two dogs. Life was good.



Chapter 5: Lower East Side Revisited

Hong Hing Co. was a narrow three-story Chinese restaurant where you could get an array of soups and noodle dishes for between 40 and 60 cents. There were no menus. The sign was in Chinese; it was a place for local Chinese people, street people, and artists to get an inexpensive meal. A dumbwaiter brought the soup up to the floors. The steam would escape through the closed dumbwaiter doors, preceding the soup’s entrance. The waiter, famous for his grumpy demeanor, opened the dumbwaiter’s doors and, with a flourish of phlegmatic detachment, would plop the dishes on the table.

Barry and I met at his 10th Street apartment. The walls were covered with new cosmic circular plans emanating from my multi-faceted friend. We walked south across Houston Street, past Katz’s Delicatessen, another spot for cheap eats, and Yonah Shimmel’s, the best place for knishes. Barry and I ambled past carts or barrows, piled up with wares just like the old days in Russia. The streets were cobblestone, so the whole scene looked many years older. Jewish peddlers in old, frayed, dark double-breasted suits or aprons supported the ambiance. Yiddish was the main language, and the volume was high, vendors and customers haggling and kibitzing.

Barry was photographing while he walked. He would go up stoops, and sometimes shot from the hip. I, too, had my camera (axe) with me, and we photographed our way through the Lower East Side. Most New Yorkers walk straight through the Lower East Side—sometimes called the City of Numbers—as fast as possible, but Barry and I took much longer to reach our destination, as we were taking in the exotic surroundings. Turning right, we headed into another world called Chinatown.

We reached Hong Hing Co. and walked up the narrow stairs to the second floor. Barry and I sat down at a table for four. We didn’t speak Chinese, so we pointed to a soup at a nearby table that looked good. (After a while, we did learn some of the names.)

“A friend of mine that I want you to meet is meeting us here,” Barry told me exuberantly. “Wait ’til you meet this guy. He is very talented. He speaks many languages. He’s an actor and filmmaker, and he has worked overseas in Italy and Japan. Did you see Yojimbo? He dubbed many of the voices in the English subtitled version.”

At that moment, as if in a stage play, Giorgio Lewis strode in. He was dark and handsome; he could have been Arabian, Hebrew, or Italian, or Indian. He waved at Barry, then came over to me and smiled. After introductions, he sat down on Barry’s side of the table.

Barry stood up and said, “Giorgio, this is my friend Roger. He just returned from Mexico.” After we ordered our soups, Barry told me, “I want to start a multimedia studio, and I want you both to be part of it. We can use my apartment to start off with, but If Nikki is in a bad mood, she may throw the darkroom clock at me or something. She is quite excitable, so I’m looking for a separate place for us to photograph and also put on plays.”

“And music,” I added. They nodded in agreement.

“We can do it all, but first we must find a place.” The waiter appeared and stoically dropped our soup bowls on the table. Barry and Giorgio dived in. We didn’t talk much while we ate.

After our lunch, I said, “I have a friend right around the corner. He’s a far-out artist and I know you will dig him.”

Standing at the base of Eddie Johnson’s AIR (Artist in Residence) industrial loft building, we all yelled up, “Eddieeeeee!”

Eddie’s quixotic face popped out of the front window, five flights up, then disappeared and reappeared with the key on his parachute, which floated and wafted down into my hand. I opened the door and took my friends into the industrial elevator. The gates went up and down, and we rumbled up to Eddie’s loft of fantasy.

A dragon greeted us as we exited the elevator. Eddie sped up to us on his bike, in shorts and a paint-spattered shirt. Many exotic objects of art greeted us. Large sculpts, a gorilla suit on a horse. A tennis racket guitar with drums that you could play as well as view. We played and talked loud that afternoon and went back to Hong Hing Co. for dinner. We walked back slowly to our separate apartments, as the sun was going down, lightly licking everything, bringing out the pastel colors even on the slum buildings.



Para Studios


We named our group Para Studios. Para means, irregular, different, and transcendental, the last because Barry was into Gurdjieff and Aurabindo and Giorgio was into Zen, and also because I was also reading and learning constantly. I was reading more spiritually oriented books and drank in anything that transmitted wisdom and goodness. Since Mexico, I’d begun building a small altar wherever I lived.

Para Studios meant freedom from prejudice and archaic ideas. Irregular meant we were free to communicate. A state of innocence. Never before, as if we came to this planet anew. We felt part of the avant-garde, as we were on the cutting edge of the art scene and we wanted to share with our ideas with everyone. Para Studios grew steadily. A friend, Stan, from Scarsdale had a real estate company in the Bronx, and even though it was far uptown, he let us have an empty basement in an apartment building on 145th Street.

We’d heard that Andy Warhol’s studio, called The Factory, was nearby, and we wanted to be multimedia like that.
In our large basement space, our first project was to put on an original play, combing dance and improvisation. The play starred a paraplegic actor named Fred who played a twisted tree with his body. This role was one of the most fulfilling acts in his whole life.

We never did move the darkroom, but Nikki was more considerate and only threw the clock into the photo chemicals once. She was happier because Barry was happier and occupied. He was like the genie in the bottle who had to have something to do. Barry contacted a number of organizations for photo work, and one group, Mobilization for Youth, commissioned us to make a bilingual photo book titled Roberto y Maria van a la Ciudad, or Roberto and Maria Go to the City. We shot in black and white with some of the kids from the organization. We began shooting upstate in the snow, and I learned a lot about lighting and depth of field in those high light-density situations. Then we photographed the kids in various places in the city, featuring the Lower East Side, where the kids actually lived.

The Lower East Side was nicknamed Alphabet City because the names of the avenues were letters, as opposed to most streets in New York, which are numbered. We shot passport photos for all the immigrants traveling to Ukraine, Guadalajara, or Bolivia. We did some work for L. Abolofia, who started the “slum goddesses” dance that became the beginnings of the Erotic Ball phenomenon. George and Barry called me The Cherub, because of my innocence and positive energy. “And a peaceful warrior when you needed to be.” I honed my craft, and my eye for photography improved as far as content, exposure, depth of field, composition, and subject matter was concerned. I experimented with lithograph film, which eliminated the gray tones. Barry would say, “We are painting with light.”

A fourth person named Sam, an artist, expressed interest in helping us get Para Studios going. I visited Sam’s dark and dingy apartment, with many of his paintings on his black walls, images of red devils and yellow demons, green goblins and gray ghouls. The brushstrokes were crude and angry, as if his bilious insides were strewn on the canvases. I did not say anything. Sam was quiet and sometimes helpful, but his true colors soon emerged: We soon found he lazy and self-motivated. Among other things, Sam tried to sell me a light meter under the guise of giving me a gift. I pointed out his lame attempt and he ran out with scared eyes. He was missing after that, and someone on the street said he went to Bellevue Hospital, the local psychiatric institution. Later on, I asked a psychic channel named Emmanuel whether I sent Sam to Bellevue. Emmanuel told me that Sam put himself into the institution. The difference between love and lust is: When you give a gift wanting something in return, that is lust. When you give with no motives other than giving, that is love.

Giorgio was with a chick named Dierdre who was in a religious cult called Kerista. They did not believe in owning anything and encouraged polyfidelity, forming between three to nine sexual relationships and switching partners among the groups. They didn’t have their own rooms or even their own clothes; they threw what they wore that day into a pile and picked whatever was available the next day.

Dierdre was leaving town for a while, so she gave Giorgio a bell and told him that if he was lonely, he could ring the bell and her friends would come. She let him stay at her loft. The large loft was empty and Giorgio feeling was lonely, so he rang the bell. Soon, there was a knock on the door and some people, Alex and Tom, showed up with their guitars. Giorgio told them of the bell. Alex asked if he could ring it. He did. A guy came in and said he had a whole set of trap drums if someone had a short (a car) to help him bring it over. Someone gave him a ride and they returned with the drums. The bell kept ringing and people kept coming. Food and drinks arrived, and the music jam lasted for three days.

Giorgio was a party guy; he could find the common ground between himself and any stranger. He knew where all the parties were. Parties sought him out; and he sought parties out. Jams, benefits, wakes, happenings. Lots of rent parties, wherein you contributed toward someone’s rent, Once, we were collecting funds to replace some one’s stolen saxophone. Sometimes we went to Leroi Jones’s loft near Houston Street, sometimes to an Umbra poetry reading at Ishmael Reed’s apartment on East 9th. To this day, Giorgio he still calls me sometimes to tell me of a party or event. In another book of short stories I am writing called When Mountains Had Wings, there is a character based on Giorgio. The man lives at and for parties; he wears a reversible sport and formal coat combination, which enables him to go to any kind of event. He learnt greetings in over 30 different languages and dialects and made different phony cards and identities so that he could gain entrance to events. In the book, the character made friends at the parties, so he got invited to more places, and then he made more friends. He either slept at the party on a couch or bed, and sometimes went home with one of the female guests. He never got entangled in a relationship, because he had many girlfriends who encouraged his lifestyle. His socializing became global.

Once, Giorgio and I actually attended a play put on by Peter Schumann (who created the Bread and Puppet Theater) about a pilot and the devil. The actor who played the devil, Joe, grunted and had a scruffy beard. After the play, the cast and audience met and broke bread together, and I congratulated the devil on his portrayal. Joe grunted some more as he spoke, as he was hard of hearing from birth. Although his words were slurred, Joe had depth and became another friend in my growing extended family. Again, I feel that a person is enriched by his friends.


Another night, Joe Johnson, my poet friend, took me to Walter Bowes’s loft. He was one of the many jazz trumpeters who inhabited Soho, which was being transferred from a totally industrial area into artists’ lofts, galleries, cafés, and restaurants. Walter’s wife Nan, with ebony skin, greeted us in long, flowing, brightly colored African garb. She was tall; he was short. In fact, she was taller than everyone in the room because she wore a pointed hat that matched her African dress. Her lips were bright red, as was her ingratiating smile. But tonight her smile was mixed with concern, for this gathering was a benefit to raise funds for her husband’s insurrection. Walter was incensed against the establishment, so fed up with the political injustices and with poverty in general that he was going to blow up the Statue of Liberty!

Walter played with some other musicians: Teddy Curson came by, Jackie McLean riffed, and enough funds were raised for Walter to buy a rowboat and enough dynamite to destroy the symbol of the United States welcoming immigrants, when in fact it was an aggressor to many nations. He set out the next day but was somehow intercepted and arrested on the way there. Another party was held to help his defense and to help Nan out. In a sense, I was glad he did not succeed in blowing up the Statue of Liberty, as my $2 donation might have contributed some negative karma. I was giving the money as much for the fine music as for Walter’s cause.

Adjacent to Tompkins Square Park was East 10th Street, still with its rich brownstone three-story townhouses that were inhabited by some friends, one of whom was Alan Ribback, whom we last saw in Mexico. I came across him on Avenue B and we hugged, and he took me up to his brownstone.

Alan was from Chi-Town and so was Barry, so I took him over to meet Alan. Alan was an accomplished guitarist and was into playing music with many musicians jamming together. Inside his townhouse, he had the innards of a piano set up on its side like a harp. Lots of percussion instruments were in boxes. His blonde wife Kathleen was a lot of fun, adding to the party atmosphere by cooking big feasts and flirting with us. Alan had a limp from his car accident, while Kathleen flitted and flirted around. Alan was at least 10 years older than she was, and he was slow and thoughtful, while Kathleen was fast and fun-loving. Giorgio once remarked how different Kathleen and Alan were, and I replied, “Yes, because Alan is running on 33 1⁄3 rpm and Kathleen is running on 78 rpm.”

Kathleen ended up working for the famous photographer Bernice Abbott. Her black-and-white pictures of New York and Rockefeller Center being built are unique. Bernice Abbott liked the photographs of Eugene Atget in Paris. A story told was that she liked his photos so much that she went to Paris to seduce him into giving her his photo collection. Atget died and left the collection to somebody else, whom she then seduced for the collection. I do not know if this is a true story, but it is a good one.

I first saw Simon in The Annex, that bar on Avenue B where poets, anarchists, and Lower East Side characters congregated. He filled the door as he came in. Simon held his strong self erect, with a military-type bearing. His short black hair framed a perfectly round face, nose and kind, almost feminine eyes, contradicting his stern manner. He wore a dark olive cape, shirt, and pants, from the same material that army blankets are made.

The crowd was loud, Harry Peace was present in his raccoon coat. He draped himself on my shoulder, grabbing a buck from my neighbor. My school friend, the poet Tinker Greene, was there also. I cracked open and ate some peanuts from the bowl on the bar, then ordered a black and tan. Simon could be heard even over the bar din of yelling, laughing, debating. The sound rose like hot air off of the cool earth. “If you want your freedom, you have got to take it.”

I left. I went upstairs to Terry and my apartment on Avenue B and 10th Street. Que Tal and Trixie greeted me, under my legs, paws on my chest. I opened the door to take them on a walk. No leash was required. They rushed past me, pushing me into the tenement wall in the hall. Out the door, past the Annex, the yelling was still coming out the front like the sound from a schoolyard.

Que Tal, Trixie, and I entered Tompkins Square Park and passed the silent. short women sitting like sentries on benches. Immediately, Que Tal and Trixie chose the dog they would chase. They worked as a team: Trixie, Doberman and Chow, was fast and pursued the victim from behind, as Que Tal would intercept the dog from the side and bowl him over. After executing on a medium-sized Labrador, I heard someone exclaim, “Like Hannibal, they got him from the side!”

I turned; it was Simon, who I’d seen in the Annex earlier.

“Sometimes they are like elephants,” I said, “especially when I feed them.”

He smiled as if he wasn’t used to it, and said proudly, “I’m Simon Freeman.”

I replied, “My name is Roger.” I wasn’t sure whether to slap five or shake hands. We shook. The dogs ran to the other side of the park, and we walked along side by side, following them.

“Simon Freeman wasn’t my original name; I was given a slave name at birth. Now I call myself ‘free man,’ because I am free.” He emphasized the phrase “free man” and stared at me intently. Over the years, I have heard so many stories, so I learned to deflect direct confrontation. Many times, I had felt like a conduit from and to transcendent rather than worldly phenomena, so I let his intensity pass over me and didn’t react.

“The white man has done so much wrong.”

If he thought I would become an apologist for the whole white race, if there is such a thing, he was mistaken.

Quietly, I said, “I know.” I was still continuing some political activism. I went on, “There is a meeting to plan a sit-in in front of the Daily News. If you want to do something about your justified anger, you can come.” I put the ball in his court.

He thought about it for a while. “I protest in my own way,” he said, but didn’t explain how. That was all right with me; after all, Gandhi was right when he said, “My life is my message.”

Que Tal and Trixie ran up to us and jumped around, including Simon in their exuberance. All four of us walked back toward 10th Street. Simon talked about injustice in the world. I talked about my experiences in the civil rights movement. He faced me and, smiling, said, “You’re all right. Would you like to go to a party?”

“Sure,” I said. I invited him upstairs.

Terry was at work. The dogs got settled, and Simon said, “Let’s go.”

“Now?” I asked.

“Yes, let’s go.”

I didn’t ask where the party was; I just walked with him. We crossed 14th Street, one of the boundaries to the Lower East Side, and headed west, then uptown. I like to walk, so this was pleasant. On West 29th Street, we found ourselves in front of a Greek restaurant, The Pantheon. Simon told me, “This party is being thrown by Jimmy the Greek, who is really connected.” Jimmy was a well-known gangster.

We went inside. A magnanimous grandfather type welcomed us, and a grandmother dressed in black, with a scarf covering her head and around her shoulders, waved us in. Assorted other family and friends greeted Simon warmly. The restaurant had finished its regular business and now was closed to the public; the front door was locked with a sign out in front: “Restaurant closed tonight, due to private party.”

The tables were pushed together, so that a large wide table spanning most of the length of the restaurant was the centerpiece. Thirty people were invited to sit around the giant table, which was set with cornucopias of fruits and flowers. Plates of pistachios, olives, feta cheese cubes, marinated peppers, condiments, salads, and retsina wine were scattered about. Steaming pita bread was already waiting.

As other folks arrived, mostly dressed in suits and dresses, they were greeted too. Jimmy the Greek strode in with a statuesque blonde.

A party it was. First, the live band sat on a small stage. The oud, bouzouki, guitar, and drums craftily propelled the Mediterranean-flavored music through our souls, stimulating the festivities. Then came the appetizers; dolmas, bean salads, eggplant moussaka, and spanakopita. Then more retsina. A pretty belly dancer skipped in and, like a bird, wove around, flirting with us. Choices of Greek entrees arrived. We were so filled with food, the only thing I could do was sleep or dance.

Dance we did, first all in a circle with arms on each other’s shoulders, then slow-dancing with different women. Then we partook in a warrior’s handkerchief dance, which appealed to Simon’s temperament. One would hold the handkerchief while the other would dance and jump out, trying to break the hold. It was a dance of strength, trust, and excitement. The music rose in speed and tempo.

Simon flung himself out and I held him. After repeated tries, finally the handkerchief slipped out of my hands. Then it was my turn to try to break the hold. He held me up well, but finally I was able to also break the hold. Then others did the same thing while we drank some more and watched. Drugs were around but not blatant, as both the old and new schools were here. As the partygoers slunk into their chairs, out came the belly dancer again, plus fruit, cheese, and Greek pastries. Much laughter, folks getting to know each other, and some more slow-dancing.

Finally, people started to leave. Simon and I did too, with smiles for the hosts. “Come back again anytime,” they called after us. The night was gone, the sun coming up, shining on the flower market, the world just beginning to stir. I walked home, content with the Greek music singing in my head. Another fine night in The Big Apple.

Another night, Buzzy Grey was performing at St. Mark’s Church. The priest Father Allan had the brilliant idea to hold free concerts or poetry readings on Wednesday evenings. The pleasant yard adjacent to St. Mark’s was an island of culture In a slum area and well known locally. Grey sang Thelonious Monk’s “Well, You Needn’t,” accentuating the “needn’t.”

The parties were nice, but I wanted more meaning in my life.

I worked from time to time. Odd jobs. I’d worked since I was a kid, paper routes and mail rooms. When I was in college, I worked in kitchens, digging ditches, scraping barnacles. After college, too, I would work to keep going, as a waiter at the Café Bazar in Greenwich Village, doing delivery at the aforementioned florist, assorted other jobs.

Mrs. Baron was totally rebuilding her townhouse from top to bottom and needed an unskilled construction assistant, which was a good gig. I called Mrs. Baron “The Baroness of 7th Street” because she was stately though tough, in a New York style. A savvy Jewish communist, rebel, and activist with a good heart. She owned an art gallery at one time and was constantly picking up strays and helping people in the neighborhood.

Her husband, Herschel, was a professor and a doctor at Brooklyn University; he quietly supported her projects. She was outspoken, he was quiet. She held many dinners and invited me; artists, writers, musicians, and activists attended these soirees. She was the person who introduced me to Eddie Johnson.

The construction boss Murphy was a no-nonsense man who worked hard and didn’t hassle me. We were joined by a guy named Salazar, another seeker. Laura (Mrs. Baron) cooked us lunch and joined us, usually with a few friends or drop-ins. I was tired and sometimes grungy from working, but I always became refreshed by the lively conversations that rivaled those at the dinner soirees.

Terry and I fixed up our flat on Avenue B between 10th and 11th Streets. The dogs fit in, being honed from the cross-country hitchhiking trip. Tompkins Square Park was three blocks away, for them to play. After work, I would go home, sometimes stopping at either the Annex or Stanley’s Tavern. Terry had a job at the World’s Fair in Queens, so she had commuted far and would not get home till after 7 p.m., and I would have dinner ready. I was becoming a vegetarian, for health and spiritual reasons; she complied. Although she was tired when she came home, she was always in good spirits.

Furniture was homemade consisting of milk crates, boards, and wooden horses from Mrs. Baron, and sometimes chairs found on the sidewalks. Most of my friends employed the same furnishing methods, so the decor was early hodgepodge, but it worked. We also had an eclectic altar, influenced by our time in Mexico. The altar had photos of Buddha, Malcolm X, Martin Luther King Jr., Black Elk, and Che Guevara.

We lived simply and frugally. My friend Jim Tuman visited and remarked that the staples, like rice, beans, pasta, and flour, were in jars. He brought out my college type of humor inventive, zany and demonstrative. We had our own handshake. He also told me that when he visited me in my 4th Street flat, a bullet once whizzed by him in the hall. No one was shooting in the hall of this building, nor were any refrigerators thrown out in the back yard. We built a household together, interacting with our two loving dogs. Trixie was still generally nervous from her brutal treatment in Mexico, but most of the time, she was content. She and Que Tal had babies, and she was a good mother. After some time, we gave the puppies away to friends.

I went up to Harlem to find Chickie. I also saw Top and Moochie. The reunion was nice, but nothing had changed: They were still sitting on the stoop, getting high and drinking Ripple. Chickie came down to our apartment and told Terry how much he loved me. His baby had just been born and he was awed and afraid of her. He kept on handing her to me and Terry in amazement. He, Ruby, and the baby were living with his mother in the crowded apartment, so he was looking for another situation. He was broke and eventually ended up living with an aunt in Brooklyn. I never saw him again.

My father and stepmother visited and had dinner with us. My stepmother Mildred was on good behavior, as she was usually critical. When living with her in Scarsdale, the living room area was ersatz, as it was only used when company came. Fake coats of arms and ancient shields hung over the mantle. Couches and chairs were covered in plastic for protection from us residents. The plastic was useless, as you either slide off it on cold days or stuck to it on hot days. As usual, my father was open-minded and kind to me and Terry. Mildred did like the Que Tal, Trixie, and the puppies.

Jim Tuman visited again and we went to see Terry at the World’s Fair. In one exhibit where you ride around on tracks in the dark, I ran ahead and became part of the exhibit, so when Jimmy rode by, he saw me with the grizzly bears and laughed. He would do something just as silly to match me.

Since Terry and I were both working, we were living comfortably, but something was missing. Somehow, the struggle, the challenge of surviving, the forcing to live was simply gone. I was not as grateful for simple things and was now taking things for granted, so life was not as exciting as before. This defies logic, but I felt like I was waking, going to work, coming home, and relaxing as much from physical tiredness as mental inertia.

Although I loved Terry, and she me, we were growing apart. She was feeling the same malaise and missed the academic life. She had only one more year to get her degree, and she loved to learn, so she wanted to go back home to Maryland, live with her parents and apply to colleges. We were now just existing together. The parties and music jams became scarcer, and Terry did not go to many of the events anyway. The goal had been reached in our quest and there was nothing to strive for.

We reluctantly but mutually lovingly decided to split up. Parting was painful; she moved to Maryland to live with her parents, whom I never met. She wanted to finish her education, which I’d so blatantly interrupted. I felt almost comatose. She took Trixie, and my dog Que Tal stayed with me. Thank God for dogs, one part of creation that was well-planned.


The job at Mrs. Baron’s finished and I moved to another flat on Rivington Street, below Houston Street, poorer than the rest of the city, another cobblestone Jewish ghetto. Para Studios only put out two projects in all the years we spun our wheels in place, like three talented hamsters, running but going nowhere. We did have fun but little came of it. Barry went back to Chicago. Giorgio went to Italy, so Para Studios was defunct.

I did like photography, though, and I had my axe still, so my plan was to build a darkroom in one part of the large apartment and continue photography. I stripped the plaster walls to the lathing. The debris lay on the floor. I took a little out at a time. I missed Terry. I was not doing much of anything meaningful. What happened to my idealism? I still wanted to do good in the world. There is more to life than existing without meaningful activities, without livelihood.

Terry moved temporarily nearby before she left for Maryland, and we continued an on-and-off relationship for a while. She was a wonderful lady, and I am still not sure why we split. The Lower East Side was seemingly going through a change as well. The artists were leaving. A friend around the corner, Bill Grier, was moving to San Francisco to escape, and he told me he would write me after he got there. The free concerts stopped, as my friend Father Allan became a bishop, heading a cathedral in Chicago. Slug’s changed owners.

An ex-merchant seaman named Huey wormed his way into my apartment, first sitting on and then sleeping on the couch, not moving for days. He drank constantly and took speed, which prompted him to talk. He brayed on about how unfair life is and mooched off of me. Sometimes, he would say something somewhat clever, like “Why do we pee so fast when we drink beer?”

I said, “Because it converts into sugar faster.”

He replied, “We pee fast when we drink beer because it does not have to take the time to change color.” And then he would pass out on the floor. I do not remember where and how we met. I don’t remember how he managed to stay with me. At first, I felt sorry for him, but then, after he constantly took advantage of me, I finally had to kick him out.

The debris still lay on the floor, a constant reminder that I did not finish my plan. Kids would run up and down the fire escape, and they started coming in my windows like invaders. Que Tal would run at them and bark, and they would then try to incite him. The noise of the kids and the dog and the street below, the dirt of the city, and the decay in my life took its toll.

A few weeks after he left, Bill Grier wrote me from California, “It’s great out here! Please come, and bring your friends.”

Like Winston Churchill, I felt that I had no friends except Que Tal. When George Bernard Shaw was opening his play Major Barbara, he invited Winston Churchill thusly: “Am reserving two seats for my show. Come and bring a friend if you have one.” Whinny wrote back, “Impossible to be present for the first show. Will attend the second—if there is one.”

The only constant is change. It was time to leave, time to find new friends, new horizons, new things to do, and to maybe find someone new to love.




Chapter 6: California Dreaming

Like the broken flower arrangement in New York of Heaven, man, and Earth combining into harmony, California turned into a successful merging of Heaven on Earth, inhabited by carefree people. My escape from New York was easy: Que Tal and I rode with Andrea, a phrenologist, and Jim Drinnard, an architectural draftsman and comical cynic. We were all friends of Bill Grier, who sent back news of the free, warm, open-minded, culturally diverse city that was much easier to live in than New York. They were a funny couple, Jim very detailed and Andrea very ethereal. She wanted Jim to perform, and he wanted to lay back. He later said of another ride we took together: “Riding with Roger was like Cheech and Chong having dinner with Andre.”

The changing Americana whizzed by like a Dali landscape. No stops in Las Vegas this time. We were soon viewing the Pacific Ocean, riding over the Bay Bridge. San Francisco was like a gleaming faceted jewel in the sunlight. Even the air felt warmer, calmer. We’d just passed through the Wild West and now we were at end of the continent. All the problems of the United States were behind me.

We went to the address that Bill had given us, in Bernal Heights. He lived in a cottage behind a house, in a cozy neighborhood overlooking central San Francisco. San Francisco was glorious compared to New York, a natural city of seven hills made for walking. Que Tal and I took discovery excursions to different parts of San Francisco, no maps, finding gingerbread Victorian house and redwood trees. Wide horizons greeted me, signifying that anything was possible.

A trick I learned from traveling in Europe was that busses return to the place of origin, so that is a good way to discover a new city or town. We ran on instinct. A bus said would say Noe Valley or Nob Hill or Castro and Mission and we’d board it. The bus would wind up rolling hills, I would see a park and we’d get off and walked around, a walkabout of discovery, like indigenous people do in Australia.

Different neighborhoods had variegated flavors. Down the hill from the Bernal cottage was the Mission District, named after the Dolores Mission, nestled on Lago (Lake) Dolores where Camp Street is, and then because of many pulgas (mosquitos), the Mission moved to the present site on Guerrero and 16th. The Mission is a working-class neighborhood, heavily populated by Hispanic cultures, comparable to the mix in the Lower East Side. I felt like I was in Mexico again. Botanicas, bodegas, and burritos.

One morning, Que Tal and I set out to discover Golden Gate Park. I entered an emerald forest and felt like I was in a sanctuary. I passed a glass greenhouse built like the conservatory in Kew Gardens. A Japanese garden with tall bridges and pagodas emerged, across from the arboretum, with some small ponds and a large road overhead. Rainbow falls, with a large cross atop. A creek past a bamboo grove past portals of the past viewing a portal gate, a ruminant from the earthquake, the portal that Kim Novak stared at in Hitchcock’s Vertigo. Sloping downward past some other lake with model sailboaters, a field of wild bison grazing, a string of three lakes, a public golf course, two rotating windmills, and then Ocean Beach: the end of the continent, with the ornate Cliff House on the hill, amusement park sounds interspersing with waves, and the Edwardian ruins of the Sutro Bathhouse just down the rocks from the old Musée Mécanique and the giant Camera Obscura.

We entered from Haight Street and entered a cave with stalactites hanging, then a clump of trees and a playground, then an open meadow near some tennis courts. We headed on to the open meadow and up a hill backed by tall Douglas fir and Eucalyptus trees. I was on a hill overlooking a meadow, which bordered a play area for children. To the right of that was a carousel that survived many incarnations, the horses, lions, tigers and seats all repainted in bright colors. Que Tal and I were sitting quietly, breathing easily taking in the welcoming scene below. We were the only ones around.

Then, like a theater stage, a pixie-like girl appeared, hair flowing, beaded headband framing a Raphaelite face in a homemade dress skipping happily like we did when we were kids. From the grassy stage right came her counterpart, running toward her in home-sewn shirt, multicolored like Joseph’s robe. They came together and melted into one hugging, rotating meld, looking deep into one another’s eyes, held all four hands and swirled around in an impromptu dance. Their hands jutted into the air in glee. They turned toward us and the hillock, ran up, and sat near us, saying nothing.

Soon, other souls came in meadow left, meadow right. Most everyone was in simple, strong clothes that would not mind sitting down on a hill, right on the earth. The costumes came later. Conga and bongo drums, timbales and gongs rang out, a soundtrack for the scene on the hill, soon to be named Hippie Hill.

We new arrivals were surviving, becoming acclimatized to the new place. With our acid dreams and Bacchanalian cries, we reveled in our variegated pleasures. A taste of ecstasy is more powerful than a theory of ecstasy. Have a taste!

I was still getting used to San Francisco, walking the hills and streets. Living in Bill Grier’s cottage on Cortland Street, in the neighborhood of Potrero Hill, far from the nucleus of hippiedom, North Beach, and soon the Haight-Ashbury District. I discovered new sights, smells, foods, signs, museums, book stores, people, and neighborhoods. The sun was shining, people talked to me in the streets, music poured from bay windows. On a telephone pole, swirling, ballooning, elongated letters leaped from a handbill:

"A TRIBUTE TO DR. STRANGE"

A dance at the Longshoreman’s Hall near Fisherman’s Wharf was being advertised. The bands were The Grateful Dead and The Charlatans.

I had only a few friends in San Francisco at the time. Andrea and Jim declined going to the dance, as did Kathy and David. So I went alone, taking a bus to a place I had not been before. The certain joy of variety and newness, inspired me. Riding through the Financial District reminded me of Wall Street in New York, but smaller and mellower, like Wall Street on a Sunday.

I disembarked from the bus, asked directions, and walked four blocks. A man wearing a jester’s hat and billowy silk harlequin trousers was walking and skipping east, and I followed him. A woman, wearing many strands of multicolored beads over a peasant’s blouse and a madras dress, jumped into our line, as if in a jagged procession. We passed by the waterfront and the old wooden fishing boats. It could have been Mystic, Connecticut, or the Cote d’Azure. I felt a comfort in the visual universality between places. The whole Earth is connected.

We turned left and saw a flat octagonal building; a sign read: Longshoreman’s Hall. I now became a part of a larger group, joining other smiling, carefree people. The ticket line was more like an oval than a column. Sitting in a small circle were some pretty blonde girls and beachcomber-looking guys. They pulled out some joints, lit one and passed it to me. I took a toke and I passed the sacred herb to another.

The sun receded into the ocean, I felt a pastel peace, and, in dimming soft light, the doors to the hall opened. We wordlessly floated into the hall, which was usually used for longshoreman union business or shape-ups. Reefer smoke was thick in the corridor air, along with patchouli and sandalwood scents.

A poster of Dr. Strange looked down from above. Dr. Strange, a comic book mystic with dark eyes, slick hair, a hooded cape, an amulet around his neck, and mystic powers, symbolized our search. Strobe lights were randomly blazing against faceted prisms, mounted on large round balls. I went near the stage to the high ground, because that’s where all the smoke drifts, and I could observe the scene. Already, this was different from any dance I had ever been to. It was more like a gathering. People linked arms and wove in processions throughout the hall. It was the stoned Bunny Hop.

Small orbs of revelers sat on the floors, while the flowery line weaved in between. The only hippie dance I’d attended previous to this was a salsa dance in a second-floor loft on 52nd Street in New York. There, the hall was filled with alive, dancing people, and the pulsating music, punctuated by flute and trumpet, stirred up your blood and carried your feet along. But here in San Francisco, the atmosphere was different from anything I’d experienced. I began to dance with everyone. My arms flung upward toward the skies.

A can of Kool-Aid that had been dosed with acid was passed around; I drank from it and started peaking along with everyone else. The Grateful Dead, also peaking, played folk rock for a while, but their music became spaced, and then they stopped playing, sat on the floor of the stage, stared at their hands, and then joined the party.

The Charlatans, in Western garb, took the stage and sang out. Everybody accepted everybody else: We smiled and heartily hugged and stared into the eyes of strangers, who had now become friends. I saw a girl I liked, so I just went up and kissed her long and tenderly on the mouth. We exchanged beads and flowers, and I stayed with her for the rest of the party. Later, we made love under the stars.

The restrictive dances I was weaned on were quite different, culminating with the ultimate passage ritual: the senior prom. As a youth, I was sent to the obligatory ballroom-dancing school. The teacher had a frog-shaped metal clicker that activated us, the automatons. The girls lined one wall, and we, the robotic males, were separated by shyness. So the teacher, clicking away on the metal frog, taught us the current dances like the fox trot, the waltz, and the Lindy Hop. None of us felt cool.

Now, in the arena of Dr. Strange, I was in a cloud of mysticism. It was Zen and not Zen, because I made my own evolving rules. Meaning and pleasure were my goal. I changed old out dated credos but kept the many valuable things from various cultures and traditions alive. I embraced eternal ideas that uplifted me, lived for realizations that pointed me in the right direction, on the right path. That was the meaning of life for me.

San Francisco became a daily carnival, circus, cabaret. We went running in the streets collectively, hair blowing in the wind, beads jangling, listening to Mr. Tambourine Man sing, backing up Black Elk. Chet Baker serenaded Gandhi, and a young girl wearing a cascading muumuu scribbled an anthem on a vacant wall: “Make Love Not War.”

I knew in my mind that in the not-too-distant future, long hair would be sticking out of athletes’ hats, products and clothes would be more colorful. Business executives would go out for a two-joint lunch and trip on weekends. The good old days are right now. The future is now, the dream is now, and the moment is everything.

Dr. Strange was a good symbol to carry on the comic traditions of the Phantom and Mandrake the Magician. They all upheld virtue with the use of mysterious forces. Mandrake gestured hypnotically, the Phantom never died, and Dr. Strange evoked incantations to combat evil. The decay of society seemed more evident in the ’60s. Age, as if some great demigod, lifted the lid off of a tightly rimmed vessel full of demonic, bigoted, greedy, self-centered derriere abysses. Out of the open lid flew all things depraved, and they were instigating rampant acts, enough for the passive to sit up and take notice. Even though people were expressing their individuality, they gravitated toward common thinking and acting. Societies tend to do that.

I looked around and saw a kind of conformity within hippiedom. Even though we were all individuals, we distilled the same eclectic knowledge and feelings. We wanted to be free to do what we liked, as long as it did not hurt anyone. The built-in problem is that everyone’s idea of “do what you want” is different, and they do not always agree.

Conformity in activity—uniforms and peer behaviorism—makes the -ism run smoother. That means each individual sacrifices for the whole. My question is: How much of one’s self should be given up? There are many good things about group thinking: Economic sharing, the potential to relieve individual pressures, the feeling of family. Also, if there is a group perspective, then one does not have to think, make decisions, or reinvent the wheel too often. If someone thinks, talks, or acts differently, that rocks the boat, and that person is usually imprisoned, exiled, or killed.

“Love transcends trends,” I thought. It was all right to display your vision, path, ideal, or practice. People wore god’s eyes. Jagganaths, stars of David, large wooden or coptic crosses, yin-and-yang circles that glowed on their foreheads, and painted mind’s eyes on the spot between their brows, not unlike sampredayas in India, with different tilaka symbolizing the spiritual line.

People wanted to put into practice what they heard or read, and they wanted to do it immediately, no waiting. We were all experimenting on ourselves. We were the hypothesis and conclusion was that experiment equals experience. So, conformity was picking the best Hegelian synthesis, e.g., thesis, then antithesis, or synthesize/share/rebel against the old status quo, materialistic, square-parents world of conformity. Yet we conformed, and it worked sometimes, and sometimes didn’t. I did not like conformity; I’d already seen the era of the beatniks, all in the exact same berets and black clothes.

The compatible dynamic of the individual and the collective has been a lifelong experiment. How much of one’s individuality must be sacrificed in order to fit in successfully in a community? A religion, sports team, corporation, and Communist regime all have similar ways of functioning. Suppression of individual thinking or acting is the first thing to squelch. A hierarchy of leadership is created, usually with one dynamic leader at the top. Icons are manifested or created. The leaders usually control the rank and file. Books are used as guidelines of behavior and thought. Music and anthems emerge. Special internal language, catchphrases, and anthems are created to inspire and influence actions. Before any decision is the preconceived perspective or the individual’s intuition or creative thoughts. Each group has their own language. Next, an “us and them” attitude is encouraged. Unity is manufactured from the threat of a common enemy.

“Love is the answer.” I thought. All the traditions I had been studying distilled down to how much love and compassion is in the path. If the spiritual path has no heart or compassion, including toward its own members, I do not want to join. Compassion was the deed.

I felt a wave of compassion surge through my body, and an ancient story came to me:

KING SOLOMON'S COMPASSIONATE WISDOM

In the time of the wise King Solomon was an innocent woman named Rachel, who never harmed anyone. She worked hard for little money.

One morning, Rachel was smelling the hot steam from the bakery. She allowed the scented air to surround her with sugary comfort. The smell of breads and cakes entered her nose, giving her a reprieve from her life of struggle as a poor woman.

The baker, an envious man, came out of the bakery when he saw the woman enjoying herself so much. “You cannot smell my bread and cakes for free! You must buy something!” he yelled at her.

Rachel just stood there dumbfounded. The baker kept insisting that she buy something; Rachel told him that she couldn’t pay anything. “I was only smelling the bread and cakes, not eating them.”

Then the baker took her by her elbow and led her against her wishes toward the palace where King Solomon lived. He forced her into the presence of the wise king, in the great hall of the king, where he heard disagreements and decided resolutions.

Rachel, the poor woman who was used to squatting in her hut to cook, saw the vastness of her surroundings in a web and fear. The floors were inlaid tan and green marble, polished smooth. Sentries stood at six different entrances, and the king sat on a throne a few steps above everyone else. King Solomon’s commanding presence looked down on the sniveling baker and the quiet woman.

The baker spoke up. “I found this woman enjoying herself outside my bakery, smelling my breads and cakes. The smell comes from my work—my flour, my butter, my sugar, my shop—and therefore I demand payment from her."

The king listened and then asked Rachel, “Is this true? Were you smelling the bread and cakes?”

“Well, yes,” she stammered.

King Solomon continued, “Do you have any money?”

Rachel, who was honest, said, “I have three coins.”

“Give them to me,” said the king.

When Rachel handed her three coins to the king, they clanged and chimed together. King Solomon looked at the baker and decreed, “The sound of her coins just paid for the smell of your bread.” He kindly gave Rachel her coins back and invited her to work in the palace, which improved her life and contributed to her happiness.

I, too, wanted to be wise and compassionate to anyone unhappy or in pain.

Along with many valuable lessons from these various sources, there were also some fabricated experiments that vanished, puffed out into nothingness. People stared into each other’s eyes a lot, and there was a nonverbal communication. I am not sure if our interpretations were valid.

What I didn’t understand the most was the people claiming to be God. You leave home and become God? One of the side effects of LSD—and especially amphetamines—is that you feel invincible and superior. That is why some dived from rooftops. Most people benefitted (had good trips).

All possibilities, all doors were open, all gates were passageways to the unknown. My LSD trips included things like looking at an insect or tree and feeling the connection, which then expanded to the whole world, nay universe. Sometimes complete surrender, laying on your back like a baby or in a fetal position. Sometimes a psychotropic mimicking of a psychotic state, but in a controlled and safe atmosphere, the terror turns to joy, the inner demons become identified, defined, and then leave. Usually a hopeful feeling was the outcome of my many trips. Dr. Leary taught me the set and setting techniques, such as the importance of having nurturing people and things around and helped me to utilize the LSD and have good trips.

The Beatles sang, “All you need is love.” I agreed and tried to live life with love. “Treat life like the feeling you had falling for my first girlfriend,” I thought. Remember the first love the walking on clouds, yearning to meet again, then some apprehension, feeling not worthy, putting her on a pedestal. Longing. Planning, showing up, posing, letting her know of your love. Then connection. Walking on air; waiting; remembering; devoting; loving; serving.

The magic was in the air. From childhood, I had leaned toward magical fantasies, personifications like the man in the moon, cars with eyes for headlights. My Aunt Sophie took me to Broadway shows and art galleries; we went to Peter Pan, starring Mary Martin in the title role. At one point in the show, Mary Martin shouts to the audience of mostly children, “Do you believe in magic?”

I yelled as loud as any of us youngsters. “YEEEES!” And through years of practice, my head is generally more in the clouds then down on Earth. All of Hegel’s thesis antithesis, and synthesis went out into the ether. The harmony was more rhythmic and cellular, and we were “groking” it all, a term from Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land, one of the underground classics being passed around at the time. Groking was like a mind-meld, a totality of consciousness. Intermingling with another. Looking into each other’s souls.

I learn from many mentors and read their books. Great people like Pope John the XXIII, who used to sneak out of the Vatican to feel the pulse of the people. He felt isolated and out of touch, so he would disguise himself, leave the holy chambers, and walk the streets of Rome. He came from a working-class family and was very down to earth. When someone asked him, “How many people are working at the Vatican?” his reply was “About half of them.” He wrote a book called Journey of a Soul, wherein he lamented that his chanting and praying needed to be more focused and sincere. Something I experienced also, when practicing Bhakti yoga.

I adopted other concepts, like parenting the child within, and taking your own counsel. This Native American wisdom depicted our growing process:

"Whale carries the history of mother earth, placed by the ancients from the dog star Sirius. Whale saw the events that led to the settling of Turtle Island (aka North America). Many whale medicine people are able to tap into the universal mind of great sprit (God) and have no idea how or why they know what they know. Whale medicine teaches us to use the sounds and frequencies that balance our emotional bodies and heal our physical forms.”

I had experienced how the West Coast and East Coast folks do things differently. For instance, this little band called The Grateful Dead has been part of an experiment in mass hallucination which seemed, from an East Coast view, to make Millbrook look like a Trappist monastery. It sounded to me like what these West coast people were doing was a particularly blasphemous form of drug abuse, the spiritual equivalent of breaking into Chartres Cathedral and getting drunk on the communion wine. But while we were looking down our patrician noses at these barbaric shenanigans, they were apparently producing transformations similar to our own. Five years later, in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Hunter S. Thompson recalled San Francisco in 1965 and 1966 as such:

There was madness in any direction, at any hour . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail.

I felt like I was climbing a mountain, a holy mountain, and that each cave contained a different type of knowledge. The deeper I went into the cave, the more I learned. The more I learned, the less I knew, unless I practiced the wisdom:

“Philosophy without practice is speculation; Practice without philosophy is fanaticism,” a wise Swami from India told me later. We will meet him.

Some caves I went into more extensively. If I found spiritual nourishment inside, I would absorb and go further. I encountered Lao Tzu and Taoism’s middle way. Moderation was the key to a balanced life. The Tibetan Book of the Dead was a guide for acid trips. The levels of bardos demystified death. The author Lobsang Rampa brought more Tibetan ideas. Some thought he and his teachings were fabricated; however, some good ideas were there.

“If you find gold in a filthy place, pick it out.”
—A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami

Reshad Felid, a Sufi teacher, espoused for everyone to give up his head trip: “You have read for years, and where has it got you? Your head is filled with masses of ideas and concepts, and you yearn for experience that others on the path have had. Before your true nature is understood all those ideas and concepts must melt away. No books—the only book is the manuscript of nature, the lesson is life itself. Live passionately! Who said that this path should be so serious that there is no joy in it? This is the most exciting adventure possible, and it should be enjoyed.” Reshad Felid, The Last Barrier: A Journey into the Essence of Sufi Teachings (New York: Lindisfarne Books, 2002), 47

This idea of nature being the teacher was appealing, but I learned it by reading books. I liked books. I entered faraway, exotic, forbidden worlds out of the sharing of authors from time immemorial. I would not be writing this book if I did not believe that books can inspire enlighten change people’s lives or elicit a belly laugh in a crowded subway. Like Krishna Murti, he recommends not reading books in a book.

Just think, if doctors had no books, no previous experiences recorded. Books are necessary so we do not have to reinvent the wheel constantly. Books can inspire and even change people’s lives. The dangers they inferred were that some people take the texts out of context for their own agendas, quoting literally rather than with regard to time and circumstance.

The other danger is that books may prevent actual practice. Alexander the Great took years amassing the world’s knowledge. Fanatic Muslims burned most of the library because “All knowledge is in the Koran.” If the teachings are not on the Koran, they figured they could be destroyed.

Some Sufi friends invited me to one of their meetings. Many ethereal feelings surged inside me as I whirled and danced in the circle with the others. I had read Rumi and Molhavi, the Great Sufi poets, and I took the best things and incorporated them into my Bhakti yoga practice. This, too, enhanced my devotional feelings. I met a woman named Fahati who had lived in Iran. Her ancestors were from a sect that etched images of Allah on the backs of mirrors. She showed me one. Images of Allah were forbidden because, she told me, “He is so large that he cannot be seen.”


Like osmosis, I was absorbing so many helpful, new, wondrous things. In true capitalist style, California soon embraced what was misunderstood. Advertising became more colorful, psychedelia was portrayed in art. Men with longer hair became common; from behind, you sometimes did not know whether someone was a man or a woman. The ecstasy of learning new and valuable things was rampant, available for whoever wanted it, like the learning gymnasiums in ancient Greece. Many Pythagorases, Platos, and Socrateses were all around. Only the Socratic questioning was with your outer and inner self.

The whole idea of separatism and war is so absurd to me, when we could, with a little bit of work, a little bit of change, share ourselves with each other. Gandhi said two very nice things: “Be the change that you want to be,” and “My life is my message.” People misuse religion when they say, “Our way is the best,” or see mostly negativity in souls rather than positive encouragement. Even in the Bhagavad-gita tells us to “Give up all forms of religiosity.” (I am not against the good things that collective spirituality achieves, such as the ideas of sharing compassion and goodness, and sometimes feeding creativity in individuals.)

We are not only like Ayn Rand stereotypes. I do not like to see people’s individuality being sucked out of them by preconceived perspectives from a book, any book. They can suggest and inspire, but our realizations spring from within, our actions from within. The books again can give the right suggestions, but we must choose how to process and learn, choose the right action according to our own individual makeup.

People join religions for personal enlightenment and good acts, but so many end up fighting over titles, property, accolades, and interpretations, while they are practicing the same rituals. If we were really in love of God we would not have time or inclination for fighting. Most of the religions are similar, yet they choose to stress the differences.

Wars are perpetuated and they continue into future generations, who forget which petty misunderstanding started the ruckus in the first place. Everyone must remember why they first fell in love with their path, or, for that matter, remember who what and why they first fell in love with someone, and then they can continue to appreciate their good qualities.

The same goes for one’s spiritual path. The more love that is apparent, the more that is the essence and proof of one’s choices being good. If the gods are vengeful, reaping fear and starting wars, then no, thanks. I refuse to play the games. Accept me for who I am, as I am sincere in being understanding and good to others. “I am what I am,” said Popeye, and please accept me that way also, when we can all celebrate our differences, enjoy the variety and spices of various cultures sharing with and encouraging each other, cleaning up the environment, protecting the trees, rainforests, oceans, species, each other, and live in peace and prosperity, relishing in love, good medicine, and music.

But the high point of his journey comes when he visits the tomb of the mystical poet Rumi in Konya, Turkey: “I had entered into calm waters after a storm that had lasted all my life.” He is enthralled when he participates in a Sufi zikr, chanting the name of God, and watches a dervish do the distinctive whirling turn of the Mevlevi order that traces its roots to Rumi. He is warmed by the kindness of Mevlevi Sheikh Suleyman Dede, who tells him: “How wonderful are the ways of God, Who manifests for each of us what is necessary for the moment.”

So, I eclectically took what invoked goodness and tried to live it.

Yes, the times were a-changing. All the arts spoke to changing the world to a better [place, especially in San Francisco. Musicians like Country Joe McDonald, Bob Dylan, Big Brother and Janis Joplin, The Beatles Jimi Hendrix, and the hometown heroes The Grateful Dead all wrote lyrics that inspired thought, rebellion, change, peace, and love. Folk musicians like Fred Neill, Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger, Arlo &Woody Guthrie, and Ramblin’ Jack Elliott had been rebelling for years, as had Charlie Mingus, Thelonious Monk, and Miles Davis in the jazz movement.



Jon Hendricks

I first met my friend Jon Hendricks during the civil rights struggle. We became friends and saw each other around New York at the Half Note on Hudson, or at Carnegie Deli, where I first met him, along with Max Roach and John Coltrane. Jon became a mentor as well as a friend.

Jon co-created the Vocalese genre of jazz singing and was the only person who Thelonious Monk asked to write lyrics to “Round Midnight.” He started many people out, such as Bobby McFerrin and The Manhattan Transfer, and wrote lyrics to Sonny Rollins’ “Airegin” as well as many other jazz classics. He also worked with many of the great jazz and classical musicians. But what I liked is that he exhumed love, e.g., in his lyrics for “Tell Me the Truth:

“Don’t talk about peace while you’re fighting a war,

’Cause I don’t want to hear it

And you won’t admit it’s money you’re fighting for,

Because the people wouldn’t bear it.

You’re giving to the rich while you’re stealing from the poor

They play a game and they don’t know the score.”

And in “The Preacher,” he sang:

“He’ll lead you out of the darkness into the light

You’ll find out happiness by treatin’ everyone right.”

I met Jon again in San Francisco, at the Great American Music Hall on O’Farrell Street. Jon wore a yachtsman’s hat; he always dressed fine and appeared to be a gentleman sportsman, a statesman of jazz, taking the baton from Louis Armstrong. At the end of the set, he walked onto the crowd, saw me, and came over to hug me strong and sweet.

“How you doing, Roger?”

“Just fine, seeing you again.”

“Come back into the dressing room and then we’ll go out get something to eat.”

As I entered the dressing room Jon’s wife, Judith, greeted me, as did his daughters, Michelle and Aria. Soon after, his sons Eric and Jon Jr., joined us. Judith and all of their children were also singers. Later, Don Cherry came in, and an instant party manifested, all of us sharing refreshments and chatting.

Jon and I found a couch and caught up, having not seen each other for two years. Jon told me he was finishing his stage production, The Evolution of the Blues, explaining that it follows music from early history through Africa, then to slave places such as Cuba and the Caribbean, and finally into the American South, Harlem, as the jazz age. The play included the evolution of dance as well. The costumes changed to embellish the music scene.

I attended the show three times. Evolution of the blues showed the importance of music in the history of people’s lives and how music changed the world.



Dreamtime


Mouse’s studio was a loft room surrounded by a second floor of rooms that opened up to a railing, overlooking the spacious first floor. The smell of pot, beans, and paints greeted me. One section was a silk-screening factory, four long screening tables and with the zig-zag man in blue and black, drying on clotheslines. My friend Robert Drees was making T-shirts and towels. Big Brother and the Holding Company were just finishing a rehearsal.

Sam Andrews started with a great classical fugue-like riff. Janis Joplin screamed into to the microphone. “Summertime, and the livin’ is easy.”

Jim Gurley tastefully interwove guitar rhythms into Sam’s Bach0inspired melodies and rhythms. David Getz’s drums drove the whole group. Jim soloed with psychedelia and then a second movement riff; then Janis was singing personally into her phallic microphone as if no one else was present. It looked like she was eating the microphone.

The song ended. The rehearsal ended. The band began packing up their instruments. Que Tal went up to Sam Andrews and put his front paws on Sam’s shoulders. Sam laughed. His friends Maggie and Didi, two pretty Italian-looking girls, were lounging on couches nearby. They also laughed and called Que Tal over, and he leaped on them and they wrestled playfully.

Sam and I struck up a conversation. I said, “Your introduction to ‘Summertime’ blew my mind, man. It sounded like a Bach fugue river romp.”

“Yeah, man, I had some classical guitar training and now I’m just playing music the way I like to.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I like the way the local bands can stretch out and jam for a while, like jazz groups do a lot of improvisation, not having to fit everything in three and a half minutes for a recording.”

Sam nodded his head in agreement. “Hey, man, why don’t you and Que Tal come up to my pad sometime? We live in a commune in Japanese-style houses in Bernal Heights.” He gave me the address.

Janis was sitting by the piano doodling. I sauntered over, picked up a guitar, and asked, “Do you want to jam?”

She looked at me quizzically and then coldly. “No.” She treated me like I was a nerd in high school, the way she was treated. However, I do understand the she just got finished rehearsing, so why would she want to play more?

Robert Drees’ girlfriend Bonnie came out in a buckskin coat with fringed sleeves, She had a beatific smile. Two twin boys followed, about 12 years old, blond with serene faces. Janis perked up when she saw Bonnie and they hugged. Robert introduced me to Bonnie next; we became good friends from that time on.

Then everyone left except for Mouse, who was upstairs. I was in the huge studio alone with Que Tal. I marveled what a great scene the Haight and all of San Francisco was. Every day was a new adventure, new friends, new realizations, new enlightenments, new music, new loves. Wow.

Walking down Haight Street, I loved the parade. A boy with a parrot came next, a man in a Scottish kilt, and three girls dancing in flower wreaths on their heads, long earrings swinging. Drummers carried or beat their drums on the way to the park. Bicycle bells enhanced the scene with syncopating rhythms. Almost everyone was barefooted. More people came in various costumes, like at a costume ball or Carnival in Rio or Mardi Gras in New Orleans. But this was every day in the Haight. Paisley shirts and dresses. Patchouli and sandalwood incense. Bandana headbands, Western vests and buckskins with fringe hanging, madras cloths with holes in them for heads. Pierced noses with small chains, 3-D glasses. Winged American flag arms, flowers on women’s smiling cheeks, Mexican zarapes and ponchos, Afghani Kaftans, Indian saris, chadors, and sombreros.

A cable car bell on a small platform rang out as a banjo and harmonica joined the melodious din. An Uncle Sam top hat encircled by beads sat on the top of a young face adorned by round sunglasses, the kind John Lennon liked to wear. People were art. Their garb was their persona.


We got to the hill and another party spontaneously occurred. Flutes and guitars joined in. More dogs appeared, peacefully smelling Que Tal, and they smiled in dog ways and settled nearby, sometimes getting up and running and playing, then settling down again. When they ran, people ran with them like a wolf pack. Guitars, food, and joints were passed around.

A mother with a child in an Indian papoose on her back strolled in. Her golden child was walking an iguana. Fires in barbecue pits purified the atmosphere. The sun shone down benevolently on the gathering. Soon, more people came, all in beads, feathers, comfortable colorful clothes and sometimes no clothes, just simple utilitarian coverings. I was wearing blue jeans with a Mexican deer’s eye seed in the loop, Oaxacan sash for a belt, a pen knife in my pocket, my shirt given to me by a Native American brother. Rose-colored sunglasses from the Army surplus store, designed for tracing machine gun bullets at night, made everything brighter. Que Tal and I wore matching bandanas. I had a French beret in my side pocket in case it got too hot or cold, as San Francisco’s weather temperature sometimes made six seasonal changes in a day. (One of Mark Twain’s famous quips is “The coldest winter I spent was a summer in San Francisco.”)

All sorts of souls in human and animal forms. A dancing, whirling boy gave out free LSD in triangular pyramids. I popped one and the party peaked. We became one. A girl came over, and began caressing and kissing me, not saying a word. We stared into each other’s eyes and soul—that is, we “groked” each other—and we went to a grove nearby and made love.

Wow, what a party! From sitting silently in the morning with Que Tal, the sleeping girl’s body touching mine to keep warm. The whole hill vibrated with people, dogs, enjoying peacefully the party. The hill, I found out later, was known as Hippie Hill, as this was an everyday phenomena. Tents and tepees went up. Small fires were built as the sun went down.

Que Tal and I parted with the silent girl when we hit Haight Street, adjoining the park. She blended in with the buildings and disappeared. We rode the bus back to the cottage in Bernal Heights. Previously, while exploring some of San Francisco’s other neighborhoods, the people dressed regularly and walked stiffly. So where had all these kindred souls come from, and why were they all here?

I soon discovered that the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood, with its influx of young runaways, seekers, and experimenters, was a wide open Wild West, the seeker-of-the-truth place to be, with very cheap rents. Incidentally, the cottage in Bernal Heights was too small for Kathy, Tim, her son Jason, Que Tal, and me. My friend from the Lower East Side, Mike Hornwood, had migrated to San Francisco, so we moved into an inexpensive place on Sutter Street near the Haight District.

Our apartment was a home base, but I would find myself sleeping at a different place every night. The atmosphere of sharing and going from one adventure to another was rampant. The older North Beach beatniks and poets influenced the hippies in the Haight. Communes popped up, and the Diggers, a radical community of street guerilla improv actors, gave out free food, clothing, and goods to anyone. Emmett Grogan was the unofficial leader of The Diggers, and he wanted to do things differently from the past status quo. Emmett was an iconoclast, yet he was an icon himself.

The name came from a previous radical group from Ireland named The Diggers. Their idea was organized anarchy, or “Do what you want as long as it does not hurt anyone.” Sometimes when the authorities hassled the Diggers, all the members identified themselves as Emmett Grogan. In his book Ringolevio, he wrote about starting out in New York with the game that included the whole street, fire escapes, stoops and people. He was feisty but fair, a rebel and philosopher who put his ideas into action. One of the Digger gatherings was called the Love Pageant Rally, and the posters advertising the event read:

“Bring the color gold . . . Bring photos of personal saints and gurus and heroes of the underground . . . Bring children . . . flowers . . . flutes . . . drums . . . feathers . . . bands . . . beads . . . banners, flags, incense, chimes, gongs, cymbals, symbols, costumes, joy.”

Suddenly, a new culture sprang up in the Haight. The Haight Independent Proprietor, or HIP, merchants opened up shops, catering to the new arrivals. Second-hand clothes, Victorian mixed with Western styles. The Phoenix, run by Stanley Mouse, was my favorite, stocking poster art from India, glass beads, and incense. There was also the Psychedelic Shop, run by Ron Thelin a kind, innovative man who held happenings inside an altar room, the whole space surrounding and comforting, lots of madras, people sitting on cushions and low tables, candles, and patchouli oil incense, like most shared flats. Another shop, The Head Quarters, was a scene, as chairs were set up to watch the customers and each other.

The Diggers had a free store, where anyone could take anything—clothes, appliances, whatever—for free. “Take it because it is yours” was their slogan. Some fish and chips stands opened up, but there were very few restaurants and grocery stores in the area for the soon-to-be 100,000 new kids coming here every day. The magic grew out of community sharing. The quest and dancing, the costumes, the searching is a luxury only tasted when your belly is full and you have a nice pad, and perhaps a lady to share it with.

All the forms of wisdom streaming into searchers who immediately shared their findings. Street theater sprang up in the parks, and sometimes if it was good as an organization, like the mime troupe that preformed political satire with circus acrobatics and a little bit of commedia del arte thrown in.

Communes were fun to visit, as each one place was a different scene, like the Grateful Dead House at 710 Ashbury. A mix of rooms with instruments set up ready to play day or night. Sheets of music and LPs.

Jerry and Mountain Girl in a corner, guitar in hand. Bob Weir silently goes into another rooms. Mounds of white and brown powdered drugs on tables. Marijuana drying in halls. Paraphernalia all over. Pig Pen’s room was not a pig pen, and had no drugs in it like all the other rooms at 710 Ashbury. His room had an upright piano, beer cans, and bottles of Jack Daniels. People were going in all day and night.

Bill Ham was another manifestation of original-thinking performance artists. His medium was light. In his studio on Pine Street, he would practice his light show with his friends, which included me. A musician, Chris Tree, would accompany the intermingling phantasmagoria of lights circling in the sky with diamonds. I used to attend these light shows weekly. sometimes with some magic mushrooms, tea, or mescaline, to enhance the colorful images.

Bill Ham’s neighbor was Dennis, a large Russian gentle man with perhaps 25 cats, the number increasing daily as feral cats arrived. We became good friends. I would visit him before or after the light show; sometimes he would come along. He was very quiet and humble.

I relish all the friends I have made throughout my life. They all are my wealth. You never know when someone will become famous, so treat everyone nicely. Who you befriend may one day become successful. Look inside everyone for the good things. I found many of my good friends are sensitive, caring, humorous, open-minded, adventurous, and a little zany.

As change was happening. From the original discovering of who you are, and sharing it, and balling accepting chicks, we wanted to raise our actions from the realm of hedonism to the arena of changing ourselves and the world. Since I already knew this was possible from my civil rights experiences, I again wanted to do more in the world. In a synchronistic way, others also picked this up. That was what was so cool about the ‘60s. It just happened, just like magic.

I was at the very beginning of some historical phenomena. Another endless beginning. Young hopefuls searching, like myself, came to the Haight, a working-class neighborhood, with Golden Gate Park was nearby. Many kids camped there at the edge of the park, near the Haight Street entrance. Golden Gate Park became a campground and Haight Street was a homeless encampment. The local authorities were becoming restless and concerned with the overflow of “flower children” plucking flowers from public and private gardens to put in their hair.

As usual, the Diggers fed and clothed many. Their free food poster read:

“free food good hot stew

ripe tomatoes fresh fruit

bring a bowl and spoon
to the panhandle at Ashbury Street
4 pm 4 pm 4 pm 4 pm

Free food every day free food

It’s free because its yours”

I let life lead me. I had little ambition. I visited Ken Kesey in La Honda, in the mountains south of the city. The speakers were blaring rock music to the redwoods. Each room had a different happening and different motif, like a living art gallery with living persons, animals, and plants, and you could become part of any of the scenes you wanted to partake of. You were the play, the actors, and the audience. You were the observer in the zoo, and the animals in the cages. A lot of free love, music jams, and cosmic trips happened.

The experiences, especially at Kesey’s gatherings, were real and life-changing.

All roads were open, Choose your path, but choose because " You were either on the bus or off the bus"
I wanted to stay young like this: curious, finally understanding things and making new friends every day. When kids stop running and skipping to things, they become adults. I thought as I saw many girls as boys in bright colors and smiling faces, skipping around and dancing in circles.

Kesey and the Pranksters wanted just to trip without any preconceived plans. I, too, threw away my ego, smashed the coconut of self. Maybe I decomposed and became cellular, like the transporter in “Star Trek.” Beam me up, Scotty, for there is no intelligent life form here. I then rebuilt myself and gained some psychic tools.
Kesey and I walked away from the revelers. He confided, “I was hiding, and now I’m showing up.”

“It’s the ol’ flee or fight thing, but the third option is to observe,” I told him.

Kesey replied, “Hmmmm.”

“Yeah, the ol’ fight or flee that’s been going on since cavemen. But, like they say in Ireland, ‘He’s in the tall grass,’ meaning he is nearby but can’t be seen,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s cool, Roger. Now let’s get high and pull some pranks.” He continued, “This is a trip. What’s happening is a lot of people are finding themselves, and some are losing themselves, but we can do more.”

“I feel the same way,” I said.

“I used to march for my ideals and now I’m just having fun. I want to do more for the world, to relieve the burdens of others, and share what incredible things we have lately.” He laughed and smiled; one tooth was a painted rainbow flashing at me.

“Yeah.” he said. “Now I’m going to come out and say LSD is for more than going to rock concerts.” And sure enough, Ken Kesey did come out and said, “LSD is more than getting stoned and going to rock concerts. We can do more with the experience.”

He didn’t say what you could do, as always he left it up to the individual to figure things out. He wanted us to use drugs as tools, as medicine, not just a recreational escape.



My Arrest in Reno

Que Tal, Mike Hornwood, and I were hitchhiking, on the way to a peyote meeting near Pyramid Lake. Two rides put us in Nevada, which was very different and more closed-minded than California, and especially San Francisco, which was different from any other place in the world.

A panel truck picked us up, Que Tal riding in the cargo space. We were outside of Reno, just before the road goes to Sparks and Pyramid Lake. The guy driving the truck seemed friendly, and so foolishly, we offered him a joint. He politely refused. Then a little ways down the road, he stopped the truck and said, “Wait a minute, I’ll be right back.” He walked down the road and disappeared.

A minute later, two police cars came and arrested us. This was one time I talked too much and acted stupidly. Not everyone thought like we did in San Francisco. Sometimes, the more you talk, the more you put your foot in your mouth.

The guy wanted Que Tal, but I insisted he be put in a kennel until this was all settled. The police took me and Mike to a holding cell in Reno. Inside were about 30 inmates, pacing, sitting at tables, some playing cards. Double-decker bunk beds lined the walls in two rows of the large prison area, surrounded by bars. I was told by a guard to take a bunk cot above another bed. Mike was told to take a cot across the way.

New arrivals came in periodically. I kept my mouth shut and observed. From one of the card game tables, a fight broke out. The two combatants stood up; the larger of the two picked up a metal pail used for mops, raised it above his head, and brought it down on the head of the other man. Blood gushed, and the bigger man kicked him in the ribs while he was down.

The guards were alerted and rushed in They separated everyone and dragged out the hurt man. The large man rallied his flunky yes-men toadies, and they paced around the cell in a red-eyed pack like wolves on a prowl. Soon, things normalized, and the inmates went back to whatever they were doing.

The pack separated. I observed from my cot, above a Native American they called Chiefie. The light dimmed at 10:00 p.m. and nighttime ensued; in the shadows, the ravenous pack gathered and stealthily crept to different beds with rolls of toilet paper in their hands. Quietly, they placed the paper under people’s limbs or even wrapped their bodies if they could, then set the person on fire. They would laugh as the person screamed and jumped up. The game was how different people screamed and danced. When they approached my partner Mike, I woke him. They threw lit matches on him anyway and he yelled out in pain. Because they were fierce bullies, almost everyone took it and stayed in their bunk beds. They were angry at me for waking Mike and they gestured menacingly at me with their fists.

They finally went to their beds and slept. I slept with one eye open. The next night, they continued their burning game, preparing to burn Chiefie under me, when I poked him awake and said, “Chiefie, wake up.” Again, I foiled their game.

All the men surrounded my bunk bed that I was sitting on and the big leader came forward. I was helpless, as I was sitting and they were around me standing. The leader threw a punch, an uppercut that smashed my metal bed instead of me. He retreated in pain. Another of his cronies threw a punch and I ducked. His fist grazed my face. They were all coming toward me.

I heard a loud voice from across the way say, “I’m up for life. If you touch him, I will put this pencil through your eye.” A handsome dark man jumped off of his cot and went toward them. They retreated.

I thanked him. He said, “You were courageous and stood up for your partner—I like that. You’re all right. I’ll protect you.”

The gang nicknamed me Turkey after that and I made sure to sleep when they did, but they still threatened revenge. My friend could not always protect me. It was hell—all the bullies waiting after school, rolled up into a place that you could not escape from: a jail cell.

Perhaps it was a higher power that protected me, as Mike turned yellow from hepatitis. They took him out of the cell and tested him, and sure enough, they found hepatitis in his blood. I was left alone. I called the guard and said, “I think I have hepatitis too.”

They took me out of the hellhole to the cells where maximum security prisoners were held, where accused murders, political prisoners, sometimes psychotics or homosexuals, were put, as these were individual cells, not the group insane asylum cell I just came from. I escaped a bad beating in the process. Maximum security was like a five-star hotel.

David and Robin visited me in jail and gave me more hope. They invited me to their cabin in the desert where we had been headed, for the peyote meeting. We had done almost a month dead time and our trial was coming up, so I told them that I hoped I would see them soon. A student of Master Subramuniya, a yogi and teacher, visited me in jail. They were holding classes at the Himalayan Academy nearby. A public defender was assigned to me. He was a Mormon and because he was anti-everything, I appeared to be dirty hippie druggie and he could not put his heart into defending me. I picked this up and asked him to assist me in my own defense.

He did, and I spoke about marijuana being a medicine, a healing agent and benign plant from God. I spoke about how marijuana stopped gang fights in New York and induces the poetic and intuitive aspects of people. No deaths were ever attributed directly to marijuana. Alcohol was more dangerous both physiologically and psychologically. Marijuana is a euphoric and alcohol a depressant, according to the pharmacopeia. Peace is preferable to war.

The Court was so impressed with my defense that they gave me probation and asked me to repeat my insights to the Grand Jury. Before the Grand Jury, I expanded my talk to the whole realm of transcendence, quest for enlightenment, and conscious expansion. They wanted to learn. It seemed the mood of San Francisco had flowed to Reno.

I was released, and Mike was released with me. We went to the pound where Que Tal was being boarded, paid for by the state. They wasted a lot of money on my useless, victimless incarceration.

Que Tal was ecstatic, peeing on himself, dancing in air to see me. We all felt good to be free. We visited the Himalayan Academy and it was Thanksgiving time there. I was surprised that they ate turkey. Thanksgiving, wherein the Native Americans gave the pilgrims corn, yams, and wisdom, and the pilgrims gave them diseases and subjugation in return. They taught us some hatha yoga asanas. Father Hilirion asked me if I wanted to attend and eventually teach there. I declined.

Mike returned to San Francisco, and Que Tal and I hitched to the Washoe Indian reservation, to the cabin in the desert of my friends David and Robin and their 7-year-old child, Nava. The formal peyote meeting had happened before our arrival. The desert was cold but refreshing: The open stars, the goats bleating, and the walk to the outhouse felt like true freedom.

David was a wonderful influence. He empathized with my recent arrest and misunderstanding. He was tall, a mixture of Native American and other ethnicities. He talked only when he had to. His movements were purposeful. He taught anthropology at University of Nevada at Reno. I looked up to him as one of my many mentors in life.

He called some friends together for an informal peyote hike up into the Truckee Mountains. Seven seekers climbed. Wild horses spurted away from us in a large plateau, high up in their own heaven on Earth. We climbed higher. My senses rose higher. Below us, red circles on drifting hawks’ wings glided. Reaching the peak, we saw the whole Washoe reservation, part of Pyramid Lake with steamy hot springs rising, and the whole Truckee Mountain range!

Back in David and Robin’s cabin, I felt a new freedom and a familial glow from my wonderful friends. Hot food from the kitchen. Nava played as another dog and Que Tal nuzzled my lap. The next day, we went to Flannigan Hot Springs, a large hot pool in an uninhabited place near the border of Nevada and California.

Que Tal and I eventually returned to San Francisco. We reunited at the apartment on Sutter Street and settled in a little wiser.

The yin and yang, the changing of happiness and distress, like the changing of seasons (Bhagavad-gita), the balance occurred so many times that I began to believe in some synchronistic allies or higher powers watching over me. While licking my wounds from being caged and almost killed, I got a dose of good medicine, this time from Togo, Africa.

I attended a gathering overlooking the Bay, featuring many shamans, curanderos, and healers. In societies separated from nature, it is rare to experience contact with spirit friends, or allies, as a part of general life. At first having read about allies in Native American writings, I was interested in this concept. Dreamtime, vibratory realms, doors of perception, and animal visions intrigued me as methods of understanding myself.

Access to our spirit friends and alternative worlds is induced in many ways from chanting, dancing, whirling, drumming, praying, sympathetic magic, hallucinatory drugs, sweat lodges, and vision quests, among other means. Unused parts of us become activated, washed, and healed. We can know our guides clearly and take counsel from them.

Diverse but connected traditions, such as Yaqui, Lakota, Yorube, and Santeria arrived through different but relevant teachers. I learned about five symbols common to all cultures; i.e., the square, triangle, circle, cross, and spiral. I heard the cosmology of the Lakota from Black Elk’s grandson.

I met a gentle man from Togo, the elder chief of his tribe, named Durkback Arquette.

The large room was dull with exposed pipes, a far cry from an African village, but the 60 or so seekers charged the atmosphere. The open-minded gathering concentrated on the essence, even though there were no straw huts, sounds of the jungle, and animals, drums, fires, glistening bodies dancing, and Togolese people doing this all their life.

Chairs were set up, and a Western anthropologist introduced Durkback Arquette, with humor and humility, and told how he became clairvoyant due to Durkback. Another gentleman from Togo gave an introduction and later acted as a translator during Durkback’s demonstration. We found out that Durkback was leader of 2,000 people and was of the communal thinking of an African village, wherein one person’s pain is everyone’s.

As far as healing was involved, Durkback said that he would heal someone that night, and even though he knew every one of the 2,000 people in his village and didn’t know us. “The spirits will come if they want to, and if it is right,” he said in his native language. We folded the chairs and, starting in an oval, we danced with shoulders swaying like antelopes, like birds, chanting, we crossed the river and then sat down in a circle at Durkback’s request. I was sitting in the front and Durkback began throwing white powder all around and on us. Then he blew rum in a spray and rocked back and forth and seemed to be in a light trance. He paced around and came right toward me!

As he approached, I was trying to get into it, but my mind got in the way. My biggest obstacle was to be in the moment; my mind wandered during meditation. My mind went to the past or future. I thought my functional mind got in the way of the intuitive spiritual mind.

He turned suddenly and turned completely around and walked to the other side of the circle. Subtly, he gestured for a young woman to stand. She walked to the middle of the circle by the Togo chief’s bidding. She sat Japanese-style, knees folded under her. Everyone was accepting and observing the scene. No talking, no joking. We all instead began subtly sending out our healing feelings toward the girl. The anthropologist, Danny, was drumming, as Durkback blew air through folded hands, like in a prayer.

Then he blew some rum through his fingers, and the girl, Markie, started shaking. Her legs straightened and she lay on her back. She shook more and more, faster, and then into a slow rhythm, undulating like a wave. She then swooned and sank softly on to the ground.

No one was surprised, just supportive and empathetic. We all felt the vibes. It seemed as if almost everyone present had at least one experience in the some spiritual way. We all felt we were her.

Then Durkback said the spirits had come and entered her and healed her. After a short time, she got up and said how a voice came in her and said, “Don’t intellectualize. Become a baby, become a baby.” She continued to tell us how at first, her shaking seemed to be out of nervousness, but then it just took her over and she felt her feet and arms expanding, and then she didn’t remember what happened, and that she felt good.

She had smiled and revealed that her back was hurt before and that now she felt healed. She also revealed that it was during her period, which was interesting because in Togo and many places, the healer does not have contact with any women during their menses. Sometimes the women go to a special tent at the end of the village during this time.

What impressed me even more was that when Durkback was told of this, he just accepted this and didn’t get upset. I was very impressed with his composure. I have seen many leaders lose their cool when they do not get their way, whatever that way is. I have seen kings, psychiatrists, tribal chieftains, gurus, teachers, mentors, and peace activists get angry, especially if their tradition or oath is challenged. This is the way and the will of the spirits, for they picked Markie out, and Durkback was an instrument a conduit. The experience was so powerful that I, too, felt healed, and it seemed everyone had benefited.

One of my new groups of friends were students from Kent State University in Ohio. I’d met them through dear Toby Denny. Like most of my friends, they were eccentric compared to the mainstream. Jaquot was a natural birth facilitator. Karl looked like Toulouse-Lautrec and walked off the deck of a Navy ship into the water to get discharged. Jeff was a magician. Lucky was a seer. Frank was a chemistry major who was now manufacturing LSD. And Lou was a professional gambler who blew into town from time to time with big wads of money and pockets full of dimethyltryptamine (DMT), a psychedelic drug.

Another of the Kent State gang was Judy Stern Siegel. She had a young son Neill, named after the founder of Summerhill, an alternative education process. We became friends and rode around in her car from time to time on the way to see her boyfriend Lucky in the hospital. One day, on the way there, Judy stopped her car and we were sitting and talking sharing a joint, and suddenly without previous indication, she said to me, “I love you.”

I was surprised, and even though I am ready to fall in love at any moment, I did not hit on my friends’ old ladies, since I did that once only in New York and felt really bad about that.

I said, “But what about Lucky?”

She reiterated, “I love you.” Then she said, “Kiss me, you fool,” and planted a big smooch on my lips, which progressed into those starry sunny ecstasies.

We did visit Lucky in the hospital. She told him of our love right then and there, with me silently witnessing and trying to be as invisible as I could. He took it well and he was always cool and accepted it. That’s the way it was back then, people changing partners without hiding or malice. I had an inner vision of two Englishmen sitting in their club sharing drinks and one saying, “I took your girl!” and the other toasting and saying, “Quite, quite!”

We–Que Tal, Judy, Neill, and I—moved in together. She lived above the bicycle shop on Stanyan Street, across from Kezar Stadium in Golden Gate Park. Little did I know that a small storefront just around the corner of Frederick Street would really change my life.

Judy had a brother who worked for the Fifth Estate in Los Angeles, an underground newspaper like the San Francisco Oracle and the Berkeley Barb. Judy wanted to go to Mexico and her brother had a Volkswagen van with beds and a kitchen that he agreed to lend to us. So, we drove to Los Angeles in her car and left it with her brother, a big, gangly, nice guy with a great sense of humor.



Mexico Again


So, we were on the road in a self-contained abode, entering Mexico again. I wondered if Que Tal knew that he was going to his home country. (I guess dogs don’t have to be nationalistic, since their territories are themselves.)

We snaked down the hills into my old haunts: San Lorenzo Acopilco and Cuajimalpa de Morelos. We had a pleasant time visiting old friends and making new ones. We visited Barry and Maria. He was still in love and smuggling pre-Columbian artifacts. Jack with the wooden leg was back from Washington and still ingesting enormous amounts of substances. We also visited the indigenous Otomi indios in the back hills, shared a feast and some Santa Maria cactus tea. We camped out, tripping all night as Que Tal and Neill slept in the van.

We visited Sergio Mondragón and Margaret Randall of El Corno Emplumado magazine. We looked for Raphael and Patrik in the artists’ colony, but they were gone. We found our United Nations friends still in Mexico City. We wound our way down to Acapulco and looked for Joey, the drummer in the hotel, but he was also gone.

We drove outside of town, past the luxury hotels, past the hill resort, Las Brisas, in Ixtapa. Soon, we were more into the jungle heading toward the airport. We found a nearly deserted beach and camped there with the Volkswagen van as a base. We had lots of LSD and marijuana again from the grower friends in the hills above Acapulco, They remembered me from before. We became friendly local residents, who were invited by the locals into their homes in the jungle nearby or sometimes brought us rice, beans, and tortillas. The local folks also taught me a card game, Brisas, where the cards were adorned with ornate clubs, espatas (swords), hearts, and diamonds.

One night, I was walking in Acapulco Town and I came across my old friend from the Lower East Side, the poet David Henderson from the Umbra poets. He was overjoyed to find me and seemed lonely. I walked with him to our van and introduced him to Judy, Que Tal, and little Neill. I built a three-sided lean-to on the beach with a cover from the hot sun, and David and I caught up from the Lower East side days. I told him of San Francisco and we tripped a lot together.

We were in Mexico for almost three months, until Judy had to return to receive, sign, and arrange for new welfare payments, which she needed to support herself and Neill. I did not want to return so soon. I could live in the lean-to with Que Tal and trip every day, which I did. Again, the kind people brought me food and let me win at Brisas, netting me a new poncho and a Mexican hat with a tassel. The poncho also served as a blanket. I looked like Clint Eastwood in a Spaghetti Western. They also brought me some pulque and some water to drink.



Quetzi

We learn so much from animals and nature; there is a simplicity and directness that is refreshing. The animal’s behavior is not calculated and cruel like humans. Animals premeditate but don’t store the food in a bank account. Nature is cruel, some say, but a catastrophe is merely a shift or change in biological forces, or, some say, an act of God.

To illustrate the point: My guru, who we will meet later, said, “Did you ever see a bird start a factory?” Humans tend to separate themselves from nature. When they do get in touch with the land, they either try to control it or become a part of the overall schemata of life, harmonious and friendly with nature. However, sometimes when humans and animals interact, it is incompatible, like a fish out of water. The following is a story about one of these incompatible mixes.

Getting up with the sun and going to bed with the moon, on a deserted beach outside Acapulco, became a dreamtime way of life. One day went into another. I went to sleep early and arose early. As Judy, Neill, and David Henderson left in the VW camper returning to San Francisco, I watched them go in early morning freshness and felt alone and abandoned. I turned and went into my shelter and solitude. For days, I ate oranges, green coconut juice and pulp, tortillas, and refritos. Meditating and reflecting in the beach lean-to was healing, but after three weeks of mostly not talking, I got even more lonely and craved company.

A godsend manifested when four souls from Texas appeared on the solitary beach. David was tall and gentle. Reva stood out, a brazen, bosomy, vibrant, flaming redhead. She was sexy, speedy, with direct movements and speech. The other two were a quiet couple, John and Mary, who were traveling to meet a friend in Ajijic, the place where Tim Leary lived.

David and I became friends and walked the beach talking life; he taught me some basic tai chi moves. Reva tried to seduce me, but I refused on the basis that David was my friend. Later, she protested that they were “just traveling together.” I held off. She gave me some speed on the end of her long, shapely, red-nailed finger. My tongue tasted the essence of her and the amphetamine. I zoomed into an icy-cold brain experience and started designing little pictures, little houses, little trees, mountains, castles, rivers, moons, stars, suns, mushrooms, all into one 5”x7” drawing.

On the second day, I was still up and crafting, when, Reva came up behind me. She put her hands on my chest and started rubbing; I did not resist anymore. The others were away in Acapulco Central. We were alone, and we fell into each other. Making love on speed was interesting: I was there and not there. I felt like an ice man with cold fluid pumping through my veins, instead of warm honey. Our exchange was long and antiseptically clinical, as an aloofness pervaded us. It was more friction then romance. We were of the ether and air modes, and we enjoyed each other in a new way. The moon climbed up and gave us a wink; we were still going at it.

After sleeping through the next day, I awoke to a new fresh morning. David greeted me and showed me more tai chi on the beach. I spoke to him. “Reva seduced me the other night,” I told him. “At first I resisted, because I was wondering whether you and her were having a thing, and I didn’t want to hurt you, but she said you were just traveling together. Is that true?”

I didn’t know whether David was going to show me a new tai chi move that would have me lying prone on the floor, or what he would do. He seemed unperturbed and said that they were just friends. He was not bothered, and we went on controlling lazy arm circles and pointing foot arrows in the morning sun-sky. I was relieved.

We were leaving in John and Mary’s car the next morning. So I said my adieus and vaya con dioses to my native card partners who brought me food, farewell to the families: three kids and a chicken, smiling widely but sad to see me go. We set off: Que Tal, Reva, David, and me in the back seat. It was cozy and cuddly. We floated up the Toluca Highway past the Desierto del los Leones, the old convent, stopping for a day in Aguas Calientes (hot waters), a Colonial Spanish town, with small plazas, pastel-colored houses, and ornate fountains in the courtyards. The whole town was an artists’ colony. Each gate was a wrought-iron work of art.

As we passed from state to state, it seemed as if a natural change coincided with geographical borders; when Guadalajara changed into Querétaro, so did the terrain, as well as the physiognomy of the people by the roadside. Change was evident in the flora and fauna too. I have seen this phenomena many times in many countries.

Nearing Lake Chapala, a new smell came through the car windows. Our destination was a villa run by an expatriate fugitive named Carmen and some friends of my traveling companions. I never asked what she was escaping from, and she never told me. Her place was on the unwritten list of hip and welcoming places on the great underground triangle between Mexico, New York, and San Francisco. Carmen was a large and shapely woman in anywhere from her late 30s to early 50s, I couldn’t tell. She was strong and in charge but hospitable.

“Take any room that’s available,” she welcomed us, adding, “Are you hungry?”

Lake Chapala loomed in the distance through the stucco window. The large villa had main rooms and smaller ones in a labyrinth that circled back to the main room and kitchen, where Carmen held court to about seven travelers and permanent residents. We ate rice and beans, tortillas, tacos, and, mole. Reva and I found a cozy little back room and settled in, I was road-tired and she was still speeding. I soon fell into sleep while she was doing one of her intricate art renderings.

Waking up early, I walked out toward the lake and was greeted by fishermen with nets full of small silvery fish. Que Tal was scampering around me, relishing our morning walks, but the fishermen were afraid he would get tangled in their nets, so we gave them a lot of room and walked into the small town of Ajijic, past the cantina, and to the movie theater, where we read the posters to see what was playing. One Cantinflas flick and some murder horror-type sangre de (blood) picture. Circumambulating the village, we headed back to Carmen’s, this time through the rear entrance.

Que Tal jumped as we entered, as a strange creature jumped at him. The creature had a long, strong body within even longer striped tail. The most remarkable aspect though was his face, which looked like a weasel’s, but squarer, with an incessant, sly, mischievous smile. He was chained up, so he couldn’t reach Que Tal, who, after figuring it out, just walked in the house like a warrior not paying any attention. The Swami, who you will meet, once remarked, “The dogs will bark as the elephant caravan passes.”

I asked Carmen, “What is that?” pointing to the animal.

“Oh, that’s a coatimundi,” she said casually. “They live in Mexico and Arizona only.”

The coatimundi was hyper, straining at his chain, sniffing the wall, walking up and down. His energy seemed endless. Carmen and I walked arm-in-arm out onto a patio, and she asked where I was coming from and going to, small talk to get to know each other. “I’m heading toward San Francisco,” I said.

”Mmmm, nice place,” Carmen said, looking off into the sky. “There’s a guy named Rick who is leaving for Los Angeles tomorrow—he could give you a ride! Come, I’ll hook you two up.”

She took me around the corner, her arm still intertwined in mine, and we went into a room. There was a squatty, strong-looking man, his black beard framing a face with curious eyes. Carmen introduced us and told him I needed a ride; we made arrangements to leave the next morning.

Reva and I had a frantic and tender parting, for she and her friends were traveling west to San Blas, in the state of Nayarit, to surf. Rick and I were getting an early start to try to beat a big chunk of the pounding Mexican sun.

Traveling light, I loaded my sleeping bag and knapsack into the trunk of his squat Ford, which resembled its owner. I showed Que Tal the back seat. Rick also didn’t have much gear and threw his next to mine in the trunk, then turned and went toward the house. He emerged with Carmen and the coatimundi—calling him Quetzalcotl; no, “Quetzi”—on his chain.

My eyes bugged out. I’m thinking, “You’re not going to take him with us, are you?” Sure enough, Rick loaded Quetzi into the front seat.

Que Tal started to flip out, so Rick and I were blowing pot smoke at the animals to calm them. Soon, they settled in, Quetzi burrowed under the front seat, Que Tal cautious in the back left corner of the back seat. “Uh, I don’t know if this is a good idea," I said to Rick.

“I’m bringing him back to L.A. for my fraternity house, Sigma Nu,” he replies.

“Oh, OK. Let’s try it,” I agreed, seeing he’d made his mind up, and if he had to choose between whom to drive to L.A., Quetzi or me and Que Tal, he would choose the coatimundi. So, I went along with his lark.

As we were leaving Mexico, I was leaving a slow-paced peace behind too. The cacti zipped behind the car, the coatimundi stirred. I said to Rick, “This is a wild animal, man. It belongs in the wild, man.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right, but we will take care of it and feed it.”

I didn’t say any more, but I read his mind, which was thinking, “What a novelty! Quetzi the coatimundi might end up as the new mascot parading on the football field. New Cub Scout patrols with Quetzi’s face on their badges, restaurants with desert cuisine opening with his name. ‘Chez Quetzi,’ pronounced phonetically: ‘shay qwet-zee.’ T-shirts, books, and movies.” After all, Rick was from L.A.

I said nothing more, and trusting that this trip will work out as most others had in the past, I sank back into the peace, of Mexico, the easy movement of being on the road. The ride to the border was smoother than I thought. We kept the animals and ourselves stoned, and there were only occasional outbursts—that is, every time Quetzi woke up, whereupon he would periodically nip at Que Tal or our ankles occasionally, seeming to relish the retaliation. He just liked to cause trouble—it was his nature, a cross between the mentality of a rabbit and a raccoon. I tell you, he had this incessantly mischievous look.

I am reminded of a story I was told years later about a thief who became a spiritual student in India. The reaction to his thieving acts gave him more happiness then the stolen prizes. He would stay near the scene of his crimes and watch the reactions of his victims.

But he became a novitiate and thereafter could not steal things belonging to others. He was very disturbed, and missing his old habits caused him to want to steal, and the urges got in the way of his spiritual practice. He went to his guru and told of his predicament, as they set out on a long journey with many of his fellow initiates.

The guru said, “Because you can’t get this love for stealing and seeing others people’s pain out of your system, we shall move everybody’s belongings from one room to the other, changing everything around.” The ex- thief did that in the night, and when his friends woke up, they said, “Where is my stuff? There has been a thief!” and a small chaos ensued.

Then former thief announced, “I used to be a thief, and I needed to create that bewilderment to experience your reactions. I have moved your things; they are in a room nearby. Thank you very much.” That’s who Quetzi reminded me of, that ex-thief.

We slowly approached to the border and could see the customs inspector checking us out us. The way they pose. The border is intimidating: High guard houses, bright lights at night. Long lines, searches. Again, you feel like you’re a criminal even if you’re not. Actually, I have been a criminal a few times—in fact at that very border crossing, smuggling a kilo of Michoacán grass. I went on a Sunday, during the bullfights, and he border was so full of people going to the event that they processed people faster and looser. However, you still feel like a deviant at national borders.

Years later, I crossed the borders of more than 40 countries, and some of the borders are very stringent. One that comes to mind is that of the Deutsch Demokratische Republik, or East Germany. Although that time, I was smuggling books, not drugs. They give you a time perimeter when you had to reach the other exit border on a one-day visa. If you do not get there within the time they designated, they send out search parties. We had to meet my brothers, clandestinely transfer the books, and get to the border in time. The ironic thing is that if you reach the border too fast, they give you a speeding ticket.

We’d smoked all our pot and cleaned out the car 10 miles back. I put Quetzi all the way under the front seat. Que Tal had all his vaccination papers and such, and Rick’s and my visas were in order, but Quetzi had no papers of any sort.

The customs officer approached in aviator sunglasses and emotionless face. “How long you boys been in Mexico?” he asked. Not waiting for an answer, he asked for our visas, and I also gave him Que Tal’s certificates of vaccination and registration in Mexico. We could feel him deciding whether or not to search this vehicle—either for grass or pre-Columbian art—by stripping down the car completely, as was sometimes done in those days.

The customs man started a random search in the glove compartment, pulling down the sun visors, looking into the back seat, feeling under the front seat. Snap. Quetzi nipped him!

“What the hell is that?” He pulled back and snapped himself. By then, Quetzi was ready to nip again and went toward the official. I held him back by the chain. The customs officer saw his weaselly face and took two steps away from the car. “You all will have to be detained and checked for . . . I don’t know. Everybody out of the car.”

“Wait ,” I said. “We are on a mission to place this coatimundi in its habitat in Arizona. He is a rare and endangered species, and if we don’t get him to his habitat soon, he will die, Do you want to contribute to losing another species of animal?” This was 1965, and there wasn’t as much awareness about environment, animal rights, rain forests, and endangered species as there is today, but it worked.

“All right, you all get back in your car and get the hell outta here.”

We must have set a record for loading and leaving, like the scramble that combats pilots practice: Rick clapping me on the back, and Quetzi looking back, wanting another piece of the customs official.

We headed north then turned left and toward L.A. The sun was setting as we entered the valley of Los Angeles, where houses looked similar and people talked funny, you know. The old car stood out in the manicured neighborhood of ranch-style houses. Rick took us to the back of his parents’ house and we put our gear in the large grassy yard. Rick’s parents were barbecuing and eyed me suspiciously. We were hot, dirty, and tired. I wanted to shower and rest.

Rick’s sister—young, strong, athletic body, with white lip gloss and a headband over designer sunglasses on a perfect, pretty, tanned face—was also eyeing me, but in a different way. Then Rick brought back Quetzi, and I brought Que Tal.

Rick’s mother screamed, “What's that? Oh, that’s a dog, a big dog! But that other animal. We’ve never seen anything like that! He can’t stay here. Ahhh, Harvey, do something!”

Rick’s father, in pale yellow-and-green plaid golf slacks, tried to appease everyone. Rick said, “Let me keep him here for one night, I’m bringing him over to the frat house in the morning.”

That explanation fooled them, like it did me. Rick’s sister was circling so she would be introduced.

“This is Amy,” Rick obliged. She was practically devouring me with her eyes and thoughts. The parents gave her the hook and shuffled her off, and Rick and I went into his room. “I hope you’re hungry,” Rick’s mom yelled out, as, like English tea, she thought food or shopping were the universal panaceas to all problems.

The house was immaculate, and Rick’s mom kept wiping up after everybody as they sat, ate, talked. The kitchen table was Formica. Plastic covered all the furniture. I wondered if she ever took the plastic off, and if so, for who or what occasion.

“I hope the kitchen is fine. We don’t have to eat in the dining room, do we?” It was rhetorical, and no one answered.

We heard a noise: Quetzi bit through his leather leash, broke his bonds, and had run off, free. We don’t know what to do. Rick and I tried to catch him, or track him at least. We heard a scream, and we saw Quetzi sticking his head out of a bush as a woman with a green visor and white zinc oxide sunscreen on her nose worked in her front yard. She gasped and practically fainted, threw her trowel into the air, and ran inside her house.

Quetzi ran further into the valley and disappeared. I heard intermitting screams dotting the shrouded darkness during the night. I would miss the little rascal.

I talked it over with Rick, who said, “Well, what are you going to do with your coatimundi?”

I retorted, “My coatimundi? What about all your plans as a fraternity mascot and T-shirts?”

He backed down.

We decided that Que Tal would go to the fraternity house for the night and then we’d hitchhike back to San Francisco early the next morning. I could just imagine getting arrested in Los Angeles for transporting a coatimundi. Besides, I’d thought it was a bad idea from the get-go. Or, as Groucho Marx said, “Even if I commenced it, I was against it.”

Que Tal and I waited awhile by the side of the road until a kindly couple stopped and picked us up and took us right into San Francisco. The Golden Gate welcomed us back as the sun was going down, gleaming off of Coit Tower, Telegraph Hill, and the Bay. We were dropped off just over the Bay Bridge on 9th Street downtown.

Hitching was not as easy as it was a year ago. Back then, we could stick our thumb out and get a ride almost immediately, in a painted car to boot. Que Tal could ride the busses without me. This time, we didn’t get a ride for two hours. Times, they were a-changing. It was dark, and the cold San Francisco night rolled in. I was dressed for Mexico; my poncho helped, but it was getting colder.

Finally, some hippies came by and gave us a ride right to Judy’s and my apartment on Stanyan Street. Que Tal and I bounded up the stairs expecting a warm welcome, a warm meal, a warm bed. Instead, as we entered, the lights were out. I called out, “Judy.” I heard a stirring from the next room. I entered the darkened bedroom and went to Judy sleeping in the bed.

She was with another man. I felt hurt, embarrassed, and confused. It was karma, I thought, as I had the tryst with Reva on the way to San Francisco. What you sow, so shall you reap.

I just left, and Que Tal and I took refuge at Mike Hornwood’s, where I used to live. He was glad to have us back and we settled in. Yes, things change when you may not expect it.

The whole mood of these times in San Francisco was one of fluidity, change, detachment. “Going with the flow” was much different from our parents’ stagnant, career-oriented, and sometimes superficial world. But was this way any better? After my recent thread of a relationship vanished in a VW van in Acapulco, I was alone again. My semblance of family life was gone. Whatever I was building had crumbled into pleasurable, misty memories. I missed Terry. I missed contributing to the betterment of the world in a big way.

This recent experiment had taught me the fundamentals of spiritual life, survival, community, and sharing, but I felt I was floundering from one party to another, from one commune to another, from a one-night stand with some chick with no future to another. I was the hamster on the samsāra wheel, thinking I was going someplace, running but going nowhere.

Good things were still shining through. Ron Thelin’s Psychedelic Shop was inviting all peoples to come in and cool out. My friend Blind Jerry Sealund started a wonderful health food store on Page Street and gave out free food to street folks. We shared the medicinal sacraments as a group and did not overindulge.

I was looking for the ultimate groove, the nth degree, the zenith. All people sharing lore, medicine, clothes, and food. I grew tolerant to the life, tolerant to the drugs. I needed new experiences, but there were no new ones. Adventures became mundane. For a time, I was taking LSD every day, and I required higher doses. Today, the common dosage is 100 to 200 micrograms; we were ingesting 1000 mics at a time, or sometimes dropping some liquid acid into some water and sharing it. The dosage was off the charts, with no controlled experiment, laboratory, or guidance.

So, taking copious amounts and then needing more and more and getting high and coming down and getting high in a temporary way was not enough. I was looking for the ultimate high, from within and without. The less I needed outside substances, influences, affirmations from others, keys, clothes, desires, the happier I could be. I was searching for the most natural and eternal high.

Meanwhile, great leaders were being killed. I learned a lot, but the ideal world was crumbling around me. The streets and parks of the Haight were becoming crowded. Tourist buses cruised by, oblivious to the real human condition they snapped up in their cameras.

I wanted a change, and the change I was looking for occurred thusly. I came across my friend Robert Drees at Mouse’s store, the Phoenix, and he took me over to his girlfriend Bonnie’s place. She was sweetness personified. A beatific smile on her round, cute face. She wore a buckskin vest and made me most welcome. The twin boys, now about 13 years, with the same sweet face as Bonnie’s, came in. “Mom, were hungry!”

Bonnie directly fed all of us. She was an Earth mother who became my instant friend, as she saw I respected her. After dinner, we settled in, and she marveled at Robert’s and my tales of Mexico, especially relishing my recent time there. I would visit them often, as I felt a sense of family life that included me.


One day, Que Tal and I were walking in Redwood Alley at a jazz musician friend’s house. They had just finished a rehearsal, and as we trundled along, we came across Sam Rowell, also known as SCR, from the Lower East Side. He saw me and jumped up and down and grunted a guttural strung of joy. We hugged.

“Where have you been?” I asked. “What’s happening since I saw you in New York?"

He began, “Well, Roger, I joined the Black Panthers. Until recently, I have been working with them.” He didn’t say why he left or what he was doing now, but I could empathize.

He was carrying a saxophone case. “Are you plying the sax now?” I asked.

He gave me a conspiratorial look and opened it. There was a loaf of bread inside. “I clean out people’s refrigerators. That’s what this is for,” and he laughed uproariously. I laughed too, but more for the surprise than the conspiracy. He was still New Yorky, still the hustler.

Perhaps a dose of hippiedom would change him. If everyone shared and had enough to eat and someone to love and something to do, even the hardest of hearts could melt and change. I was on my way to Bonnie and Robert’s place, and I decided to take a chance with my old friend, even though he was recently in a militant anti-white organization. I turned to him and said, “Sam Rowell, I am taking you with me to some friends. Please do not clean out their refrigerator.”

SCR reluctantly agreed. He was on good behavior.

Bonnie said to me, with a sparkle in her eye, “There is someone I want you to meet.” I trusted her and was, as always, ready for the next adventure, a new friend, whatever. We took the bus to the Mission District, which was like parts of Mexico or El Salvador. A little alley off of 24th Street was called Lucky Alley. It turned out to be an omen—a good one—as we entered with Bonnie to meet her friends.

In the front room was a thin, blond-headed youth playing Bob Dylan and building an ornate stairway to the ceiling. He came off the ladder and extended his hand. “I’m Sam.” He smiled. Melanie came in, also thin and energetic. She flitted in and out like a sprite. Bonnie took us into the apartment. There were rooms off of the hall and we ended up in the kitchen.

An Italian beauty with chiseled features and a straight back came in and put two sticks of incense into a small hole in the wall. I felt the thunderbolt of love hit me. I fell without knowing how she felt. A soul connection?

I turned to SCR and whispered, “Do not take anything out of her refrigerator. This chick has opened my nose.”

He smiled in agreement, and actually left. So did Bonnie. I stayed and stayed.

Her name was Joan, and she took things out of her own refrigerator and made some vegetarian pasties, little hand-sized pies. We talked into the night. I returned the next day, and as she was free, I soon moved in with her at Lucky Alley. We hiked the hills together and ate and tripped and shared and bathed, and her bedroom was full of wonderful tasteful artifacts. Eagle feathers, beads, Krishnas, Buddhas, flowers, and fruits. She turned out to be very smart and extremely talented in cooking, singing and calligraphy. She had once been a lead singer in a band, cooked better than anyone I’d met, and had studied calligraphy with Lloyd Reynolds, a master at Reed College in Portland. Again, without trying, without encroaching on the outcome of life, rewards come.


This was a change I wanted. I realized that I wanted a relationship. I wanted to build my life with a soul mate partner. It did not screech to a halt like a needle gashing a vinyl record or nails on a blackboard. The change was somewhat seamless, from hedonist to seeker to a simple monk-like life. As we lived together, with Sam and Melanie in the next room, we all became friends. Joan and I became closer and closer as we shared our lives and tripped daily with mushrooms, mescaline, peyote, LSD, all smoothed out with plenty of pot. Joan told me how she recently went to her sister’s wedding in New York, and there she met an Indian swami who taught her new and different ways to cook. She said he was very sweet to her, humble, learned, and humorous.

Her brother-in-law Michael Grant, a jazz musician and arranger, arrived at Lucky Alley. Michael was very relaxed and seemed to be in another world a lot of the time. He was quiet but friendly. Michael, who was now initiated by the Swami as “Mukunda,” told us that the Swami had lived with him and his now-wife Janaki on the Bowery.

I knew the Bowery from my New York City days, just west of Rivington Street, where I lived. Rivington was funky but the Bowery was like a war zone. Flophouses, staggering drunks falling down, empty lots where buildings used to be. Hordes of homeless lying all over the street and steps. Bars, charity missions, cheap restaurants, boarded-up stores and buildings, people wandering aimlessly talking to themselves, and in the midst of this strode the Swami with his pointed shoes, cloth dhoti, prayer beads, and sweet self. Mukunda told us that many times the Swami would have to step over the drunks to get into Mukunda and Janaki’s loft.

For whatever the reason, the drunks would try to rise in respect when they saw the Swami coming. Mukunda told us how the Swami seemed to transcend the squalor and human suffering around, and how he’d come to the U.S. with only $7, suffered a stroke aboard the ship, and how he came here simply because his guru asked him to bring the teachings or bhakti yoga to English speaking people of the world. The Swami came knowing one family only in Butler, Pennsylvania, who put him up for a while. The Swami wanted to go to a more populous place and he landed in New York. I met him walking down the street.

“I asked him, ‘Are you from India?’” Mukunda told us. “‘Oh, yes,’ he replied in an animated and sweet way.” Mukunda continued, “I immediately was drawn to him and after talking with him, being with him, I invited him to stay with us. Even though our loft was on the Bowery, it was safer than the cheap hotel the Swami was staying in, as he had recently been robbed and his typewriter was stolen. The Swami was always writing. He writes very early in the morning, I heard his new typewriter clicking at 4 a.m. when we were sleeping. Sometimes I would come off a jazz gig, coming home in early morning, and the Swami would be up chanting on his beads.”

Sam said, “I heard you found a storefront for the Swami to speak in and hold some sort of spiritual service?”

“Yes,” Mukunda said, “it’s really very nice singing what’s known as kirtan or singing a mantra, a song in Sanskrit meant to deliver the mind from ignorance to bliss. Singing and dancing makes me feel good. The Swami also taught us how to cook and offer our food to Krishna.”

Joan piped in. “The Swami was so sweet and he took so much time teaching me not only how to cook new things but how to think and act purely in the kitchen.” We also heard how The Swami chanted in Tomkins Square Park, my old stomping grounds, and an article in the East Village Other was written.

(Paul Krassner, a writer friend and the editor of The Realist from the Lower East Side days, told of me that event. He said, “I passing by Tompkins Square Park with my daughter Holly. When they heard the Swami and his devotees chanting, “Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare,” Holly looked up to him and asked, “Why are they singing my name?”)

Mukunda went on. “We told the Swami what we heard about the happenings in San Francisco. After hearing from us, he asked if we could establish a place like in New York. If we find that place, then he would come here!”

Joan was excited, as she had a very nice feeling about him when they met in New York. We looked for places and found a storefront on 518 Frederick Street, abutting the Haight-Ashbury district.

Harvey Cohen, an art teacher from New York, arrived in a Cadillac and helped arrange for the Swami’s arrival. Ravindra Swaroop (Robert Lefkowitz), an artist and poet, arrived too, as did Hayagriva (Professor Howard Wheeler), to help prepare for the Swami’s arrival. “The Swami is coming!” they said.

I, too, was caught up in the excitement. The Swami was coming!



Chapter 7: At the Gate

"The Swami's coming, the Swami's coming!" shouted the brightly clad youths. We raced to our vehicles. It was January 17, 1967.

Caravans of painted cars, hippie vans, and motorcycles rode out to the airport to greet the Swami. One car had butterfly wings swirling around the whole chassis. Another car’s headlights and grille were painted with large cartoon teeth. Another was a mythic Thormobile, a Chevy with Thor wielding a huge hammer on the side, à la Marvel comics. A few regular vehicles joined our parade to see the Swami. A squat Batmobile Volkswagen tailed like a caboose.

He was finally arriving from New York! At last I would meet the Swami I had heard so much about. I'd been told how he was wise and kind. I knew he had opened a storefront temple at 26 Second Avenue, in my old stomping grounds on the Lower East Side. Mukunda retold how the Swami welcomed anyone and everyone who showed up at the door and how he had endured the cold New York winters. I had heard how, living in the Bowery and then in Mukunda's loft, he had simply stepped over the sleeping winos outside, or greeted them if they were awake. He was able to see their very souls within their miserable outer shells and accept them, even though they were broke and often drunk. Now he was coming to San Francisco!

About fifty people arrived at the airport with me. Haridas had driven an old Cadillac across the United States, which we had immediately painted with the Hare Krishna mantra. The Krishnallac, as we called it, stood ready to take the Swami to our new temple on Frederick Street. I remember the colorful garb: Max Ochs, folk singer Phil Ochs' cousin, in a Patrice Lumumba T-shirt, I was in my samurai-like robes, and Shyamsundar was in a brocade Moroccan jellaba. We didn't have dhotis and saris then, so we were clad in these multicultural flowing clothes and beads. The air smelled of incense, and the airport resonated with the sound of cymbals, drums, and chanting. A friend later said, “The feeling at the airport was one of loveliness." He recalls that about a hundred people were there, while I remember about forty or fifty. (Maybe he saw the demigods smiling down on us and raining flowers and rose water on the ad hoc congregation!) Some of the New York devotees who'd come ahead to pave the way for the Swami were there. The new, uninitiated San Francisco devotees were there, as were many characters who came regularly to the temple, such as Mr. Matthews, the “man in the suit.” He was older than the rest of us, very quiet, very nice and the only one who wore a suit. He respectfully followed the Swami everywhere.

We went to the large observation windows and saw the plane making its descent. Someone ran to inform the others who were waiting by the arrival entrance. We watched as the passengers exited the airplane and walked down the stairs.

No Swami. The line of passengers finished.

Suddenly, we saw a small figure in saffron glide out of the airplane, a halo of light surrounding him. A youth named, Ranchor, followed him. Swamiji walked down the stairs slowly and deliberately, and then he crossed the tarmac. It seemed to us as if his feet weren't touching the stairs or ground. His head was raised, and as he walked toward us we were overcome with excitement and ran en masse to the spot where we thought he would enter the terminal. After waiting what seemed like a really long time, the Swami wafted through the door in a regal and confident manner. He was relaxed and happy. And when he saw everyone chanting, he gave us a huge smile, and that smile felt like an ocean washing over and protecting me. When Swamiji smiled, that smile became my beacon and shelter.

He walked to a seat and settled into it as a great bird might settle upon a cloud. Sitting cross-legged, his eyes closed in blessing, and he started chanting. We sat down around him and followed. As we started chanting with him, he wrapped the kartalas (finger cymbals about 2 1/2 inches in diameter) perfectly around his hands. I watched him intently as he began playing the cymbals one-two-sizzle/one-two-sizzle beat with his kartalas. Someone had a bongo drum. Some had smaller finger cymbals. We played with him. He opened his eyes and beamed at us kindly. We continued to clap, bang the drum, ring cymbals, and chant the Hare Krishna mantra, and soon people arriving in the terminal from around the world came over to surround us, watching with curiosity.

The Swami stopped after some time and said some prayers to his spiritual masters in a golden, husky voice. We remained silent except for repeating, “Jai!” whenever he said “Ki jai!” The chanting prayers echoed throughout the airport. Some suits (airport officials) came over to ask us to stop chanting. But as if the Swamiji had extra-sensory perception (ESP), he just ended the chanting, the officials simply stood around with nothing to do. They watched with curiosity as the Swami thanked us all for coming, showing us a respect that was often lacking in our peers and parents alike. I remember thinking that I had never encountered such a mix of greatness and humility in one person. The throng around us grew bigger. We informed the Swami that the Krishnallac was ready for him. He rose and, in a majestic yet simple way, walked out of the terminal, while we ran after him. Mukunda arrived from the car and embraced Swamiji, who hugged him back. The Swami's demeanor was humble, his mind totally absorbed in Krishna. We didn't know about bowing down to him then. We followed him out to the Krishnallac and watched it drive away, then ran to our respective vans, motorcycles, and cars to follow his vehicle in grand procession. Some cars went ahead to provide an escort to the new, makeshift Radha Krishna Temple on Frederick Street. Swamiji viewed our new temple for the first time and smiled upon us. He singled me out with his glance, looking through my grossness into the very core of my soul-self.

Then and there I knew I had found my Guru.

I knew I would follow him in my spiritual quest.

I knew I would follow him to the ends of the earth.

My search had ended.

After the Swami’s grand arrival, I wanted to be with him, sit with him, ask questions; however, Mukunda told me that the Swami was writing some very important books. “He writes all night while we are sleeping,” Mukunda said quietly. Mukunda was like a transcendental Perry Como, equipoised and thoughtful. His peaceful ways impressed me and inspired me to do what he was doing as far as trying out his “Krishna Consciousness.”

Mukunda continued, “He gets up at 2 a.m., Showers, chants for about two and a half hours. Sings some prayers to his guru and other past saints, and then starts his writing ‘til perhaps 6 a.m. Then he goes for a long morning walk and prepares breakfast. He will see visitors in the morning on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He started coming to our new temple when it was ready at 7 a.m. and 7 p.m. on Monday, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

Swamiji would lead the chanting on bongo drums, sitting on the newly forming altar. The Swami didn’t tell us about disciplic succession and bowing before one’s spiritual master or that a special seat is for the guru called a vyasasana.

The Swami was humble in our midst, even though he had been a very successful father, inventor, pharmacist, author and devotee.

Joan and I took stock of things and decided that we wanted a change. We wanted to be in the country! We wanted to be more solitary not in a scene of any kind. We thought we could chant and meditate as well in the country as the city.

I was sick of how the drug scene permeated the atmosphere, which to many was about cash amounts and weights rather than enlightenment, intuition, sharing, and love. Joan and I were tired of the way San Francisco was turning out, with more and more young people pouring in daily, and organized crime preying on the vulnerable druggies. The original “Come to San Francisco with a flower in your hair” atmosphere was fading, as were the original dreams and ideals of the hippies. So, even though we had a place on Lucky Alley, we wanted to leave the city for a more country-like clime.

We consolidated our few possessions into even fewer things and borrowed a friend’s car, placed all our collective belongings into the old Chevy. Que Tal was in the back with all our stuff and Joan and I climbed into in the front, and with hope as our fuel, we headed up north on the coast via the curvy and scenic State Route 1. We were in no hurry, and we let fate and faith, the holy names, and Krishna and our allies guide us to whatever, and wherever.

We ended up on a road near Ukiah. We saw some for rent signs, but either the place was too expensive, too near our neighbors, or too sterile a suburb. On the Ukiah Road, we stopped overnight at a Zen Monastery. Que Tal slept in the car. The monks were hospitable and the small, cell-like rooms were simple and clean, out in the forest. Joan and I had to sleep separately. In their kitchen was a sick cat who was on medication of some kind, but the monks could not get the cat to swallow the pill. They put the pill in the kitty’s mouth, whereupon the cat would gag and the pill would pop out in an arc. They repeated this three times.

I strode in and pushed my two fingers at the base of each side of the kitty’s jaws. Her mouth was forced wide open and I put the pill at the back of her tongue, not in front, like the monks had. As she swallowed the pill, I massaged her little throat to make sure it went down. The cat seemed content and rubbed up against me. The monks were delighted; they jumped up and down and chortled and slapped me on the back.

After an early breakfast, we set out again, looking for rent signs. We asked people if they knew of any place for rent. For two days, we looked at various places, but again, they were too expensive, didn’t allow pets, or just weren’t right.



Rockport

We found ourselves further north. Someone told us that they were renting houses in an almost abandoned logging town called Rockport. We rolled up in front of the logging office. A screen door swung open and a woman at a desk looked us over with a scrutinizing but semi-friendly look. “We understand that you may have some places for rent?”

She paused before speaking, her inner brain-gears rotating and machinating. “Yes, we have some houses for rent. This was once a 24-hour-a-day logging town and working port, but now no logging goes on here. The town is still owned by the logging company. There are five people living in town. I’ll show you around.” She continued, “The rent is $33.00 a month.”

“We'll take it,” we replied.

The town sat on a sylvan expansive hill overlooking the Northern California coast. The trees that bordered the vast sloping hill were all swept back like roller coaster faces from the constant Pacific coastal winds. The constant winds were a gentle breeze and a natural air conditioner, cooling my and Que Tal’s pleasantly sun-beaten faces. Some of the rocks that the small town Rockport was named for jutted out of the frothing sea. Parts of the long beach came and went from our view. At the top of the hillock was the redwood forest that surrounded the town.

Back at the cabin, I ingested some of chemist friend's Chuck homemade LSD and set out with Que Tal, some water, some marijuana, and some of Joan’s vegetarian pasties. I especially liked this spot to sit and meditate on because of its natural beauty and isolation. You had to walk in to the forest to get here, so no cars could have access or could be heard. The sound of the sea was a cacophony symphony of bird calls, wind in the trees, and my own inner songs.

As the acid peaked, I gazed into my mind’s eye and started to go out into the far horizon, flying high, past the samsāra wheel of birth, death, old age and disease, past glimpses of my life bubbled out and away, going into the stellar, cellular far small distance. Soaring into the astral atmosphere.

Suddenly, the tripping was not pleasant, too much strychnine in Chuck’s acid. My flight was tottering; I was flying out of control. I had no vocabulary, no experience in this realm. I was free-falling down, out of control, spiraling downwards without a parachute.

I sang out, “Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna," and alighted slowly and pleasantly into Lord Krishna’s protecting, sheltering, soft yet powerful arms. I looked up into His bluish face, like a fresh rain cloud in early morning dew. Pearls upon his necklace like herons, yellow silk adorning waist and thighs like the current of electric flags flashing in the sky. The peacock feather that adorns his head like a rainbow and golden halo.

Tangled in his flowing tresses are the little wild flowers, water in the field, in the monsoon, in all the three worlds. I saw his reddish lotus feet. He was smiling and a soft glow shimmered. He put me down gently back in the meadow and disappeared.

It may have been the acid, it may have been my inner projection, but I loved the feeling, the intrinsic proof-in-the-pudding experience, that everything is all right and that I can go on with a new confidence, because I am not alone anymore, God is within me and without as well. I remembered the Bhagavad-gita verse:

Bhagavad-gétä patraà puñpaà phalaà toyaà

yo me bhaktä prayacchati

tad ahaà bhakty-upahåtam

açnämi prayatätmanaù

TRANSLATION: “If one offers Me with love and devotion a leaf, a flower, a fruit, or water, I will accept it.”

I heaved a sigh of relief and peace and settled peacefully back into the earth and the grand, pristine view before me. I felt a new connection with myself and the world. My fears were gone. Que Tal, my friend, so patient during my trips, came over and snuggled into my side. I sang softly, “Hare Krishna.” The feeling of peace and compatibility with everything prevailed, and stayed with me after I came down from the trip. I felt the power of the chant evoking love within me and calling Krishna to me, something I never forgot.

I later learned that my future friend, George Harrison, experienced a similar incident. On an airplane trip, there was a lot of turbulence. As the airplane was heaving up and down. George chanted “Hare Krishna” to himself and the storm abated and the airplane regained control. I told George, “That happens all the time in India. When the plane teeters on Air India, people take out there pictures of Krishna, Rama, Lakshmi, Narayan, Shiva, Ganesha, Guru Nanak or other gurus, such as Ghandhiji, et cetera.”

I now experienced the ecstasy of the connection by chanting. Krishna was dancing on my tongue. The Swami later said, “You know Krishna is God by the ecstasy you feel. The proof of the pudding is in the eating.”

On the cliff, the sun was going down, the breeze became wind, the heat became cold, so Que Tal and I ambled back past the redwoods past the small creek across from our cabin. Joan was inside. She greeted me with a warm hug and kiss, and we stared into each other for a minute. I told her what happened and she was overjoyed with empathy

She then excused herself, as she was in the middle of preparing dinner. The smell of her super-excellent cooking wafted into me. Blackberries from our own yard in the form of a pie came out of the old wood stove oven. Joan put more wood into the stove expertly as she brought more dishes to our table.

Que Tal settled into his bed near the pot-bellied heater in the family room adjacent to the kitchen. Our cabin glowed, warmth from the fire and my love-filled self. Joan sat down and we thanked Krishna for the food. This time I meant it, and we ate peacefully, the fire crackling in the background.

The devotees Uddhava, Lillavati, and Murari came up to our cabin in Rockport and pleaded with us to come back to San Francisco. We told them that we would think about it. They left but again said that the Temple in San Francisco was very nice and the Swami was also nice. After they left, Joan and I talked it over. I was planning to build a darkroom, but we had little money, no car to get around, so we thought perhaps we should try the city again.

Fate, synchronicity, providence, divine intervention, or just bad luck entered to help make the decision for us. Que Tal ran off again—he did it often—and chased some sheep off of a bluff; three fell to their deaths on the rocks below.

Mr. Agrons, the boss of the lumber company, came to our house and informed us that we would have to get out of town. He was actually sorry to see us go and felt bad under the circumstance, as we became friends, so he kindly did not ask us to pay for the sheep or to seek revenge against Que Tal. The whole area and our town was in a turmoil.

Mr. Agrons, Cam Stevens, the hippie couple Quentin and Raven, George the handyman, the total population of Rockport said goodbye to us. Our friends. Uddhava, Ramanuja, Lillavati, and Murari—our future but uninitiated-at-this-point friends—came back up to fetch us and told us that the Swami was coming to the more temple and leading wild chants three times a week, morning and evenings. “We have been cooking big feasts on Sundays and many people are coming to the temple.”



Back in San Francisco

Our old apartment on Willard Street with the piano and the parquet floors had a room open for Joan, Que Tal, and me. Harsharani and Jivananda were in one room and Lillavati and Murari were in another room. The hall ran to a large room in the back, adjacent to a kitchen and rear door and opening out to stairs leading into a plush yard. Glimpses of the Golden Gate Bridge peeking out of Golden Gate park glistened in the sunlight.

At first, upon returning, I was a little skeptical of the Swami and his message. I was leery of organized anything those days. “Chant ‘Hare Krishna’ and be happy.” I tried it, and it did feel nice, but so did getting high, loving exchanges, good food or music. And I didn’t understand why we couldn’t let our beads touch the ground. Didn’t God create the ground? Later, I learned that the rules had as much to do with time/place and circumstances and self-realizations rather than simply imposed restrictions.

I didn’t agree with not letting Que Tal and other animals into the temple. Didn’t Saint Francis invite all the animals in? Later, I learned that it was a matter of cleanliness, not disdain for animals or any living entity.

What I did like was the family growing and striving side by side with me to understand and realize all the new ways. My life became simpler still, revolving around serving the Temple and going to farmers’ markets with Jayanada. “Hi, Jim,” many of the vendors would call out when they saw him.

Eventually, we decided to give our Willard Street apartment to the Swami, as his apartment on Frederick Street was smaller, and the multi-unit apartment building was noisy. The Willard Street building had only two units, so it was much quieter.

The Swami sat between us. He was unassuming, comfortable in all situations, and smiled a lot. His jolly manner was infectious, so I smiled a lot from being around him. If someone gave the Swami any money he would immediately use it for printing, either books or magazines, never for his own self. He lived simply, but he would accept gifts as tools if it helped him to serve Lord Krishna.

He woke at 2:00 a.m., bathed, chanted 250,000 holy names or 16 rounds on a rosary of 108 beads. He encouraged us to also take up this practice, which we did. The Mantra (mind-deliverer) was a way of cleansing the mind of unwanted things. A purification process. Anyway, it felt good to chant:

“Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare, Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare.”
The chanting was also a prayer to Lord Krishna to please allow us to serve. This was a culmination of all my protests, deeds, experiments, and studies.

The Swami did not ask anything for himself. He always deferred to Krishna. We wanted to give him gifts and things and he would politely decline unless it could help him to serve Lord Krishna, such as a dictaphone to help him write. After he chanted his morning rounds, he would write while most of the population was still sleeping. He brought with him the three volumes of Srimad Bhagavatam and now he was finishing his translation and purports of the Bhagavad-gita. After many hours of writing, he would go for a walk.

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings and evenings at 7 a.m and p.m., the Swami would come to the temple and lead us in chanting (kirtan). His melodious voice comforted me, and soon we would dive into the shelter of his paeans. He showed us how to play the kartalas, as a few came from India. He wrapped the handmade cloth through the 3-inch metal discs, and clang clang, he would play and begin the chanting. Listening and then singing was the process. His honey-gravel voice flooded the small storefront temple. Then we joined in. There were about 6 initiated devotees and many regular students attending now.

Sometimes at the night kirtans, Swamiji would lead us on a bongo drum. As the congregation increased, kettle drums, trumpets, violins, guitars, and kelp horns added supporting musical notes. Soon, our chanting became faster and louder, and we could not help dancing. All the while, the Swami would chant with closed eyes, then open them while we were chanting and dancing, beaming his Benedictine smile on us. Whirling, exciting feelings of transcending time, this earth, myself, and all the good trips culminated into a feeling of bliss.

I was looking for the ultimate high, from within and without. The less I needed outside substances, influences, affirmations from others, keys, clothes, desires, the happier I could be. I was searching for the most natural and eternal high. We shared the medicinal sacraments as a group and did not overindulge. I was looking for the ultimate groove, the nth degree, the zenith. All people sharing lore, medicine, clothes, and food. When my love for Krishna is felt, then my love for all spilled over, and when I love everyone and everything, then my love for Krishna is increased.

After we chanted, the Swami would say some Sanskrit prayers honoring past saintly persons in his spiritual line (Samprediya). He would then speak very simply and very sweetly to us so we could understand.
He said, “Chanting is sublime, and by doing so, we become purified and happy.” He was an example of this.

We did not get to see the Swami very much. He was writing and kept to himself, except when he came to the temple room three to six times a week. He was our spiritual father and I wanted to possibly have some individual moments with him. I wanted to know him more.

For me, the most important companion besides Joan was Mukunda, the jazz musician: unassuming, seeming to be somewhere in the heavens, transcendental, with a very equipoised soul. The Swami entrusted him to all the liaison work with the new devotees and the public He also arranged some events. He was my siksha guru, or one beside the spiritual master (diksha guru) who teaches you and helps you on your spiritual advancement. There can be many siksha gurus, and there were, but Mike/Mukunda was the first person who I looked up to, and I wanted to take the best aspects of him into myself.

Sam was a Rhodes Scholar and also one of the Oregon friends of Joan’s, along with Mike, Sam, and her sister Janice. He was also a good skier until he twisted his knee. He was very talented, a visionary, and he reminded me of Mark Twain in his reckless way: He would try anything and half the time succeed, but when he failed, he would go on anyway. He became my partner in many adventures all over the world.

We were all looking for love, and alternatives, and we were doing it with an alternative life now under the shelter of the Swami. We had enough good food to eat, and we were learning enlightening things that we could put into practice. We were helping others by giving them a place to "come down" and chant. We fed people every day. We sang the holy names throughout the day and night.

Slowly, my life became simpler, more regulated, less pleasure-seeking, and a feeling of purity appeared. I looked forward to these meetings. The Swami—successful pharmacist, inventor, and now author, not to speak of being a pure devotee of Lord Krishna—was giving this to all of us who wanted to learn from him. He was in fact spoon-feeding us, not imposing too much until we were ready. He was so expert in everything he did, how graceful he did and said things. He was polite and caring.

Joan retold me about her meeting with the swami in New York, when she was there for her sister’s wedding, and how the Swami taught her to cook without tasting the offering to Krishna, which she thought very strange at the time.

The Temple was cleaned thoroughly and painted. A kitchen was assembled in the back room. The basement served as living quarters for new serious seekers. The front room was fitted with framed posters of Radha and Krishna. A picture of Lord Jesus, given by Brother David, who eventually started the Children of God movement, was up on the wall as well.

That was what I liked about the Swami: He was open-minded, accepting to many types of wisdom, transcendental, yet totally committed to his traditional devotional path, bhakti yoga, love of Krishna. He taught us slowly and by his example.

An artist couple, Goursundar and Govinda dasi, he thoughtful, questioning, and philosophical and she a sweet, happy strawberry-blonde, painted some pictures of Swamiji. A picture of Radha and Krishna came from New York. My personal eclectic altar was being replaced by helping to clean, build or gather flowers, kitchen stuff, decorative madras cloth, etc., for our new temple and altar.

Shyamsundar, tall and sandy-haired, looked like his idol Bobby Dylan and carpentered double Dutch redwood doors. Plants went in the front window, as well as a calligraphy sign that Joan made with the words: Sri Sri Radha Krishna Temple. Haridas (aka Harvey Cohen), an art teacher from New York, brought a totem pole into the temple and placed it to the right of our altar. Malati brought a new toilet seat and jokingly placed it around her neck like a garland.

In fact, Malati was the one that could and did get anything that was necessary. She was slim, fast-moving, fast-talking, once a biker chick, and most likely to say anything on her mind before thinking about it.

One time, Swamiji was standing in his small apartment four stories above our storefront temples, looking out the window over Frederick Street. A milk delivery truck stopped, double-parked across from of a corner grocery store. The delivery man carried a wire basket of various dairy products into the store, leaving the back door of the truck open. Suddenly, Malati darted out of the temple and into the truck and extracted a whole wooden flat of butter. She looked around and, balancing the whole plank, sprinted back into the temple.

Like a god from above, the Swami observed the whole thing. Malati was exulting in her treasure to make ghee for Krishna when Upendra, Swamiji’s assistant and cook, came into the temple room. He entered the kitchen behind the altar room. The back door was open; Kesar Stadium, home of the 49ers, was close by and cheering people could be heard. Upendra was very shy and quiet but felt confident in the glow of Swamiji. Upendra went up to Malati, who was happily loading the butter into the refrigerator. Upendra went up to her and quietly said, “The Swami wants to see you.”

Malati quickly washed her face and tidied her new sari. She and Upendra walked up the four flights of stairs rather, then taking the old creaky elevator. Upendra walked into the front room. Swamiji was sitting behind his sea trunk desk. He was writing something on a small piece of paper. Upendra bowed down, Malati followed. We were bowing down now, At first we did not bow, and the Swami never asked or required it. Soon, we learned that he came from a long line of spiritual masters and a tradition from the Madiya Samprediya. He bowed before his spiritual master, and the disciples bowed in respect to each other. Eventually, we did too. I personally didn’t mind, as this was a sign of reverence, and so far, the Swami was more deserving of respect than anyone I met so far in my crowded-with-exalted-souls life.

Malati sat before the Swami on a floor cushion. He took off his spectacles and placed them gingerly and slowly on the desk next to the dictaphone. He cleared his throat. “We shouldn’t steal, we should treat other people’s property like stool.”

Malati didn’t know what he was getting at. "Everything is Krishna’s property, not ours." he continued. Slowly, she was getting it. She turned a different shade of color, from white to red.

"We should not steal, even butter.” Malati was squirming on the cushion.

He was like stern but kind father. His face suddenly changed from instructive to a smile. "Of course if you have to steal, then butter is all right. One of Krishna’s names is Makhan Chor—butter thief.”

During Krishna’s childhood, he and his brother Balaram would stand on something to reach the butter hanging in clay containers high off of the ground, so animals could not get to the clay urns. Krishna and Balaram would eat the butter and then give some to the monkeys, who also ate their fill.

When the neighboring mothers discovered the missing butter and the boys, they chastised Krishna and Balaram for stealing. (Of course, how can God, who owns everything, steal?) Krishna would offer the monkeys some butter. They declined, as they were full.

Krishna implored the angry mother, “Why should I steal your butter? Even monkeys won’t eat it.” Somehow, the mother’s anger subsided and turned into maternal love for Krishna and Balaram.

I saw this same compassion from Swamiji countless times, especially with me, when the Swami would instruct, even chastise, and then forgive. The first time I experienced this phenomenon was when I was asked to purchase a metal glass from the India bazaar for the Swami. When I presented the metal glass from India to him, he shook his head from side to side. I also bought a little round metal cover that fitted on top of the glass also from India to keep dust and bugs out of the glass. Swamiji smiled in appreciation for my thoughtfulness. He picked up the round metal cover and placed it adroitly on the glass.

He asked, “Where is the receipt?”

I stammered, “What’s a receipt? Er, I didn’t get one.”

The Swami laughed and looked kindly upon me and lovingly said, “You American boys have no training.”

The Swami was getting used to our hippie ways. Even though he came from a regulated spiritual tradition, he was open to new things and not judgmental, only when necessary for our spiritual advancement. One time, when the Swami was walking with Mukunda to his loft, he had to step over drunks sleeping in the doorway, in his golden pointy Bengali shoes. “Didn’t that bother you?” someone asked the Swamiji.

”No, I am a Calcutta boy,” he answered brightly.

Later on, when I visited Calcutta, I saw what Swamiji meant, only add about a hundred more people, some cows, rickshaws weaving in and out, people selling vegetables and religious photos, as well as the people sleeping in the street on each block.

Before I met the Swami, I tried Master Subramuniya of the Himalayan Academy correspondence course, of 108 lessons. I had been trying the course since I met them in the Reno jail. After you completed one of the lessons, they were sent back to the Himalayan Academy and graded, after which a new lesson was sent. The lessons were a basic amalgam of Vedic and Judeo-Christian metaphysical knowledge. Some of the lessons were hatha yoga asanas. I was adept at that and did practice some asanas every morning, so I was able to pass the lessons easily from what I had learned already. But there was no way to try it out to practice, to know what to pick.

Master Subramuniya had a temple on California Street in San Francisco. Sometimes Joan and I would visit him. The temple room was dark. They offered hatha yoga and metaphysics. He remembered me from the Thanksgiving at Himalayan Academy in the mountains above Virginia City.

An old Greek golden-spiraled church on California Street had been converted into Master Subramuniya’s San Francisco temple. When Joan and I would visit, we were usually high on something. He asked that we come there sober, but that never occurred. This frustrated him.

Master Subramuniya was nice but nothing special regarding someone to follow as a guru. After I met Swami Bhaktivedanta and started hearing from him and chanting and eating "prasadam" (food as mercy from God), and then being with him, Master Subramuniya was only a step in my path. On Haight Street one day, Master Subramuniya came up to me and actually wept. “Why did you leave me? I had plans of teaching yoga with you.” Somehow, he heard that we were going to the Sri Sri Radha Krishna Temple on Frederick Street.

He implored again, “Why did you leave me? Are you studying with Swami Bhaktivedanta?”

I answered, “I am not leaving you, I am just going with Swamiji.”

He stood there dumfounded. I hugged him and split.

My experiments, guided by Aldous Huxley, Timothy Leary, D. T. Suzuki, and Chief Black Elk, were only small drops in the pond of enlightenment. Although I felt I was gaining some spiritual insight from all these teachers, and though there was much in enjoyment in my life, I had no direction. I felt like a fish swimming in a lazy river, floating from pleasure to pain, continuing to exist but going nowhere. I found out later that this is samsāra, the wheel of life, spinning in a cycle of birth, disease, old age, death, and again rebirth: a cycle repeating life after life without cessation.

Samsāra brings to mind the analogy of a hamster in a cage, running and running on its little wheel yet constantly remaining in the same place. After I would meet the Swami, though, my search would take an abrupt turn: He opened the door of my cage, and I got off the spinning wheel of samsāra. I would henceforth truly cleanse myself, turn myself inside out, and stand on my head, in total readiness to give my life again for my beloved teacher, A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami.

All the knowledge I had acquired—from my Jewish upbringing, the Torah and Kabbala, along with all the Zen Buddhist koans and sutras, the Bushido code, Taoism and the I Ching, and Native American wisdom—was synthesized in Swamiji’s teachings and instructions. His wisdom was tried and true; his guidance was punctuated with humor and concern. Sometimes he displayed a childlike glee when we learned, yet he remained transcendent and affectionately detached. He lived simply and we followed his example. He often looked deeply into my soul and smiled kindly. And my soul smiled back.



Tomorrow

I was sitting in a grove in Golden Gate Park, reading the Bhagavad-gita, when Joan approached me and spoke of marriage. “Harsharani says that the Swami said if man and woman are living together, they should get married.”

After considering the idea for some time, I told her, “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

We had the choice of a Franciscan monk, a Buddhist Rimpoche, or Swamiji to perform the marriage ceremony. We chose Swamiji and went to the apartment. We sat before him, and said, “We want to get married. Will you please perform the ceremony?”

The Swami smiled at us and answered, “Yes. You’re both very good devotees, so this marriage will double your potency.” Then he added, “But before you get married, you must be initiated.”

I still wasn’t sure I wanted to get initiated—or married—and was secretly thinking of declining. But Joan and I asked, “When do you want us to get initiated?”

Swamiji replied, “Tomorrow.”

His answer didn’t give us much time to think it over! I wasn’t sure I wanted to surrender. Joan was to spend the night at the temple with Harsarani and Janaki while I went over to Coleridge Street to figure things out with an old friend of mine, Leo. When I arrived at Leo’s, there was A born again Christian fundamentalist there, who, without even knowing what Krishna consciousness was, was speaking vehemently against it. Maybe this was Krishna’s test for me, because I found myself filled with doubts about the whole thing of surrendering. At first, his ravings against Krishna consciousness made me more uncertain, but eventually, it made me stronger, because I knew I didn’t want to hang around with ranting fanatics like this guy. When I woke up the next morning, I knew I did want to get initiated—and married.

“Don’t fight with God. He has more arms then you.”
—A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami



Initiation

The initiation ceremony consisted of Bhaktivedanta Swami singing prayers of purification and glorification to his guru and to the past spiritual masters. A fire was built, and rice and barley soaked in ghee were thrown into it, as well as dyes of red, green, yellow, white, and blue. At the end of the ceremony, bananas were put into the fire. All were offerings to Krishna who, with the fire, burns up all past imperfections. I handed the Swami a bulky strand of 108 large, red, wooden beads, and he chanted on them. Somehow the fad of the large, wooden beads became status quo. Some mixed the colors: reds, blues, and yellows. Swamiji just accepted this, without saying anything about tulasi beads. Later, when I was instructed by Swamiji in this matter, I replaced the red beads with the traditional tulasi beads, and he chanted on them, too.

As the fire ceremony (yajna) progressed, my mind was reeling and racing. The Swami handed beads back to another new initiate and said, “Your name is Shyama devi dasi.” He handed me my beads and gave me my spiritual name. Up to that point, the spiritual names had all corresponded with the first letter of the name we were given at birth; for example, Robert became Rupanuga, Bruce became Brahmananda, and so on. At first Swamiji said, “Your spiritual name is R . . .”

So many things were going through my mind at once, I didn’t hear the name. The fire was crackling; the crowd was talking and singing; my head was filled with sounds, smells, and a thousand pictures and thoughts. I wasn’t sure if I’d made the right decision. Was I giving up my freedom and fun? Why was I suddenly getting initiated when I was a freewheeling, music-playing, go-anyplace-meet-anyone-do-anything adventurer?

“Oh, well, this is an adventure too," I thought. The chanting started to soothe me, and the sweet smell of the flower garlands and incense calmed me down. Random thoughts surged through me, but as I viewed the Swami’s strong, calm face and his expert hands organizing the fire sacrifice, I accepted everything. I didn’t know my new name, but it didn’t matter.

After a very short pause, Swamiji said, “No, your name is Gurudas.” The guests and witnesses oohed and ahhed. Gurudas, the servant of the guru. I liked it. It fit like the top to a pot.

As the Swamiji and I became closer and closer, I became Gurudas. Joan was initiated as Yamuna, like the river in India (sometimes spelled Jamuna). That night, after the initiation ceremony, Yamuna and I went in to see the Swami, and he greeted us with his vast, oceanic smile. “You are both great devotees of Krishna.”

We were silent but comfortable. After some moments, Yamuna asked, “When do you want us to get married?”
“Tomorrow,” the Swami replied.

He did it again! He was making me surrender my restless nature. I felt like I was playing hide and seek with Swamiji and Krishna.



Marriage Ceremony

The marriage ceremony was yet another fire sacrifice. Many guests and visitors filled the temple room, including Yamuna’s Aunt Edna from Klamath Falls, Oregon. Janaki, Yamuna’s sister, had been running around making preparations and had brought margarine instead of butter to make the ghee used in the ceremony. To make things even more precarious, wood from fruit cartons was used instead of forest twigs and branches, so that during the ceremony the fire continuously sputtered, even in Swamiji’s expert hands. His golden fingers picked just the right pieces of wood and made a tent to start the fire. He dipped each piece into the ghee first. The fire began to rise and then die down, rise and die down, but Swamiji kept it going, rising and falling, until finally it burst into flame, and a roaring, sputtering fire lit up the whole temple.

Smoke was rising to the ceiling as more guests came in. Then barley, rice, colored dyes, and bananas went into the holy fire. The Swami was singing ancient Sanskrit and Bengali songs. He said, “This marriage will be like the fire, beginning slowly and then bursting into flames. You are both good devotees; together you will be at least twice as strong.”

There was a very spaced-out girl present whose baby, Kaviraj, was lying haphazardly across her lap. His head kept hitting the floor. It seemed she’d forgotten she even had the child. Everyone in the room seemed to notice this except the mother. Even the zonked-out hippies were catching it. The Swami remained aloof, but the baby’s head kept hitting the ground and hitting the ground. Eventually, even the Swami could not remain detached. “It will be a strong baby,” he remarked.

Then Swamiji beckoned for the mother to hold the baby so his head would remain in her lap. Incidentally, this was one of the girls who wanted to marry Swamiji. After a lecture, during the question-and-answer period, she would burst out, “I want to marry you!” She had simply fallen in love with the Swami, who remained detached and transcendental. He would simply say, “I am sannyasi.” Of course, the girl’s actions were totally understandable to us, as we had all fallen in love with the Swamiji. Many girls wanted to marry him, and that too would have solved a visa issue, but he was sannyasi (renounced celibate) and therefore not interested.

After the wedding ceremony, we all sat down to a huge feast of samosas, puris, rice, vegetable dishes, sweet rice, and dahl. The Swami ate and laughed with us. “Make sure everyone gets enough to eat,” he said. We were happy in the presence of our divine father.

The Swami had been received nicely in San Francisco and New York, so he wanted to get an immigration-status visa. One way to obtain an immigration-status visa was to be adopted. Swamiji joked to Nandarani and Dayananda, “You can adopt me as your child. But then they will say, ‘What you are doing with such an old child?’”



Sri Sri Radha Krishna Temple

Now, instead of waking up in community crash pads next to new bodies every day, I rose in the mornings with Yamuna, with the Holy Names upon my lips, feeling spiritually clean and purified. The morning shower was refreshing, and so was the walk up Ashbury Street as we headed toward the new Sri Sri Radha Krishna Temple on Frederick Street. All-night parties spilled out of the Grateful Dead house across the street as we walked by, and Jivananda and Harsarani would join us as we turned right on Frederick Street and we ambled down the hill. I felt excited by the newness of it all, but I also felt content, part of a growing family of devotees.

Down the hill, past brightly painted Victorian houses with little gardens in the front. We would cross the large, four-way intersection at Stanyan Street, past the doughnut shop, and half a block later we were in another world, another time, another consciousness. As we entered, the sounds of hushed talking greeted us. It was almost time for the morning kirtan (congressional singing). The smiling countenances of Uddhava, Ramanuja, Subal, Govinda dasi, Haridas, Rayarama, Shyamsundar, Malati, Mukunda, Janaki, Krishna devi, and Halidhar turned and welcomed us. I’d sit in the middle against the left wall. The finger cymbals started clanging as the Swami strode through the double Dutch doors.

I felt excited by the newness of it all, but I also felt content, part of a family. Since we first cleaned, painted, and decorated the storefront on Frederick Street, it had evolved magically into a temple. Every day something was acquired: a poster from India, a painting by Gaurasundar and Govinda dasi, a picture of Christ from Brother David, plants from neighbors, and more musical instruments, many homemade for kirtans like Hayagriva's kelp horn and a totem pole. The totem pole, newly carved by Haridas, stood to the right of the altar, its totemic animals grinning at us. Eventually, the totem pole was removed to Haridas’s apartment.

At first, there was no special vyasasana for the Swami to sit on, so he sat right on the altar. He was the father of our budding family, feeding us doses of spirituality such as the concepts of karma, transmigration of the soul, and “you are not this body.” He explained things by means of stories and, in this way, enlightened us with eternal truths. There were not many books about Krishna and Hinduism available to us at the time—only the three volumes of Srimad Bhagavatam that the Swami had printed in India; a small, plain-covered pamphlet titled Easy Journey to Other Planets; and an occasional Back to Godhead magazine that had been mimeographed and put together on the temple floor. Most of what we learned was transmitted orally, as it had been handed down from guru to guru for generations, like a ripe mango handed down branch to branch from the top of a tree.

The Swami also had a knack for finding out our talents, dreams, and wishes and then engaging them in Lord Krishna’s service. “Everything we do,” he told us, “you can do it for Krishna; we can offer our food in thanks and, Gurudas, you can photograph beautifully, and Yamuna can write in her nice calligraphy.” He would lead kirtan and speak in the temple on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings at 7:00 a.m. and evenings at 7:00 p.m. The atmosphere felt otherworldly and ethereal. We would sing together, and then the Swami would talk for a while, then answer questions.

One night, I was filming in the temple while Saradia and Ali Krishna were dancing together in unison from side to side in new saris. Swamiji saw them and pointed to my camera and then to the women, indicating that he wanted me to film them. His seat became the director’s chair.

I felt good with Swamiji and my problems and old dreams of the past fell away, like the impurities in ghee that rise to the surface and disappear. My dreams, as well as our day-to-day activities, became transcendental. As we and myself grew in this new way of life, I felt spiritually happy; and once again I felt I was doing something worthwhile for myself and for others.

Yamuna and I moved into a nice apartment on Willard Street with hardwood floors and a piano, just half a block from the temple. Lilavati, Murari, Jivananda, Harsharani, and my dog Que Tal moved in with us. Each married couple had a small room, and we shared a common living room and kitchen. I used the photo center run by the San Francisco Parks and Recreation Department on Scott Street to develop film and print photographs. Some of us, including Jayananda, Shyamasundar, Krishna dasa, and myself, worked at jobs and gave some money for maintaining the Frederick Street temple. Others cleaned and cooked or did other service in the temple.

I had a clerical job during the day and started teaching vocational English classes for the Department of Vocational Rehabilitation at night. The classrooms were in a business school on Market Street. About twelve students from various parts of the world attended each class. Although I was the teacher, I was the youngest person in the room. The average age of each student was about 48 years. One woman from Chile was 68. I would take any opportunity to bring up the subject of God-consciousness to them, and preaching became a normal part of my everyday life.

Finally, my life had structure, goals, and lots of love. My innocence was still intact; I felt purer every day, and I smiled a lot.

Even though Yamuna and I liked our new family—especially Mukunda and Janaki, Sam and Melanie, Upendra (Wayne Gunderson), Krishna das (Kim Lilot), Kartikeya, Govindadas and Goursundar, and Uddhava—we still resisted a full-time commitment. We were already vegetarians, and Yamuna could cook up a feast from very little. I was fortunate to be with such a smart, headstrong, semi-sweet woman who could really, really cook.



“Stay High Forever”

"No coming down,” the headline shouted from our first Back to Godhead magazine in San Francisco..
Hayagriva, the full-bearded ex-college professor of English Literature, wrote of the lasting value of Bhakti yoga meditation, instead of drugs that were somewhat useful but only temporary, and you had to get high again once they wore off, whereas with chanting, you could stay high forever, “no coming down.” We used Hayagriva’s articles, a mimeograph machine and stencils, and a hand-drawn cover, which we collated on the floor of the temple where a love feast happened the day before.

(Illustration)

Another article by Hayagriva was “Christos and Krishna,” showing the many correlation of many spiritual traditions. I always felt that the essence was the same in many traditions, only the outside was different. Swamiji supported this idea and followed up by saying, “The essence of religions are similar, only the shirt and coat are different.”

The more I got glimpses of Swamiji's ways, heard his ideas, saw him chanting deep in ecstasy, in the temple, saw his smile from afar, the more I wanted to be with him. I asked Krishna to grant my wish to have more association with the Swami.



Through the Gate

Mukunda came to get me. “Swamiji wants to see you. As I lamented I was often around the Swami, and observed him, but never had the opportunity to just be with him alone. Now I finally got to meet the Swami personally, only the two of us.

For months, I had been trying to stand out, straining on tip-toes in a crowd so he would see me. I prayed to Krishna that the Swami would somehow acknowledge me. Now he finally had!

I washed up, walked the Willard Street flat, and entered. Govinda dasi greeted me and took me to the back room. Swamiji was sitting, saffron-clad, clean, japa beads in his right hand, chanting to himself. When he saw me, he showered me with the biggest smile. I felt like he was the sun or the whole ocean. I bowed down.

“Everything all right?” he asked me genuinely.

“Yes, Swamiji,” I answered and waited.

He was silent. I waited for some divine instruction, some inspiring words. He cleared his throat.
“You are chanting?” he asked.

“Yes, every day,” I beamed.

“You are our photographer. A friend from India wants me to find a camera for him. He suggested Pentax. Is Pentax a good camera?”

“Yes, Swamiji,” I offered.

“What kind of camera is yours?”

”Nikon,” I replied quietly.

“Please find me the various kinds of cameras and their prices.”

“Yes, Swamiji.”

“Thank you very much,” he said as I reluctantly left.

I felt so good, so right in his presence. He was so kind, yet he also gave me a purpose. I immediately went to the photo store and collected catalogues and prices of various cameras.
The next day, I went to see the Swami after 10 a.m. with price lists of various 35 mm cameras, including the Pentax cameras that Swamiji was interested in. This time I brought my Nikon.

Again, he greeted me with his oceanic smile. The Swami was glowing yet unassuming as I entered the apartment three floors above our storefront temple. He smiled broadly as I walked in. He sat behind a small sea trunk which he used as a desk. On the desk was a glass of water (covered), three volumes of Srimad Bhagavatam, a new dictaphone, a pen and pencil, some paper, and a little bell. His feet were bare and seemed to be of a golden reddish color. His saffron cloth dhoti was wrapped around his golden legs and was clean and pressed. A simple saffron kurta shirt showed small tulsi wooden beads around his neck. His shaven head emanated an aura.

He was silent but emanated a gentle kindness. His smile said everything. I felt like he really was truly asking how I was. His eyes looked into me through me and on me, as if reading my innermost hidden mind and soul.

“Did you find a price for the Pentax camera?”

“Yes, Swamiji,” I said and handed the price list to him. He accepted it gracefully. I watched Swamiji reading the list so very carefully. He then placed it gingerly to the lower left hand side of the desk, looked with encouragement into me, and said, “Brahmananda has asked that we make one portrait photo for our Bhagavad Gita.” He held up a letter and handed it to me, lofting it into the air, for me to catch.

By Krishna’s grace, I caught it deftly. The letter from New York requested an official formal portrait that could be used as a frontispiece for the new Bhagavad Gita published by Macmillan and co and perhaps in all future publications. I handed the letter back to Swamiji, not lofting it, and as our hands touched, I felt a warmth, not like electricity but like a comfortable protected touch.

“Do you want me to take the photograph?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“Here is fine. Is that all right?” he asked.

Since I’d lived at the Willard Street apartment before Swamiji, I knew when and where to find the best sunlight. I also knew that the Swami’s mornings were taken up with more writing, meeting people, massage around 11:30, a bath after that, and then lunch. Then he would nap for between 20 and 30 minutes, which gave him three and a half to four hours of sleep per day. I found out from Upendra that the best time would be at four in the afternoon. It was a good time light-wise as well.

The back room facing the ocean was well lit. I could use available light, which was softer and less shadowy than artificial light, I thought. The Swami motioned for me to sit next to him, and then asked to see my Nikon.
He examined it with golden fingers. Sitting next to him felt comforting, special, yet one of those times when you had to put forth your best self and be totally conscious. The Swami was especially interested in the light meter.

“What does that do?” He pointed.

“This measures the light and tells me what exposure to set in relationship to the various film types.”
His interested eyes got as big as round saucers. He seemed to understand my stammering explanation. I showed him how, when I covered the light-sensitive photo cells, the needle moved.

His eyes got even bigger and light shone from them. I put my finger over the cells the needle went down. I took my finger away and the needle shot up, registering the sunlight in the room. I showed him how I got the light reading and how I transferred that into picking the proper F-stop and shutter speed.

The Swami was fascinated. He then put his finger over the light meter cells, and the needle jumped again. What fascinated me was that he did that for 10 minutes as I sat and watched his childlike self emerge. He balanced the whole camera in his lotus hand and finally handed the camera back to me, acknowledging its weight. I bowed and left, elated.

The next day, I arrived at 3:45 p.m. Everything was already prepared, a single mattress covered with tasteful madras cloth. Swamiji came in smiling and sat down gracefully like a nesting bird. Harsharani came in and said,
“You look so beautiful today.” He replied, “Why just today?”

The flowered early American wallpaper behind him was distracting. I said, “We need something to cover the wallpaper; it is too busy and will take away from the portrait.” Nobody moved for a moment and then Govinda dasi went out looking for something in another room.

Swamiji took off his charcoal gray shawl and asked, “Will this do?”

“I’ll try it,” I said, and I was able to secure it to the wall with pins. I was thinking a white background would be best, but this is what Krishna gave, and it should be fine. I wanted to complete the session as quickly as possible, so as not to inconvenience the Swami. His time was very valuable, I thought.

Swamiji sat with his right hand in the japa bag and started to chant quietly. He then motioned for the three Srimad Bhagavatams to be placed to his right for the photo. I had a few color photos left in one camera and black-and-white film in another camera. I took light readings. Swamiji watched as I took the meter readings. It seemed as though he wanted to come over and play with the light meter again; however, we remained on the mattress.

I staggered the F-stops to make sure the photos would render good negatives. I used up all the film, including some close-ups of me shooting up from the ground into the compassionate face blessing me. When I developed the black-and-white film and printed them, I found they all were good photos. However, a smoky aura showed all around the Swami. The color film showed a golden aura around Swamiji’s head, instead of the charcoal gray color of the chador. There was definitely some extra-special light coming from Swamiji that showed up on those portraits.

I liked being with the Swami. I felt that now I had my foot in the door of the spiritual universe. I also felt that the Swami was empowering me. I left chanting, “Hare Krishna,” happily to myself.



Beauty

When we knew each other better, Swamiji teased me when I was photographing him more than usual one day. He said, “There is a superstition in India that when someone is photographed, his life is shortened.”

Shocked, I stopped photographing him abruptly. Then he asked me what I thought of that. I gained my composure and replied, “It is not how long we live but what we do with our life that is important.”

He laughed and said, “Yes, that is only a superstition.”

In the temple, I really liked when the Swamiji came down at 7 in the morning, smiling in saffron robes flowing. With half-closed eyes, he began chanting, “Hare Krishna,” in a sweet, husky, yet plaintive manner. We as a group answered back and then we heard him and then sung out again. Yamuna’s loud voice soared above everyone. I felt my heart going into Lord Krishna’s. We all melted into the transcendental sound vibration. He smiled at us over us. He was like Buddha.

After we chanted, Swamiji talked to us sometimes about the sweetness of Krishna, and about Karma. Other times, he told of how we can Krishna-ize everything we do by offering service in devotion of Krishna and we all will benefit as well as humanity in general: “Water, the root of the tree, and all the leaves and branches will be nourished.” He exemplified this service attitude by serving us through instruction and example.

One night, he said, “We are not this body. We are spirit souls.” He explained that our bodies are covering of our soul, the body changes from a baby’s to an old man’s, yet our soul is the same and cannot be killed. At the time of death, the soul goes into another form depending on how we live our lives and our consciousness at the time of death. The body covers our soul. An analogy is that our bodies are cars, and we (our soul) are the drivers of the cars. When we die, we can get another car according to our consciousness from life’s actions and at the time of death.

This idea was the essence of Krishna consciousness and was reiterated many times so that we could stop identifying with our temporary bodies and be aware of our eternal consciousnesses. When we realize this, we are situated in a feeling of love, or God-consciousness. We feel the connection between ourselves and all living entities. That is Bhakti yoga: Yoga means union, and Bhakti yoga is based on devotion or the idea that everything we do is in relationship to God and therefore loving everyone as well. Seeing the god inside them, we can be totally compassionate. Of course, being vegetarian exemplified this.



Don’t Let Gurudas In

I found any excuse to go to the Swami’s apartment. I wanted to be near him, no matter how petty the reason. Seeing me with Swamiji so often, his servants Satchitananda and Upendra talked it over and advised him, “Don’t let Gurudas in so much.” Yet I still found ways to be near the Swami, because to me this association was the sum and substance of my Krishna consciousness. By Krishna's grace, when they were out of the room for even a brief moment, that is when I decided to visit the Swami. I did not plan it. It just happened that way.

The Swami would greet me warmly, expressing real happiness to see me. I had never experienced such acceptance from anyone else, ever. He would sit comfortably, cross-legged, with a huge smile and a welcoming gesture. I would sit on a cushion on the opposite side of the simple, low coffee table that served as a desk. If it wasn’t on his hand, his japa bag was nearby.

Between conversations he would chant constantly, almost silently. Upendra and Satchitananda would come back from somewhere and find Swamiji and me, and say to themselves, “Oh, no, Gurudas is there again, and eventually maybe it is meant to be.”

Swamiji always seemed to have enough time for me and everybody.



Morning Walks

Walking in the early morning with Bhaktivedanta Swami was a special treat. Swamiji would say, “Regulation is the preventative for disease,” and he practiced this principle by going to sleep at 10:30 p.m., waking at 1:30 a.m., bathing, chanting, translating, and then taking a walk at 6:00 a.m.—each and every morning.

Walking by his side, I felt secure. He walked and chanted with a bead bag on his right hand and a walking cane in the left, and when he stopped to point to something in nature, his words filled my heart and soul. He would glance at me, and it felt as if we were all alone. The other four or five devotees, all that could fit into a car, became a peripheral part of my consciousness.

We especially liked to go to Stowe Lake in nearby Golden Gate Park. One morning, two carloads of devotees went, and as the Swami and 6 others walked in the early morning fog, some ducks were sleeping on the pathway. A well-meaning devotee started yelling at the ducks, “Make way for the Swami—get out of the way!”

Quacking, the ducks grumpily got to their feet and half-staggered to the side of the wide, cement path and toward the lake, where other ducks were still in peaceful slumber. The loud, bold devotee came back to Swamiji and reported, “We have moved the ducks so they won’t disturb you.”

With a laugh in his eyes, Swamiji replied, “As you are thinking they are disturbing us, they are thinking we are disturbing them.”

I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it, because I was thinking that very same thought. The ducks were there first; it was their habitat. I liked the way Swamiji could be so compassionate and open-minded and see all sides of a situation see into the hearts of all living entities.

(Illustration)

At Stowe Lake, Swamiji would walk up and down, turning around as he got to one end of the wide cement road. Instead of going around the scenic lake, he would be satisfied to just walk back and forth on one shore. Usually, whenever Swamiji turned, all 6 of us would turn right to go around the lake.

Then, suddenly realizing that he had about-faced, we would run back to catch up with him, angling closer to see who would walk right next to him. It was like the roller derby in slow-motion, people subtly elbowing each other.

I watched his face as we came upon some particularly beautiful spot, expecting it to change—but his
face remained constant in the same transcendental mood. The next morning he resumed his walking up and down one side of the lake, and I realized that his contentment was not dependent on a beauty of nature or on any situation or environment—his peaceful constitution was dependent only upon Lord Krishna.

Regarding Stowe Lake, he said, “This place reminds me of Bombay.” The more I walked with him in the mornings, the friendlier he was to me, and when he looked toward me, he looked right into me—it was nonjudgmental, just looking and making me feel good. Sometimes we took the Swami to different places in the park.

In a wooded section of Golden Gate Park, deep inside the forest, a policeman came driving slowly through the woods on the cement path. The cop leaned out of his car and said, “Hiya, Swamiji,” waved, smiled, and drove on. Swamiji turned to us and said, “He has seen me on television.”
“Morning sun gives strength, afternoon sun takes away strength.”
—A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami



What Is the Meaning?

On a morning walk at South Lake, Swamiji stopped and pointed to some bird droppings on the ground. He then turned to Upendra, and asked, “What is the meaning of that?”

Upendra was a very shy and self-effacing devotee. He was bewildered as to what to say, as he saw Swamiji pointing to bird excrement.

He became red-faced and stammered, “Uh, uh, I don’t know?”

Swamiji continued, “Yes, they are bird droppings, but what is their meaning?”

Again, Upendra was flabbergasted, and he felt foolish, because surely Prabhupad knew they were bird droppings, but Upendra was too overwhelmed to say so. Now Swamiji was asking what the meaning was. Upendra blurted out, “They are positioned like tea leaves . . .”

Swamiji interrupted, saving Upendra from putting his transcendental foot in his mouth any further. Swamiji said, “This bird has been here for more than two weeks. Even birds are attached to their apartments.” He laughed, and we all laughed.



The First Sankirtan (Chanting in the Streets)

Gradually, I became accustomed to the new simplicity and regulation in my life. I hadn’t dodged any bullets lately, or been zapped with electric cattle prods, or evicted from a domicile, or thrown off the planet. I was spending more time with the Swami, and I liked the wholesomeness of my companions on our mutual spiritual path. Most of them were good people, upbeat and somewhat innocent. In my dreams—and during chanting—big blocks of past garbage floated up and away forever, as if my subconscious self was doing a spring cleaning. A general feeling of goodness replaced my nescience. I asked Swamiji about this feeling. He said, “This is the purification process working. As you serve Lord Krishna, all unwanted things will go away.”

Although my inner self was being thus purified, I never liked too much cleaning. “You don’t want to throw out the baby with the bath water,” I told myself. “Go slow, go easy.”

I learned to care of business first and then play. Spiritual life is like that also. The Swami told me that at first you learn and apply the rules and regulations, and when you know the fundamentals, then you reach a spontaneous stage wherein the path becomes easy, satisfying, and joyous.

The new devotees were getting ready for our first all-day festival in the temple. It was to celebrate the appearance day of Lord Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, the Golden Avatar Who is Lord Krishna Himself, and Who came to Earth about 500 years ago.

(Illustration)

The sight of Lord Chaitanya, His eyes turned toward heaven, His arms upraised in trance, the Holy Names of Krishna and Rama on His lotus lips, graced us from many Indian paintings. At the Swami’s request, we gathered produce, grains, and other foodstuffs to be prepared and offered for our biggest feast yet. This feast was to be served after the day-long festivities, which included congregational chanting, japa, and reading from Srimad Bhagavatam.

We gathered together early in the day and softly chanted our 16 rounds of morning japa to ourselves. Later we shared the stories we had heard about Lord Chaitanya’s life, pastimes, and miracles from Swamij's manuscript "Teachings of Lord Chaitanya." and Professor Sanyal’s book. After about an hour of reading—about all our short attention spans could digest at one sitting—we started chanting loudly with instruments. Then we started the cycle again.

Early in the afternoon, we were again performing kirtan loudly, and as the sun was streaming through the front window and open door, I looked over at Jayananda, Jivananda. Jivananda silently indicated, “Let’s take this outdoors in the streets like Lord Chaitanya.”

While the temple kirtan was going on, the three of us headed for the door with cymbals and drums, inviting others to follow. Everyone else stayed put, and I wasn’t sure at all if we were doing the right thing. We turned left and then right on Stanyan Street, up the hill, past Subal, Krishna devi, and Ramanuja’s apartment. Then we turned right on Parnassus, chanting and marching to the sound of drum and kartalas.

We ended up under the window of the flat on Willard Street where Yamuna and I had formerly lived, now occupied by the Swami. Our singing got louder, and we hoped it would attract his attention. Soon, Swamiji appeared at the window and looked down on us. He motioned with his hand in a downward thrust, once, then twice, and then again; we thought he was motioning us back to the temple. Dejected, we started slowly down the hill but still managed to continue our chanting, although it sounded more like a dirge. We realized that we were supposed to stay in the temple all day and, having ventured outside, we had made Swamiji angry.

Chastised, we made our way down the hill. Upendra then came speeding out of the building, made a rounded turn to catch up with us and said, “The Swami wants to see you.” We were confused, and then Upendra added, “When Swamiji waves his hand downward, that means come here. That’s how they do it in India.”

Relieved, yet still apprehensive, we went up the stairs. The Swami was in the front room. He beamed at us and said huskily, “Come on.” Again, he waved his hand downward. We sat in a crescent near his feet. He smiled even more.

“Lord Chaitanya has given you the intelligence to chant outside in the streets so more people can hear the Holy Names. Lord Chaitanya always chanted in the streets, so now you can do this every day.” Then, with his golden graceful fingers, he handed us gulab jamuns (sweet rosewater pastries), all the while gracing us with his munificent smile. Upendra then signaled that we should leave, so we bowed down and silently left.

When we returned to the temple, we told the others what had happened, and from that day on we went out with banners, signs, poster photos, instruments, and the mimeographed copies of Back to Godhead. Our first kirtan was held at the cable car turn-around near Aquatic Park. I photographed the event.

(Illustration)

On other days, we went to Union Square or Market Street near that cable car turn-around. The enchanting sounds of the Holy Names echoed through the streets of San Francisco, bringing joy and healing via their transcendental vibrations.

We were “Staying High Forever,” as the article in Back to Godhead said . The outdoor chanting became a gentle part of San Francisco life, and in a newspaper poll, 67 percent of the citizens were not only favorable toward Hare Krishna but said also that they agreed with the Krishna conscious spiritual path.

No one felt coerced or pushed into anything. The example of Swamiji’s enthusiasm, and our new faith in Krishna, were our beacons. A fresh wind of peace from the East came to us in the form of A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami. “You know Krishna through your guru, and you know your guru through Krishna.”
—A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami

One day I was in the Temple framing a new photo I took of the Swami when I saw Swamiji, Shyamasundar, Mukunda, and Janaki walking toward the park. I bolted up and without putting on my shoes and ran after them. When I was a hippie I went barefooted in the city more, but now I was tender footed again. I caught up to Swamiji and the others. By then, I was walking gingerly, as I’d picked up a piece of glass in my foot. The Swami recognized my discomfort immediately.

“Where are your shoes?” he asked.

“When I am with you, I feel no pain.” I foolishly said.

He looked through me, into me again. “There is enough tapasaya (difficulties) in this world. We do not have to impose more difficulties on ourselves.” That became a life-long lesson.

Sometimes the Swami talked in planetary terms. One day, an Indian doctor saw us on television, and then we were in his presence. He extolled to the Swami. “I saw you on television, and now you are in my clinic. Isn't it a small world?”

“Yes, it is insignificant,” Swamiji answered.



Mantra-Rock Dance

Within a short time, the Hare Krishna’s became a familiar part of the Haight-Ashbury scene. If you lived on a street in the Haight, one of the underground secrets of survival was that you could go to the Krishna temple and get a nice, warm breakfast in a friendly atmosphere. Chanting became known as a nice way to "come down" from an acid trip, and the meal of hot cereal, marinated garbanzo beans, and fruit drink or hot milk was always welcome.

We decided to introduce Swamiji and the chanting to thousands of our fellow members of the counterculture by sponsoring a charity rock concert at one of the popular venues of the time. I was acquainted with Sam Andrews from the band Big Brother and the Holding Company; Shyamasundar knew Chet Helms, proprietor of the Avalon Ballroom, who agreed to donate his hall for one night. Shyamasundar also knew Rock Scully, manager of the Grateful Dead, who was his roommate at Reed College.

Yamuna and I knew him because they lived across from us on Ashbury Street. Chet arranged interviews and, in addition to the Dead and Big Brother, were able to persuade Jefferson Airplane, Quicksilver Messenger Service, and Moby Grape to perform free as a benefit to support the Radha Krishna Temple, As well.

Allen Ginsberg had agreed to fly out from New York to perform on stage and introduce the Swami to the people of San Francisco.

The evening of the Mantra-Rock Dance, January 29th, I walked into the empty ballroom and yelled, “Hare Krishna!” The transcendental sound echoed off the walls. The rest of the devotees came over to the hall early to take tickets, cut oranges, and decorate the stage with flowers, cloth hangings, paintings, and posters of Lord Krishna. I saw the empty concert hall gradually fill up with life; soon it was bustling with sounds, smells, lights, and joy. Of course, Lord Chaitanya was there too, as were all the demigods, who relish attending functions such as this. It felt as if they were throwing rose-petal benedictions upon the place. We had brought all our instruments: kartalas, flutes, trumpets, and a huge timpani drum. We checked the sound and greeted early arrivals. The Swami was to arrive later.

First Moby Grape played, as strobes and colored lights danced. Then, the house lights were turned on and various celebrities began to fill the stage. Allen Ginsberg, wearing a long white robe, climbed up the madras-covered steps and settled onto the stage. Peter Orlovsky sat down too. Tim Leary came in, smiled, and sat cross-legged. Swami Kriyananda, a disciple of Paramahamsa Yogananada, came in with a musical instrument called a vina. He seemed happy and comfortable to be there. Then a short man in a silk top hat and sash reading, “SAN FRANCISCO,” who claimed to be the mayor, walked onto the stage.

We made some Hells Angels to be our security guards as we were most afraid of them disrupting the concert, so if they were our guards so they would automatically guard themselves. They stood in the back of the stage near a large painting of Radha and Krishna. They were our security guards, and no one was going to mess with them.
Yamuna and I were cutting up oranges for prasadam (mercy) distribution. My friend "Easy" drifted by, greeted us, and danced away. Allen Ginsberg took the microphone and introduced chanting of the maha-mantra to the congregation. “This mantra will deliver us all,” he said. “Just sink into the sound vibration and think of peace.” Accompanied by a small harmonium, he then began chanting: “Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare, Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare.”

I jumped up and started chanting and dancing, and gradually, as everyone joined in, the whole hall felt like it as traveling on an intergalactic journey in our transcendental spaceship.

After the Mantra-Rock Dance concert, the community reacted favorably. We now were an accepted and sought-after part of the scene. Addressing speculation that he was Ginsberg's guru, Prabhupada answered by saying, “I am nobody's guru. I am everybody's servant. Actually I am not even a servant; a servant of God is no ordinary thing.”

An excerpt from the “Houseboat Summit” panel discussion, in Sausalito, Calif., February 1967**, Cohen 1991, p. 182:


Ginsberg: So what do you think of Swami Bhaktivedanta pleading for the acceptance of Krishna in every direction?
Snyder: Why, it's a lovely positive thing to say Krishna. It's a beautiful mythology and it's a beautiful practice.

Leary: Should be encouraged.

Ginsberg: He feels it's the one uniting thing. He feels a monopolistic unitary thing about it.

Watts: I'll tell you why I think he feels it. The mantras, the images of Krishna have in this culture no foul association. ... [W]hen somebody comes in from the Orient with a new religion which hasn't got any of these [horrible] associations in our minds, all the words are new, all the rites are new, and yet, somehow it has feeling in it, and we can get with that, you see, and we can dig that!

*(Greene 2007, p. 85; Goswami & Dasi 2011, pp. 196–7)

** (Cohen 1991, p. 182):



Swamiji seemed to dote on me especially, and I felt I was his pet. However, everyone felt that way with the Swami, which is why so many young disciples joined him and gave their lives in devotion. We felt like the Gopis felt with Lord Krishna. Each one of us felt special and Krishna interacted specially with each one, as he was attentive the various personalities and whims of his devotees. Similarly, each of us felt a special relationship or rasa with the Swami. I felt that he still treated me specially, and as he did, I reciprocated through the years. We felt comfortable and happy in each other’s presence. The more I got to know him, the more I liked him.

The Swami and my new family became my reality. Although the life was purer, the food different, the somewhat regulated way of life replaced the spontaneous, variegated, pleasurable, day-to-day, hand-to-mouth existence I’d led before. The Swami was making my life better. I had a new meaning of life. I was now living a new reality. My was spiritually engaged. The Swami in fact brought me the whole Vedic culture1 he brought a tangible life style to me.

I remembered a quote I heard from the blues singer Mississippi John Hurt: “You watch the traffic, not the signal.” I was into my inner soul reality, "the traffic," and not the surface reality of temporary pleasures, "the signal.”

Yamuna and I moved in with a Hope who became Harsharani. She was slender, with pensive eyes, a quiet and thoughtful soul, except when she was the moralist or rule-enforcer and her schoolmarm side came out. She even scolded the Swami when he came into the kitchen when she and Govinda dasi (Bonnie) were cooking. They were making pakoras, a fritter made of vegetables such as cauliflower tops or onions that were dipped in chickpea flour and fried in hot oil. Even though it was the Swami who taught Harsharani, she chastised him when he came into the kitchen. He in turn took a fresh pakora and popped it into his mouth. One of the rules of Vaishnava cooking is that you do not taste while cooking, as Joan learned in New York.

Harsharani said, “Swamiji, you know that you cannot eat while we are preparing food to offer to Lord Krishna.”

Swamiji ignored her and placed another pakora into his lotus mouth with relish. Exasperated, Harsharani brayed, “How many can you eat, Swamiji?”

“More than you can make,” he shot back, taking another pakora off of the paper towels catching the excess oil.

“We cannot eat when we cook for Krishna,” she reiterated.

The Swami looked straight at her and replied, “Who gave you those rules?”

“You did,” she said somewhat sheepishly.

“Then I can break them,” he laughed and walked out.

Govinda dasi, the strawberry-blonde artist, cook, and mother hen, looked on in astonishment and enjoyment. She too was in love with the Swami and all his unpredictable ways. Sometime later, when the Swami was sick and required a special, very bland ayurvedic-oriented diet, he called her “the starvation committee.”

Our family was growing Harsharani moved in with Jim a sweet talented musician from Texas who moved in with us after tasting the prasadam. He was another easygoing, open-minded searcher, ready to embrace something new exotic and valuable. He became Jivananda and now is the proprietor of a café in mystical Glastonbury, England. King Arthur’s River runs through the café and all day, people come for miles around to take the waters of the magic river.

Wayne, who was super-sweet, almost naïve in his trusting of other people, moved in too. He became Upendra and the Swami asked him to be his personal assistant, cleaning and cooking and organizing, and attending to the Swami’s basic needs. Soon Lilavati, Murari, Ramanuju, Krishna devi, Uddhava and Subal joined.



Tribute to Jayananda Prabhu

The Swamiji told me that when you see a Vaishnava, you automatically think of Krishna. Jayananda prabhu was steady in his devotion.

One very impressive soul was Jim Kohr, a strong, straightforward, no-nonsense yet down-to-earth guy who was everyone’s friend. Although Jayananda presented a simple demeanor, his tremendous mind retained many details. He worked as a cab driver and once, in a playful mood, Jayananda asked me to name any street in San Francisco and he would tell me the adjacent streets, which stores or residences were on the street, and even what colors the buildings were.

He even remembered whether a house was a Victorian. He was immediately impressed with the Swami and soon quit his job to become Swami’s chauffeur, all-around handy man, and procurer of fruits, flowers and vegetables for free. He was a hard worker, the salt of the earth. He would tell regular people about the Swami and they would accept him and not think it so strange. Of course, it was the ‘60s. Jim, who became Jayananda, would also defend us in public when we started to chant in the streets. “These are really good people,” he would plead, wanting everyone to understand what he understood.

Jayananda was one of the most unselfish people I have ever met; he was most known for his tireless work every year to make the Jagannath Festival a success, but his passion for all types of service was evident from the first day I met him in San Francisco. He motivated many of us by his stalwart example, doing as much as he could by himself before asking anyone else to help. Jayananda once gave Swamiji five thousand dollars to keep our budding San Francisco temple blossoming. He became a celestial chauffeur, driving Swamiji to radio and television programs and to various places in Golden Gate Park for his morning walks. I witnessed the respect Jayananda felt for Swamiji. I saw the love brimming from his eyes when he viewed his spiritual master.

I relished my association with Jayananda during his presidency of the first San Francisco temple. After I was elected vice president, we would ride together to the farmers’ market or the flower outlets and plan events for the temple. Jayananda gave Yamuna and me his apartment on Ashbury Street across from the Grateful Dead house, while he moved into the stark basement of the Frederick Street temple where the brahmacharis lived, and slept on the floor with them.

Our small family was close, serving Krishna, learning and building together. Later, I went on to London. Jayananda was needed elsewhere, so we drifted apart. Around 1974, Jayananda and I would be reunited when I was given charge of a Radha Damodara bus that traveled throughout the Pacific Northwest. We put on three to four programs a day. During lunch, we would set up a stage, prasadam counter, and book table. Jayananda would man the prasadam booth, and Paravrajakacharya and I would speak about the chanting and philosophy in the Pacific Northwest in student unions, from Reed College to the University of Nevada.

From Tuesday through Saturday, Jayananda would lead the satellite sankirtan party chanting through the streets. He took care of the two vans that we used, and I always trusted that the party was secure under his guidance. Even though I was officially in charge of the traveling party, I considered Jayananda the spiritual leader. The servant is the master. Jayananda prabhu called me Maharaja, but with so much friendship and so little formality that he endeared himself to me. He cut through pretense in order to get to the heart of our mutual goal: devotional service. While others were parading or posturing, Jayananda was working. He taught by his example.



Hells Angels, Diggers, and Jagannath

A steady congregation of characters was now flowing into our storefront Radha Krishna Temple for the nightly sessions of rocking, chanting, dancing, and feasting. Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead just donated a huge new stove. It had a great flat grill, excellent for making chapattis, so we now had breakfast, lunch, and dinner programs of feasting and chanting on a regular basis. There were so many folks coming that the temple would be filled from the front altar all the way to the back of the room and out the double Dutch doors to the sidewalk.
One night, the temple door opened and a shaggy-haired, gap-toothed youth in a homemade dress came in. He called himself Rabbit and didn’t bother closing the front door. Behind him came Israel, a gaunt, scholarly looking man in his late twenties. Israel wore wire-rimmed glasses and a topknot trailing down to his waist. Trumpet in hand, he was ready to wail and chant.


Then three soiled, blanketed cherubs walked in silently and went to a far wall. They stood together, not talking, not looking around, just waiting. They had begun showing up every day, especially for feasts. They rarely spoke, but they muttered and motioned that they would like to help out around the temple. In the front window were some potted plants and flowers donated by the Patels, a local East Indian family. I asked the three to water the plants with a can, and I filled it for them. All three stepped up onto the store-window platform and proceeded to spill water all over themselves and everywhere else except on the plants. One of them even stepped right on the plants! I saw this and nicely asked them to please just sit down and chant.

They turned out to be air-headed space cadets. They muddled any simple job they were asked to do, or left it in midstream. If it was licking envelopes, they would end up sticking the envelopes all over themselves; if it was cutting vegetables, we had to protect them from cutting themselves. So we assigned them to just hang around the temple and chant. If they were stationary and content, so were we. We eventually nicknamed them the "Three Wise Men" because they looked like a scruffy version of the three visitors to baby Christ in the manger. Since we didn’t know their names and they never told us, I called them Frank, Incense, and Murray.

Surendra, a youth from Bengal, was one of the regular guests at the temple, and he was always gaping at the scantily clad flower girls who danced in the temple room, far different from his restricted childhood in India. Emaciated, sullen, self-absorbed, poetic-looking folks crept in, as did sleek girls who came to dance, first gyrating and then, after some words of instruction from the Swami, swaying like bamboo in the breeze, their eyes closed in the Hare Krishna trance dance. Many street people came only to fill their bellies, yet they eventually took to the chanting.

Each night, the newly initiated devotees would file into the temple. Mukunda appeared with a conga drum, and Yamuna came in looking confident, like the mother of the temple, her beautiful, long, black hair flowing straight down her back. She smiled at her friends, as her sister Janaki, animated and giggling, followed right behind her. Govinda dasi and Gaurasundar, one of the first married couples, brought one of their new paintings of the Swami and hung it on the wall for everyone to admire. Uddhava, with his curly beard and open face, arrived ready to sing out. The devotees from New York added to the mix: large, blustery Hayagriva in front, with a horn he had fashioned from a length of dried kelp; Rayarama, quiet and shy, a good editor; Ravindra Swaroop, the poet; Haridas, the artist. Malati walked down the four steps from the back kitchen room with a huge kettle drum in her arms. Brother David, soft-spoken and slow-moving, walked up from the basement where the brahmachari students lived.

At 7:00 p.m., Swami Bhaktivedanta walked in, head raised slightly, simultaneously noble and unassuming. Upendra stumbled in behind him like one of Snow White’s dwarves. The Swami was not looking directly at anyone but embracing us all. He then smiled, went to the altar, and sat down right under our new painting of the Pancatattva. The five avatars, with Their arms raised, eyes to Krishna in Goloka Vrindavan, dancing serenely: Lord Chaitanya, Nityananda, Sri Advaita, Gadadhar, and Shrivas catalyzed our mood. As Swamiji sang the Vande Ham prayers to his line of spiritual masters, it soothed and calmed us. The prayers ended as the sunset and the last rays streamed through the front door and window, bathing the temple room in orange-yellow light. I was nestled cross-legged on a pillow with my back straight. All eyes were on Swamiji.

He took out some bell-metal kartalas, looked around without looking at anything in particular, and began a three-beat: chah-chah-cheee, chah-chah-cheee, the third beat sizzling. In husky, sonorous tones, he sang out: “Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare, Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare.”

We couldn’t stay seated and jumped up almost in unison. Hayagriva blew the kelp horn, as the booming kettledrum created a throbbing foundation rhythm. The mantra was starting to grow on me, and singing with Swamiji leading the congregation was really fun. Kirtan usually lasted more than an hour, the sound rising, subsiding into sweet, low tenderness, and then ending in a joyous crescendo that left me with an afterglow—a clean, elated feeling.

The Swami’s eyes were closed, and his head was swaying from side to side. My hands went up toward the ceiling, and, in a trance dance, I swayed like wheat in the wind. As the sounds grew louder and slightly faster, Israel jumped up and down. He danced in a circle and bleated his trumpet like Cat Anderson of the Duke Ellington band. A blonde girl, naked beneath a homemade dress, rose and started dancing, her dress falling provocatively off her shoulders. I became distracted and saw I wasn’t alone. Eyes darted in her direction, and I saw brahmacharis peeking through supposedly closed eyes. This innocent, chanting wood-nymph was unaware of the agitation around her.

Sensing what was going on, the Swami opened his eyes. The girl was right in front of him now, shaking all over as if she were at the Avalon Ballroom. Swamiji didn’t change his expression and continued chanting. When it was the congregation’s turn to chant, he called me over. “That girl must be covered,” he told me.

I would have been dancing with her at the Avalon Ballroom myself, a little while ago. I got an old sari worn for cooking and draped it around her. “Now to deal with her dance skills,” I thought to myself. I didn’t have to say anything though; her consciousness was made more gentle simply by the shelter of the sari. She saw other girls swaying softly.
Many times in those days, other girls in loose homemade clothes, sometimes also falling off, would dance in front of the Swami. Unlike other swamis and gurus, I never saw or heard any lustful looks or deeds. Once, though, he was aware of a particular almost-naked girl dancing in San Francisco, and he asked Saradiya, a new woman, disciple to find a sari or some cloth to better cover her.

He did this not out of lust, but because it was distracting to others. Certainly, I have been distracted and even led to and from my spiritual endeavors by pretty women. It was Yamuna now who shared my Krishna Consciousness. That is why, in many countries, men and women are separated in the places of worship, because of the natural distraction.

The kirtan built up again. Yamuna yelled, “Hari hari bol!” her voice piercing the temple room with its pure, spiritual strength. Janaki echoed her sister. Mukunda played the drum expertly, catalyzing everyone with driving rhythms. I felt like I was leaving my body. We got into a steady, flowing ecstasy. After some time, the Swami speeded up the kartala beat, and we responded faster. The whole room was bursting; the whole city was rocking; the whole world was vibrating; the whole universe was in balance—and I was experiencing transcendental bliss! The bongos, kettle drum, cymbals, kelp horn, trumpet, and African instruments all stopped in one unified beat.

Swamiji called out, “Gaura prem-ananda hari hari bol!” In a voice that was simultaneously sweet and grave, he recited paeans glorifying the past preceptors in our spiritual lineage. We collapsed on the floor, bowing down.

We all alighted and sat upright silently as the Swami was now going to speak.

The swami settled into his raised seat. “Thank you very much—all of you nice young boys and girls—for coming and . . .”

We heard pounding on the wall. A loud thump from next door suddenly resonated on the wall. Framed pictures shook. Again there was a thump.

“. . . chanting this Hare Krishna mantra with us.” The Swami didn’t miss a beat. He stopped talking, called me over, beckoned me closer. My ear was right near his mouth. I felt privileged.

“What is that sound?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered.

“It is coming from next door.”

Next door was the God’s Eye Ice Cream Parlor, which was the hangout and hideout of the Hells Angels as well as headquarters for the Diggers, an anarchistic organization run by Emmett Grogan and Peter Coyote that believed that all goods and services should be free. The police raided the place frequently, and when this happened, the Angels would whip out movie cameras without any film in them and pretend to film the raid. The police, fearing they would be on the evening news, always left quickly and quietly.

The banging continued. “Go see what is making that noise,” Swamiji requested. “Ask them to stop.”

“Yes, Swamiji,” I said. “Why me?” I thought. “I’m wearing a robe, I’m high from the kirtan, and now I have to face the Hells Angels. Cloth versus leather, finger cymbals versus knives.”

The Swami again addressed the congregation. “I see you, so many bright-faced people chanting and feeling blissful by chanting these Holy Names . . .”

Excusing myself, I went out into the cool night air and started to breathe more easily. I heard loud laughter from inside the God’s Eye. “Yes,” I thought, “inside God’s eyes, certainly Krishna would protect me.” But my throat was dry as I knocked on the door.

A scar-faced yet handsome Hells Angel opened the door. He wore swastikas and lots of black leather. He stared at me. I held his eyes and stared back. Six more Angels encircled me. Then a tattooed BORN TO LOSE arm waved me inside.

Resolutely but quietly, I said, as humbly and non-confrontational as I could. “The Swami is about to speak. We were wondering if you could party less hearty.”

They didn’t say anything. I persevered. “The thumping on the wall interrupted him. Many folks would like to hear him speak, and you can come too if you like.”

One of the angels stared at me a while longer. Then he smiled and said, “It was your singing that made us dance, but the wall got in the way! Hey, if the Swami wants to speak, that’s OK with us. Your guru is heavy, man!”

His gap-toothed smile embraced me. I thanked them all.

As neighbors, we would eventually come to know each other and get along well. They came over for free feasts, a stick of incense, or a cup of sugar. After my meeting with them, they always quieted down when they heard the kirtan stop, because they knew the Swami was speaking. I could sense their presence behind the wall. “The Swami is going to speak now; shut up.” The Angels became our security guards at the Mantra-Rock Dance and at many of our other large gatherings, like the Jagannatha Car Festival.
“In any situation, we must take place, time, and circumstance into account.”
—A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami

Morning Star Ranch was founded by Lou Gottlieb, a caring fellow who was once the bass player in a folk band called The Limeliters. He started one of the most famous and infamous hippie communes. When the neighbors complained, he put the property in the name of God, and won many court cases on this basis. In addition to thinking that everything is God’s property, we had many things in common.

Four of our future devotees came from that commune: Vishnujnan, Madhuvisa, Rebathinanda and Tamal Krishna. Now we went with the Swami and had a wonderful day of peaceful creeks, gardens and tree houses to meditate and chant near. In the large main house, we settled in and Swamiji led a chant, while Lou played his grand piano. As we passed one of the tree houses, Tamal Krishna told me that he lived in that tree and played the flute. His eyes softened. “When I first came here I had a blonde on each arm and a pocketful of money, and I gave that all up to serve the Swami.”

Tamal became very direct and outspoken. Even in this early stage of devotion, he said to Lou Gottlieb, “You should practice Bhakti Yoga.” To which Lou played Bach etudes and other pieces.

Lou and everyone genuinely respected the Swami. We traipsed back to the city feeling blissful.



Desire

Prabhupad was holding court in his rooms one day. Someone was expressing frustration about not getting what they wanted. Prabhupad told this story:

A woodchopper was walking in the forest to chop wood. He had to walk further and further every time, as trees were being cut near the village. When he reached the forest, he was tired from the long walk. He sat under a tree and mopped his brow and said out loud, “I am so tired! I wish the wood would chop itself.”

To his amazement and pleasure, the trees segmented into neatly chopped piles. The woodchopper looked at the piles, scratched the back of his head, and said out loud, “If only the trees would go to my house, so I wouldn’t have to carry the load so far from here.” The chopped wood began hopping toward the woodchopper’s home.
The woodchopper realized that he was sitting underneath a desire (kalpavriksha) tree. He thought, “I am so hungry from all my wishing, I will wish a feast.” Anything that came into his mind manifested—from sweets, savories, vegetable subjis, puris, rice preparations, and dahl. After gorging himself, he thought, “Oh, it is late at night, I am lost in the forest. What if a tiger should come and eat me!”

“And GRRRRRR, sure enough, the tiger ate the woodchopper.” Then Prabhupad imitated a tiger growling and had his hands up like two transcendental claws.

Prabhupad laughed. “We can desire to serve Krishna, this replaces the desire to serve our senses.” Be careful for what you wish for, I thought.


Years later when I actually got to live in Vrindavan for five years, I explored the holy place extensively. There are 10,000 kalpavriksha trees in Vrindavan.

There was a small temple down an alley near the Yamuna River that was built around a kalpavriksha tree. Whenever I had a hard administrative decision to make during my overseeing the construction of the Krishna Balaram Temple and needed further help from Krishna than my own mind could fathom, I would sit under the kalpavriksha tree where Krishna conversed with Radharani. Under this very tree she looked away shyly, for one second, and Krishna disappeared. She fainted on the tree and the swelling still remained, in response to her touch.

At the base of the tree and the ground floor of the temple was a grinding mortar with a swollen footprint of Krishna’s, when he put his foot on it to stop Yasoda or Radharani from grinding while he was trying to sleep. On the second level of the temple, the large girth of the desire tree takes up most of the floor.

There were other trees I visited in Seva Kunj or near Bansibat. With each kalpavriksha tree I hugged, sat under, or circumambulated, I absorbed spiritual strength and wisdom. I always felt a devotional love flow into me. Hugging a kalpavriksha tree induced the same type of love as my first puppy love, the feeling of walking on clouds.



Hells Angels and Ginsberg

A confrontation between some Hells Angels and some black gangs was about to happen in the Fillmore District of town, a ghetto. Bandanas and ‘do rags, pieces (guns), and jive talk bravado lined up against leather jackets, tattoos, swastikas, knives, clubs, and bikes called hogs.

Someone in the crowd said, “The Swami can make peace.” A small contingent of kids came to the Swami and asked him to come. Immediately, Swamiji got up and prepared to go. I too got up, wanting to protect my mentor, but also because I had experience with these types of situations ever since the Newport Riots or on the line in Selma.

Word came with some other kids that peace prevailed, due to the maha-mantra. Allen Ginsberg was on the scene and chanted on his portable harmonium: “Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare, Hare Rama Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare.”

When the Swami heard this, he smiled and sat down behind his trunk-desk, chanting quietly on his japa beads. We felt as if Krishna was protecting the Swami and all of us too. We sat together in a comfortable silence. He did not talk to fill in social lapses or put on airs. He was cool and his beaming smile did seem to increase as I spent more time with him. He encouraged me as I learned the basics of devotion. The growing pains and consultation of the others helped immensely.

Soon, I found other excuses to visit him, and I relished his coming down into the temple for the Monday, Wednesday, and Friday services. When I visited him and other visitors came in, I would swing into action as the Swami’s assistant, seeing to the comfort of the guests and helping the Swami so he could concentrate on preaching to the lucky student.

As we were sitting together, the Swami wrapped his chador around himself. “Are you cold ?” I inquired.

“Yes, a little,” he said. The Swami never complained or belabored for his own comforts.
I ran to get a blanket to wrap around his shoulders.

(BHE ALLEN Ginsberg photos)

Allen had always been friendly and helpful and shown interest in the Society, and so he’d agreed to headline the giant Mantra-Rock Dance to introduce Bhaktivedanta Swami to the hip community. On the day of the concert, the good poet had come to early morning kirtan (7 a.m.) at the Temple and later joined the Swami upstairs in the apartment rented for him by his pupils. Allen and I were sitting in the glow of the holy man, munching on gulab jamuns, balls of sweet fried dough made by the Swami, when Allen came through the door, a warm smile on his face. The Swami offered him a sweet. “Take!” he said.

I recorded the following conversation:

[They sat in silence for a few moments, radiating mutual love.]

SWAMIJI: Allen, you are up early.

GINSBERG: Yes. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing since I arrived in San Francisco.

SWAMIJI: That is what happens when one becomes famous. That was the tragedy of Mahatma Gandhi also. Wherever he went, thousands of people would crowd around him, chanting, “Mahatma Gandhi ki jai! Mahatma Gandhi ki jai!” The gentleman could not sleep.

GINSBERG (smiling): Well, at least it got me up for kirtan this morning!

SWAMIJI: Yes, that is good.
“Krishna consciousness resolves everything. Nothing else is needed.”
[A few days before, the San Francisco Chronicle had published an article titled “Swami in Hippie Land,” in which the reporter asked, “Do you accept ‘hippies’ in your temple?” The Swami had replied, “Hippies or anyone—I make no distinctions. Everyone is welcome.”]

SWAMIJI: Allen, what is this ‘hippie’?

GINSBERG: The word hip started in China, where people smoked opium lying on their hips. [Allen demonstrated.] Opium and its derivatives then spread to the West and were looked down upon by the people in power, who were afraid of the effects. As a result, the hip people created their own culture, language, signs, symbols. San Francisco is a spiritual shivdas [meeting ground]. The word hip has changed into hippie today. But basically, Swamiji, the young people today are seekers. They’re interested in all forms of spirituality.

SWAMIJI: Very nice.

GINSBERG: The hippies will all fall by here at one time or another. [There was some discussion regarding New York’s Lower East Side and the Haight-Ashbury district in San Francisco—both of which are locations of Krishna consciousness temples and are well known to Allen Ginsberg.]

SWAMIJI: You have not had LSD, Allen?

GINSBERG: I have had it.

SWAMIJI: It is dependence, Allen.

GINSBERG: It’s like a car—a mental car—to resolve certain inner things.

SWAMIJI: Krishna consciousness resolves everything. Nothing else is needed.

[They then discussed the upcoming dance at the Avalon. Allen felt that certain mantras would be more palatable to American ears than others, and that he would like to try his tune at the dance.]

SWAMIJI: Very nice.

[Poet Ginsberg said he was not yet ready to become a devotee, but that he was chanting the maha-mantra every day, and that he would do so until he leaves this Earth. The Swami thanked him for the work he’d already done in spreading kirtan (chanting of the Holy names).]

SWAMIJI: And if you are chanting Hare Krishna mantra daily, then everything in your life will be perfect!

[Allen then prostrated himself and, touching the Swami’s feet, symbolically wiped the dust from them onto his forehead. Then, with a few sweetballs in a paper bag under his arm, he took his leave.]

Though I had sometimes gone to his apartment on East 10th Street on the Lower East Side of New York, the last meeting between Allen Ginsberg and myself occurred some years later on an airplane going from Milwaukee to San Francisco. I wound up on this particular plane only because I let the airline bump me, and much to my jubilation, there was Allen, with Peter Orlovsky! I reintroduced myself, and Allen had Peter and me trade seats. He questioned me about Swamiji and the Hare Krishna Movement. After speaking with me, he said, “You have a few books in you.” I told him I had begun researching my memoirs and asked him to write an introduction to the book, as he had for the Swami’s Bhagavad-gita. Allen agreed.

At this time, Allen died (has left the planet). I pray that he is situated in a Vaikuntha realm, where his peace may continue without the confusion of the material world.



Vishnujnan

Sunlight burst into the temple and a tall youth with beautiful symmetrical features and a long face framing sensitive eyes came into the temple room, He carried a 12-string guitar and was wearing a one-piece homemade wrap-around skirt. Two woman followed him into the temple and they all sat down in from of the swami. As Swamiji spoke, I saw the boy’s face soften, and his gaze became intent.

Afterward, Swamiji spoke about the chanting. “It springs automatically from the spiritual platform, and as such anyone can take part in this transcendental sound vibration without any previous qualification and dance in ecstasy. We have seen it practically—even a child can take part in the chanting, or even a dog can take part in it.”
Later, I saw the boy, Mark, play his 12-string guitar, his fingers flowing up and down the frets as the girls gushed. He stood out. He had a saintly demeanor, even more than the usual smiling people who came around. Many had beatific smiles also. Many were stoned many making some spiritual strides, yet this man was different. He soon began leading the chanting and he would play drums for hours on end. He and Yamuna liked to hear each other’s chanting.

And to me, the very act of chanting took me out of myself, my selfish desires. A flying transcendental realm inside would well up inside me.

Mark became Vishnujnan, known for his devotional manner and great chanting. He would be like Lord Chaitanya chanting for hours oblivious to heat or cold. He was given sanyassi the renounced order, and he led the travelling bus party called the Radha Damodar Traveling Bus Party. I had the privilege to lead one of the six buses that travelled all over the U.S. Later in India, because of a fall down, Vishnujnan resolutely disappeared into the conflux of the Yamuna, Ganges, and Saraswati underground rivers, never to be seen again.

Here is a Poem for Vishnujana Swami, from my book Endless Beginnings:

BROTHER Nightingale
Your head covered in saffron shroud
your eyes closed in ecstasy
joy exudes chanting loud
In a reflection of Divinity
brows arched like Sita’s bow
exemplifying Maya’s* foe
You smile oh so sunny
you moved like molten honey
arms raised to the sky
melodious tie
pulling on my soul strings
Chaitanya like you sing
You inspired us all
sun glow as Vivaswan*
like a swan
you heard the call
We all go
up and down
the frets of strife
thats no reason to take your life

Existence is hard
we can endure
even when we act impure
Swaroop* form the tears of saints
Chintamani* causes us to faint
falling on the holy tirth*
The joyous touch of mother earth
dancing sweetly
in the full moon night
spinning swooning you begin your flight
Your head still covered
before Lord Krishna
only He knows
what’s inside ya
Duality is the masks of drama
why do we forget Lord Rama
Sinuous Lila * intense moods
why do we gorge
on variegated foods

We shared delights
or are we fools
going after temporary stool
Three rivers converge
in Prayag * season
slaying yourself
you had no reason
Emotion’s folly
circumvent the laws
or play as God
our greatest flaw
Oh Vishnujana
please hear my plea
I miss your singing
your exuberant glee
Brother nightingale
I see your face
singing sweetly
I still hear your grace

*Maya: Illusion

*Vivaswan: The Sun God

*Swaroop: A description of ecstasy when ones skin pores open in bliss

*Chintamani: Spiritual touch stone. Just by touching this jewel one becomes spiritually imbued. Sometimes the earth of Vrindavan is called Chintamani

*Tirth: Place of pilgrimage

*Lilla: Spiritual pastime of Radha Krishna

*Prayag: Previous name of Allahbad



Lord Jagannath in San Francisco

Krishna works in mysterious ways. Even several months after its opening, the Frederick Street storefront temple was almost bare, with only a painting of Govinda on the wall, a statue of Kartamasi Krishna, and a piece of madras cloth. Yet Lord Jagannath would soon miraculously appear in the midst of our new San Francisco temple by way of chaitya-guru, or the spiritual instruction from within.

One day, Malati prabhu was shopping at Cost Plus Imports, a huge, warehouse-type store on Fisherman’s Wharf, full of knick-knacks from all over the world. A large bin full of two-inch wooden carvings, richly painted and obviously from India, caught her eye. She acquired one of the small statues via five-finger discount, thinking she would go up to the Swami’s room and ask him what it was.

When she placed the figurine on Swamiji’s desk, she watched in awe as the great Swami bowed down humbly before the little statue, mumbling something. After paying his respects, then sitting back lightly on his cushion, he said, “That is Lord Jagannath.” Pausing, he then said, “That is Krishna. He is worshipped in the temple of Jagannath Puri, Orissa, in India.”

He then asked Malati, “Are there more figures like this one?"

She replied, “Yes, there are two more like this one.”

“Please get them and bring them to me.”

Malati returned the next day with the little figures of Balaram and Subhadra.

Shyamasundar perked up as Swamijii beckoned him closer. “Can you carve this, in big size?” pointing to Lord Jagganath

“Yes, I will try,” Shyamasundar replied eagerly. Swamiji requested Shyamasundar to carve Krishna’s brother and sister in large size as well. Shortly afterward, Hayagriva found and purchased somewhere a 16-inch Lord Jagannath, Lady Subhadra, and magnificent Balaram.

I walked in and the three figures were sitting right on Swamiji’s desk. He acknowledged me and then told us the story of Lord Jagganath. “There, He resides with His sister, Subhadra, and His brother, Balaram.” He told us that every year the Lord leaves the temple for a trip to the ocean, and how in Jagannath Puri, there is a great procession where thousands and thousands of people come from all over India to see the Lord traveling to the beach in His car. When Lord Chaitanya first walked into the temple and saw Lord Jagannath, he said, “Here is Krishna.” Then He fell into a trance of ecstasy and did not leave the temple for days.

Swamiji continued, “Now Lord Jagannath has come of His own accord. We did not have to search Him out. This is most auspicious. It is Krishna’s will that we have Lord Jagannath in San Francisco. Now we can also take Lord Jagannath once a year out of the temple for a visit to the ocean.” He proceeded to tell us the story of the carver Vishvakarma, how he was commissioned by the king to carve Lord Krishna, Subhadra and Balaram, but only on the condition that he not be disturbed in his work. When the king, no longer able to contain his curiosity, interrupted Vishvakarma before he was finished, the sculptor stopped his work. Thus, Lord Jagannath, in the form we know Him, is the result.

Many of the fledgling devotees started wearing Lord Jagannath or the holy triumvirate around their necks, which required twisting a small screw-hook into Their Lordships’ crowns. When Swamiji saw this he pointed out that, “One should not put any screws or nails into Lord Jagannath.” Then others showed up with little ropes like hangman’s nooses around their necks. Nara-Narayan prabhu was wearing a huge, dangling 8-inch Lord Jagannath.

We were new and innocently ignorant of many things that the Swami taught us. We learned a new prayer to Lord Jagannath: “Jagannatha swami nayana patha gami bhavatume.” Translated into English, this means, “Lord of the universe, kindly be visible unto me.” One day, I walked over to Shyamasundar’s apartment on the corner of Haight and Lyon Streets. His neighbor across the hall, a member of a rock band called The Misunderstood— and later to be initiated and named Rishikeshananda—was there also. I had dropped by to visit and to check out the carving progress. Shyamasundar chiseled away on the Supreme Lord to the sounds of Bob Dylan or the “Happening” Hare Krishna record.

There were rumblings that the New York devotees wanted Swami back. They were constantly petitioning for the Swami to return there. Shyamasundar told me that his idea was to work more slowly to keep the Swami here. “Good idea,” I concurred.

One day, the Swami showed up at Shyamsundar's apartment. He knocked on the door and Shyamasundar invited him in. A lit Pall Mall cigarette was billowing smoke at the base of the carving. The Swamiwent over to the cigarette and whapped it across the room with his cane.

Shyamsundar, embarrassed, ran and put the cig out. He then invited the Swami to sit. “How is the progress coming?” Swamiji got right to the point.

“Well, it’s coming along,” Shyamsundar said slowly.

“Please finish them faster.” He said it softly but with great conviction.

Shyamasundar did work faster. Years later, Shyamasundar was again working on a whole temple in redwood that he imported from California. He was working right below the rooms wherein the Swami was living. He humbly asked the Swami, “Is my hammering bothering you?”

“No, when I hear you hammering, I know you’re working,” Swamiji replied matter-of-factly.

I saw Uddhava prabhu selling Oracle newspapers on Haight Street and stopped to chat about how nicely the carving of Lord Jagannath was progressing. On Frederick Street, a feeling of bliss filled and enveloped me as I entered our welcoming temple, which was growing like a new plant, emanating small, fresh buds. The temple fed many and had also become a cleansing house for sojourners coming off LSD trips. Jayananda and Brother David were serving the prasadam that Yamuna, Harsharani, Janaki, and Malati prepared on the new gas stove with a griddle for chapatis, donated by Jerry.

Shyamasundar soon completed the Jagannath Deity at his Haight Street apartment and invited Swamiji over to see Him. All the devotees squeezed into the small apartment and eagerly awaited Swamiji’s arrival. We cooked a feast, all new preparations taught to us by Swamiji. When he arrived, Swamiji proceeded directly to the reclining Deity and bowed down. When he got up, he looked very pleased. He settled into a rocking chair and led a kirtan with shining eyes. He also praised the cooks for the fine prasadam and requested Shyamasundar to make an altar in the temple for their Lordships. A few days later, a nice altar of redwood had been fashioned, with flashing psychedelic spotlights, and Haridas had painted the temple walls in bright colors.

On the day of the installation, we raised Lord Jagannath onto a broad shelf above the altar. Then we watched as Swamiji performed a ceremony we had not seen before: He offered incense, fire, water, cloth, and flowers.

“This is called arati,” he explained. “Now the temple is for worshiping.” Then Swamiji sat below Jagannath and, playing bongo drums, led us in chanting the maha-mantra for at least an hour. Hayagriva blew the kelp
horn; Israel the trumpet. Mukunda played kartalas, and Haridas banged on a timpani drum. Yamuna’s piercing “Hari hari bol!” resounded throughout the room.

The day after the installation, some devotees took Lord Jagannath into Golden Gate Park and started a kirtan. Soon, enthusiastic people gathered and encircled the Lord, all the while chanting and dancing. When the Swami heard about the Lord being taken off of the altar for a walk in the park, he walked over to the park at a very fast pace to the spot known as Hippie Hill, and when he saw Lord Jagannath, he offered his obeisances.

Swamiji firmly but kindly told us that “Lord Jagannath always stays in the temple. People come to the temple to visit the Lord, but Lord Jagannath does not go out to see the people. But as long as we are here, let us chant.” He always forgave us. This was a pretty big mistake. Then he sat beside the Lord and led the chanting.

More and more people arrived. Mukunda and Shyamasundar ran back to the temple for the timpani drum and portable microphone. We were sitting in a circle around the Swami when he told us again of the yearly car festival in Puri where each Deity is taken out, riding on their own ratha, or car.

The next day, Swamiji was looking out of his apartment window, and he saw the digger's flatbed truck. He drew us a simple diagram of how that could be made into a cart for Lord Jagannath. July 9, 1967, the date of the first festival, arrived. We had rented a U-Haul flatbed truck for the occasion. Jayananda prabhu astounded us with his energy as he, Haridas, and Shyamasundar worked around the clock to build a pavilion and altar on the bed of the rental truck. The Diggers, our next-door neighbors, loaned us the very same flatbed truck that the Swami had seen. The flatbed truck was decorated already (with “OM” emblazoned on the hood and “Digger You” painted on the front bumper!). Yamuna, Janaki, Harsharani, and Malati decorated the trucks, and covered “Digger You” with “Hare Krishna.” I went with Jayananda to the farmers’ market for oranges and apples. Ramanuja and Uddhava came with armloads of flowers.

The parade started on Haight and Central Streets. The police wanted Shyamasundar, who was driving, to speed up. They reckoned that ours was like all the other hippie parades and demonstrations, and they wanted to put an end to the celebration as soon as possible. Swamiji, however, had told us to go slowly, which is just what we did. Shyamasundar told the police that he didn’t want to run over anyone in the crowd, which was now dancing and singing around the cart. The police calmed down and later admitted that our parade was one of the most peaceful events they had ever experienced.

I photographed the cart as it moved down Haight Street, attracting more and more dancing and singing souls. Murari and Subal, both with their heads newly shaven, danced in front of the chariot as we proceeded through the streets. At one point, as Lord Jagannath rode up a steep hill, the truck stalled and almost rolled back down, out of control—but suddenly the clutch caught, the motor roared, and the cart glided to the top and turned down Irving Street toward the sea.

After this first Rathayatra festival, the devotees sat around him while the Swami described the festival in India. “Lord Jagannath has His own mind and stops many times during the festival in Puri. Once, when Lord Jagannath would not move, Lord Chaitanya pushed the cart with His head!”

In this way, Lord Jagannath bestowed His benedictions upon all of us. This was the first of many Jagganath festivals that to this day is celebrated in many countries around the world due to the Swami's instruction on how to glorify Lord Jagganath. Even as a very young child, he organized a mini-car festival for Lord Jagganath.

Oracle Allen Cohen and his crusty friend Michael Bowen wanted to try to get the Berkeley activists and the San Francisco hippies together, which was the original idea of the “be-in,” a gathering of all the tribes, clans, commune, organizations and individuals. The “be-in” was planned to take place in Golden Gate Park’s polo grounds; two large expanses were picked. There was room for 100,000 people.

At least 60,000 people were expected. Allen told the leaders of the Berkeley protesters. When they heard the large number they immediately asked Allen, “What are our demands?”

Allen and Michael just laughed. “We have no demands; we just want to be.”

The other Krishna devotees and I went in unison and chanted to the left of the main stage. As usual we were a welcome and vibrant part of the event. The “be-in” was perhaps the last gasp, the last gathering trying to hold on to the original ways of a hippie, which were holding on by a thin thread before the decline.



Decline of the Haight

Steve Gaskin, a slim, tall, friendly man with a long beard and a floppy hat, an underground community organized, got tired of the Haight scene. We had met here and there. He told me that he was going to start a commune in Tennessee, away from the city the pollution and the struggles. He invited me to help him start the commune which eventually became “The Farm.” I told him that I would think about it, and I did.

The Haight was on a declining course. Decay is part of life. A new, fresh society builds and reaches an apex, a zenith, and then there is the decline. This is not necessarily a bad thing, as beauty is in the moment, and a downward direction can be as fine as an ascending upward climb. When one door closes, another opens.

In the Vedas, the descent is glorified as analogous to God’s mercy, and the ascent is our aspirations. The artist Meybrindge, who is famous for his strobe light photo series of a horse and a man running, also has many beautiful photos of things in their declining stages to that of nonexistence. Similar to our own lives.

So the original “anything is possible” and “free love” concepts dissipated as the reality of many people in small spaces caused pressure and eventual explosions. That was what was happening in the Haight.

The decline was happening all over. The United States and the world was in the midst of turmoil and violence. The great leaders were being assassinated. Good people like JFK, Robert Kennedy, and Martin Luther King Jr. were being killed for doing good things. The original ideal, “Be free, no guilt, be whoever you are, do whatever you want, just as long as you don’t hurt anyone” had failed. It was a good plan on paper, in theory; however, so many people in a small place with different self-centered ideas sometimes clashed, and there was only so much food, clothing, water and shelter to go around. Max, another artist friend, was also leaving the city. He ended up in Taos, New Mexico, and started an artist colony. Blind Jerry Sealund, after being robbed 12 times, left for Santa Rosa. Cats had to hide so they would not be hunted down. So, for me as the original hippie ideals were crumbling, the Vedic way of life was replacing them, in my search.

As I got to know Swamiji, I saw that he had a great sense of humor and would laugh often, usually at the absurdity of the material world. Some people tested the Swami. They wanted to find a hint of greed or lust or ego within him, but instead, they discovered kindness, hope, humor, and Bhakti in him.

False ego emerges in all forms. Pens and watches became important to some devotees, as compensation, to many having given up comfortable lifestyles. They, like the African kings, used these as status symbols. Only the African kings threw away the bottom functioning part of the pen; the important part was the top part of the pen with the brand name on it, sticking out of their leopard-skin pockets.


One day, the Swami was sitting with us in the temple. A devotee came rushing in out of breath from running an errand. The devotee disappeared into the kitchen. The Swami said, “An intelligent man can do more by sitting than an unintelligent person can do moving all about.”

Prabhupad taught that there are two types of intelligence: lazy and active. Of the two, lazy is the best, for the very intelligent only move when they have to and no unnecessary actions are utilized, whereas the active intelligent act unnecessarily. There are two types of foolishness also. If one is a fool, it is better that he is lazy rather than an active fool. Then Prabhupad told a story to illustrate this principle:

The king’s ministers were complaining that the chief minister gets more money than they did, and they asked the king, “Why?”

“Because he is lazy intelligent,” replied the king.

“What do you mean?” asked the ministers.

“Go out and weigh my elephant,” the king challenged, and the ministers left to complete the task. They searched for elephant scales to weigh the elephants, and after trying in vain, they returned to the king and told of their failure to weigh the elephant.

The king turned to the chief minister and requested that he weigh the elephant. The chief minister led the elephant to a barge, put the elephant on it, marked the water line outside the hull, when the barge sank down, took the elephant off the barge, it rose again. The chief minister then put 50-pound sacks of rice on the barge until it reached the line on the side of the boat. Counting the sacks, he was able to weigh the elephant. He returned to the king and told him the answer, as the other ministers witnessed.

The king declared, “That is lazy intelligence.”

Swamiji added, “Regarding ignorance, Lazy is better than active.”

Swamiji wanted to speak on radio and television. I realized that the more service I did, the more I could get to be with the Swami, so I called the radio station KRON and reserved a time slot. The program format consisted of an interview with call-in questions and answers. Swamiji arrived with Subal, Shyamasundar, Jayananda, Mukunda, and myself.

After we had settled in, the interviewer asked some general questions about Krishna consciousness and then asked about our tilak markings. We had prearranged that some of the devotees would call in some questions to the show, so when he opened up the phones, Uddhava called, asking, “Swamiji, what is the meaning of life?”
“Ah, the meaning of life is to cultivate your love of God, Krishna . . .”

Swamiji answered the question for 15 minutes. Then Gargamuni called, asking, “What are we here on Earth for?” Again, the Swami launched into a long explanation. “What does Hare Krishna mean?” Swamiji answered this question also. The interviewer soon figured out what was happening and said, “We want callers other than from your organization to call in.”

Then another question from radio-land: a lady with a raspy, sarcastic voice called in and asked, “Why is your so-called temple in the Haight-Ashbury district?”

Swamiji replied, “So-called temple? We have Deities, worship, chanting—ours is a bona fide temple.”

She said, “Then why is your temple in the Haight-Ashbury?”

“Inexpensive rents. That is why my disciples choose that place.”

Then she asked, “How did you come to the United States?”

Swamiji replied, “I received free passage.”

“Who paid for it?”

He countered, “Free passage means there was no payment involved.”

She then asked, “Are you a freeloader?"

Swamiji had never heard the expression before and thought she meant an immigrant who has received free passage.” He said, “Yes.”

We could hear her surprise in her silence. There was no retort. Understanding what had transpired, even the interviewer got angry and cut her off abruptly. The rest of the show went smoothly.

Another time, while preparing for a television show in San Francisco, Swamiji was sitting peacefully while technicians readied the lights, cameras, and sound. There was a mysterious hissing in the sound lines. The soundmen frantically tried to find and erase the buzzing sound. For an hour, they followed lines, searching for the source of the murmur. Finally, they followed all the wires to Swamiji. The technicians pointed to the beatific soul in orange cloth and said, “It’s him. The sound is coming from him.” The murmuring sound was Swamiji quietly chanting the maha-mantra while he waited to go on TV.

I arranged another television program, an hour-long interview wherein Swamiji was asked, “What does Hare Krishna mean?” Swamiji answered this question also. The interviewer was challenging at first but soon warmed up to us. The program was very successful.



One day, Swamiji and I were walking around Nandgaon in India, looking at some beautiful Krishna-lila paintings.

He said, “Art means full belly.” He continued, “People must be well-fed before they can appreciate [the luxury of] art. Similarly, we must feed them before they can appreciate the value of Krishna consciousness.”

Govinda dasi was essential to the San Francisco temple in many ways. One of her services was painting nice renditions of Prahlad-lila and portraits of Swamiji. Her parents were visiting from Texas and thought Krishna consciousness just another weird hippie thing, even though by now the temple was well-established and frequently mentioned in newspapers and on the radio. Members of the Indian community (even the cultural attaché ) regularly came to our evening services.

One evening, right after the last kirtan, Govinda dasi’s father walked right up to the Swami sitting on his new vyasasana and said in a loud, Texas drawl, “Why does my daughter have to have an ‘Injun’ (Indian) name?”

People were standing and milling about, and they crept closer to hear and see the commotion. The whole Patel clan stood right behind Govinda dasi’s father. The father saw he was surrounded. One elder, Patel, had a shiny silver tooth that was reflecting light. He must have felt like General Custer.

The Swami understood the situation and quietly said to Govinda Dasi’s father, with a laugh in his eyes, “You do not like Indians?”

Govinda Dasi's father said, “Well, yeah, I like Injuns all right. But why does she have to have an Injun name?”

Swamiji pressed his advantage and said, “If your daughter is happy, why do you object?” Then Govinda dasi’s mother shook Swamiji’s hand and said something to her spouse that I couldn’t hear. The father was rendered speechless and quietly led away by his wife.

They were wonderfully happy and peaceful days. Swamiji came down and joined our love feast. He beamed love upon us as he was like a proud father, relishing the dhal and vegetable preparations that he taught us how to cook. The kirtan was long and beautiful. Yamuna’s “Hari hari bol!” rang out. We were happy in an insular bhakti bubble, feeling love and devotion, giving to others again, and a reason to live. We didn’t get to see the Swami as much as we wanted to. He was busy writing and meeting with Rayarama and Hayagriva for help in editing. Mukunda was our liaison. He came to us in the temple room and told us gravely that the Swami was ill!

I was devastated! Don't take our Swami from us!

He already suffered a heart stroke on the ship from India. There were complications. He needed rest from his hectic schedule of writing, sleeping little, and now meeting with his disciples growing in numbers. We moved him to Stinson Beach to recuperate. Then we went inside our storefront Sri Sri Radha Krishna Temple and prayed and chanted like we never chanted before, begging Krishna to help his special devotee recovery. We chanted hard and sincerely for 24 hours and then some. We slept a little and then got up and prayed. After three days, Swamiji got a little better. He thought it best to return to his beloved Vrindavan to either recuperate or die.

He addressed us one night and said, “I may die at any moment. Please carry this movement on.”

I didn’t realize before this that we were a movement. Then he said, “Build 108 temples.”

He soon left for his beloved Vrindavan. We were heartbroken and confused without our Swamiji. As usual, I was photographing and interacting with the event. As he got into the car headed for the airport, he looked plaintively at the temple storefront for a long time.

(Illustration)

He then looked at us and left. We didn’t know if we would ever see him again.

(Illustration)

After a brief stop in New York, he went to Vrindavan. We heard sporadically about the Swami’s health from Kirtananda who accompanied him.. We gathered around the recipient of any letters from Swamiji or his assistants and listened intently to the contents of the missal.

Slowly, Swamiji’s health returned! Again, we all went to the airport to greet Swamiji upon his return. He emerged, a glowing halo around him. Swamiji was in our midst again. We cried and cheered and were happy to see him, smiling his sweet smile and walking regally and humbly simultaneously, charming and selfless, giving to us all. We were like little puppies basking in his love. When asked, “How do you feel?” he would reply, “Ninety-six percent.”




I Just Want You to Be Happy

When conservative Vaishnava tradition mixed with new hippie rebellion, sometimes there were conflicts, minor anarchies, outcries regarding racism or restrictive lifestyles. The initiated devotees too had some questions, like why couldn’t animals come into the temple room, or why can’t we let our beads touch the ground, since Krishna made the earth, too? We were a tight group, learning, struggling, chanting and laughing together. New souls were joining fast. No one had left, for we all liked being with the Swamiji and each other.

One of the most rebellious was Ravindra Swaroop (Robert Lefkowitz). He was an ascetic bearded artist who came from New York. He was married to Halidhar and was outspoken when something didn’t seem right to him. But he was one of many characters, such as Israel, Rabbit, and the three wise men who did not talk. Ravindra Swaroop’s bewilderment was due to theological differences.

One night, our family was together at evening kirtan. Swamiji was sitting on the new vyasasana. Suddenly In the middle of the service, we heard a sobbing. I looked around.

It was Ravindra Swaroop. He was so distraught, crying tears out loud. Prabhupad saw this and motioned to Ravindra Swaroop, saying, “Come here, my boy.”

Ravindra Swaroop, sobbing, crawled slowly on all fours up to the vyasasana. Prabhupad motioned for him to come right up on the vyasasana. Ravindra crawled up next to Swamiji and put his head on the Swami’s lap, blurting out through heavy painful moans, “I have to leave.”

Prabhupad caressed his head softly and said, “There, there, my boy. I just want you to be happy.”

After a few minutes of Prabhupad’s comforting, Ravinda Swaroop got up and slowly walked to the door, turned toward Swamiji, and said, “I love you, but I have to reach God directly. I cannot do it through anybody else.”
He ran out of the temple room, leaving the double Dutch doors open.

No one could speak. We had lost one of our family. Many of us were crying too. I was enlivened by Swamiji’s compassion but saddened by the loss of Ravindra Swaroop. We began to chant again at Swamiji's request.


Ravindra was the third such “bloop,” although he was sincere and open about it, and it didn’t happen in the middle of the night like the others. The other two who left our early budding movement were Brother David, whose eclectic altar burnt up in the basement of the Frederick Street temple. A large hand-like form remained on the wall, jutting down toward the debris of his altar. He left in the night and started the "Children of God" group.

The second bloop was my dog Que Tal, who used to walk right in the temple and stand on his hind legs and dance and howl during the kirtans. At any rate, vegetarianism and devotional life was too tough for him, and one day, he walked out of my life forever. I thought of the Que Tal returning to Willard Street apartment and going to the back door, which was usually open. I pictured him leaning on the back stairs to the window and looking in and seeing different people there. I was gone. Woman in saris were in the kitchen instead of me. He probably slinked away whimpering, having to face the brave new world just like I was doing. All the trips, the beatings in the South, all the wisdom tried and practiced for a while.

All the loves, all the realizations, all the wounds, all my mistakes forgiven, all the floundering pleasures clarified, every part of my life and being, coalesced into the Swami. He was taking my pain, my Karma, and giving it back to me cleaned and purified.
The Swami introduced me to so many things, not only the philosophy and wisdom but so much beauty in the pastimes and continence of Radha and Krishna, and the idea of a pantheon of demigods, as agents of Krishna.

The books he translated were full of Vedic lore, invisible airplanes, avatars, demigods and demons, and peacocks and monkeys playing and sporting in Vrindavan. Visions of more demigods and apsaras riding in celestial vehicles under four-post rooms covered in ivy and palm fronds, pulled by porcelain-white swans. A fountain sprays rosewater in the small lotus garden, as rose petals rain on any auspicious events below. Lotus-eyed cows, giving us unending mercy. Chintamani jewels that, upon touch, imbue spiritual bliss.

Love was the answer. Swamiji brought us in his essence pure love. Love of God, which transfers to love of everyone, including flora and fauna and rocks and everything. Isn’t this the essence of all spiritual paths religions, hobbies, vocations, avocations, and the meaning of life? The music in the air was saying “All you need is love.” I was cultivating my love by the spoonful.

Swamiji told us to chant with a humble attitude, like “a child calling for its mother.” What a concept, to give ourselves to Krishna when all else fails, just like when a little child falls and cries and runs to his mother, not the government, not the father, not the organization, nor anything else but mother. I chanted with the yearning to be reunited in harmony with my mother and God Krishna, my real shelter. I still chant this to this day and I get a warm, comfortable, and blissful feeling when I say the Holy Names. I am not in a hurry, I listen attentively, and a seamless fusion of soul via media enters me. The Swami added that chanting of any holy name is fine, thus all encompassing all paths. Krishna consciousness enhanced my Judaism.

My love continued to fill me and my actions. I loved the new family, loved the wisdom, the food (prasadam). I love the sheltered feeling and new confidence. I liked the purer way of living. Swamiji called it, “Simple living, high thinking.” And if applied, the sharing and service attitude would be enough to give everyone what they needed, subsequently changing the world. I am so appreciative to Swamiji for giving me all this plus world travel and the ability to bring his ways to many.

I remembered fondly the description of Vrindavan in Paramahansa's Autobiography of a Yogi. His brother sent him to Vrindavan to test his faith and love for Krishna. He sent him to Vrindavan (to the forest of Tulsi) without any money or return ticket. His brother thought, “Let us see how your Krishna takes care of you.” When Parmahansa Yogananda arrived, he was greeted by Brij Basi (inhabitants of Vrindavan), fed, welcomed, and given money for a ticket back to his brother.

There was a picture of Krishna in the book, and for some unknown-to-myself reason, I yearned to go to Vrindavan, even in 1967. I asked Swamiji if I could go to Vrindavan and he said yes. Through the years and many moments of service to Radha Krishna and every living entity, I retained my wish to go to Vrindavan. I felt as if Radha and Krishna were calling me there.

Swamiji's spiritual master Bhakti Siddhanta Saraswati wanted to start a temple in London, the hub of civilization, in 1943. Three of Bhakti Siddhanta’s top disciples tried to start something but came back to India without much success. Now Swamiji wanted the six of us to go to London and carry out his Guru's wishes. Swami A. C. Bhaktivedanta was asking me, Yamuna, Mukunda, Janaki, Shyamasundar, Makati, and Saraswati to fulfill Lord Chaitanya’s prediction. We accepted our guru’s wishes.
Our only plan was we wanted to meet The Beatles. And we did meet them.



Chapter 8: England

Six new devotees and a baby were on their way to England to start a new ISKCON (International Society for Krishna Consciousness) center for Srila Prabhupada. We had less than $1,000 between us, after paying our one-way airfares, and two addresses in England: one for
an East Indian named Dr. Kholi, and one for Tom Driberg, a Member of
Parliament. Allen Ginsberg had given us an introductory letter to Mr. Driberg, who also was a fellow poet. The British government, quite well known for being stroppy (restrictive, by-the-book), required married travelers to carry a certain amount of money per couple—just about all the money we had among us!—if they didn't have return tickets. Tourists without sufficient funds just weren't considered eligible to enter the country, since they had no money to invest in the British economy.

We didn't know what to do. Just $1.000 between the seven of us. We thought, “What is the best way to overcome our first obstacle?” I thought back to how the Swami advised us to do things together. “If you all work together, then if there is failure no one is to be blamed, and if there is success, then everyone is glorified.”

Collectively, we came up with the answer. We decided to go to the Netherlands first, as their entrance restrictions were less stringent. We arrived in Amsterdam; the country had a quaint and friendly feeling. Shyamasundar and Malati set out for London first, with all our money. They were allowed into England without any difficulty. Shyamasundar opened a bank account, then wired the money back to us through the bank. Then Yamuna and I took all the money and rode the Hoek van Holland ferry to Dulwich, England. By Krishna's grace, we were also allowed to enter. We met up with Shyamasundar and Malati at Piccadilly Circus at noon. The four of us then sent the money back to Mukunda and Janaki in Amsterdam, and they arrived the next day.

We were all together again! We first decided to visit Dr. Kholi, to see if we could stay with him for a while until we became acclimatized to Great Britain. Dr. Kholi lived in Herne Hill, a suburb of London. We boarded the train in Waterloo station and rode through Brixton (a ghetto), past Clapham and other manicured suburbs, going out toward the Crystal Palace. As the conductor announced Heme Hill, we saw old-fashioned winding lanes surrounding the Victorian train station.

We found the street where Dr. Kholi lived, in a nice, large detached house. (In Britain, a charming, cottage-type, detached house denoted wealth, for many houses clung to one another, especially in industrial cities.) He and his family greeted us and let us stay for a few days. He took us to a nearby empty house he owned, and we negotiated a rent that was a little high, but we trusted in Krishna to provide. We rented the separate house on a temporary basis, allowing his family to get back to their routine minus the ashram we had created in their living room.
About this time, Prabhupada sent a letter to me in London from San Francisco:

14 September, 1968

My Dear Gurudas,

Please accept my blessings. I was in due receipt of your letter dated Sept. 3, 1968, and now I have received a letter from Mukunda, and I am pleased to learn that you are now together, all six. So please try to start the temple as soon as possible and call me for your service. Offer my blessings to Yamuna as well as to Malati and her husband and the little child. I have sent one newspaper cutting to Shyamasundar that is a very nice article; if you get it photostatted, you can use it for propaganda work. Hope this finds you in good health.

Your ever well-wisher, A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami

Around this time, back in San Francisco, the Swami once mentioned to Govinda dasi that Swamiji was a common name. Govinda dasi asked what he would rather be called, and he replied, “Prabhupad.” So from this point on, I will refer to A. C. Bhaktivedanta as Prabhupad.



Shaved Heads

We were committed now, and devotional service filled our days. Shyamasundar, Mukunda, and I decided that it was time for us to take another step in overcoming our attachment to vanity and appearance. It was time to shave our heads! By throwing our hair on the ground, we cast out attachments to personal appearance, personal wealth, or wishes for respect. Plus, we figured that the British public would certainly notice these bald-headed blokes, and this kind of recognition would be vital to our preaching efforts.

We sat each other in chairs and shaved all each other’s hair off. All that remained was the hairpiece, hanging down the back of the head. This tuft of hair is called the sikha. When asked about the sikha, Swamiji replied, “This sikha is there so that Krishna can pull you up to Him easier.” He demonstrated pulling his own sikha up. Now that my head was shaved, it felt clean and fresh.



Visitors

An Indian gentleman named Prem Sayal, who sang devotional songs with exaggerated movements, came to our meetings at Heme Hill, along with a Mr. Govind. They both introduced us to some leaders of the East Indian community and took us to the Hindu Centre, where meetings and shows were held.
Devotees at the Hindu Centre always requested Prem Sayal to play harmonium and sing bhajans. He resembled Charlie Chaplin, and sometimes he would stop his songs in mid-refrain, roll his eyes back, and speak devotionally. He was a showman. His intense, exaggerated movements and gestures, and the way he would throw his hair back, made us laugh, and Shyamasundar, Mukunda, and I imitated him in private.

Soon, Andy, a young English lad from Watford, joined us. I don't remember how he heard of us, but one day he just showed up and became a part of our group. He was friendly and humble, one of thousands of youths searching the globe for enlightenment at that time. He stayed with us for a while, followed our rules and regulations, took part in the morning and evening services, and helped with the cooking. Andy liked being a vegetarian, asked meaningful questions, and was making progress, but eventually he left because he missed his life of desire, gratification, and struggle.

We held small intimate programs at Dr. Kholi's and in the suburban homes of other Indian families around London, but, soon decided we should look for a place of our own, more centrally located. We searched central London in Shyamasundar's red Ford pickup, and eventually met some people in the center of the city who published an underground newspaper, International Times, We had seen their paper on the newsstand, and we were attracted by its eclectic articles. We visited their headquarters at 22 Betterton Street.

We found the small street in the heart of Covent Garden, central London's bustling wholesale fruit-and-vegetable district; we located the four-story office building and rang the doorbell. An American with curly hair answered. He, like the rest of the staff at the newspaper, were young, hip, and very friendly. As they welcomed us, I had a communal feeling like being back in San Francisco. I felt we had finally arrived.



22 Betterton Street

“All you need is love.”

—The Beatles

At International Times, we met one gentleman named Graham Keen, who was very kind and especially interested in our movement. We asked him if he might know of a place where we could live. Graham (who is still my good friend today) informed us in his quiet, mannerly, and imaginative way that, as they were moving their offices around the corner to Endell Street, the Betterton Street building would be used only for storing back issues of IT. He thought that one or two floors would become vacant. He then supplied us with the name of the landlord, Nigel Samuels, and his phone number in Portsmouth Square.

Graham ventured that Nigel might let us live at 22 Betterton Street if we asked him nicely, so he rang Nigel up and introduced us on the phone. We arranged to meet him that night. As we traveled through one of the elite parts of town, Mukunda and Shyamasundar said to me, “You do the talking.”

Portsmouth Square is in one of the ritziest parts of London. The Square itself is a private park, fenced and locked, surrounded by townhouses and large apartment buildings for the affluent. We located the address. The building’s doorman inquired who we were visiting and rang up for Nigel’s confirmation. We rode an elaborate, art deco elevator all the way up to the penthouse and stepped out of the elevator into a huge living room with a 360-degree view of London!

Nigel got up and bounded over to greet us. He was very slim, almost emaciated, very pale, and had a heavy, upper-class English accent. I appreciated his friendliness and overlooked his limp handshake, as he made a special effort to be cordial.

I was impressed by Nigel’s civility, though he was a little shy and awkward. Samuels owned a locating service for rare books named Bibliophile, so after some small talk, we talked about books. “Have you read Bhagavad-gita?” I remember asking.

We talked about the seeming phenomenon of unity that we were experiencing in the underground community. We noted how alike London was to San Francisco in terms of social change and the growing openness to other forms of philosophy and spirituality. I spoke a little about our mission in London. As I said it was prearranged that I would do most of the talking, but I wanted the other devotees to talk also, to rescue me from having to carry the conversation. Sensing my feelings, the others also participated in the conversation. Finally, I ventured "Nigel your building at 22 Betterton Street, has just been vacated by the International Times, we were wondering if we could live and have a temple there temporarily?”

He thought a moment. “Yes, that is possible. Why not? You can use the second and third floors. Sometimes I come to my office on the top floor, and sometimes another tenant shares the top floor with me, but they won’t bother you,” he told us, “I won’t charge you any rent,” he added. We all shook his hand profusely and thanked him.
Our new residence, 22 Betterton Street, was situated in the center of the Covent Garden district, where wholesale fruit, flowers, and vegetables were sold. The surrounding neighborhood was gradually being converted into chic cafes, restaurants, boutiques, art studios, and lofts. The walls of the interior of our home were exposed bricks, which reminded me of many Greenwich Village pads. The building was a warehouse, not zoned for living. It had no heat, and the taps supplied only freezing water, but at last we had a large space for a temple room, and as a shelter , but at last we had a large space for a temple room, and as a shelter for us. It was marvelous and rent free! We had to move around bundles and boxes of past issues of International Times, and sometimes we used these boxes as tables or furniture.

I was delegated to ask a group of Black Muslims, who were camped out all over the warehouse, to move. By Krishna’s grace, they moved out without protest. We had the use of two floors: One of the floors was the temple room, with the kitchen behind it; the floor above was our living quarters. Shyamasundar built our shower in the garage on the ground floor, and Malati and Saraswati lived down there in a huge cardboard box.

Young people from a place called the Arts Lab around the corner on Drury Lane, along with hippie squatters from nearby buildings, began to visit regularly. Three enthusiastic youths named Colin, David, and Tim began to help out and then moved in with us. Eventually, they were initiated and became Kulashekar, Digvajaya, and Tirthapada. Our Betterton Street temple location was right in the heart of London, near the British Museum, the Swedenborg Society, the Theosophical Society, the rare and metaphysical book dealers, the theater district, Piccadilly Circus, the BBC and the embassies. We were at the hub of the world, the center of the universe.

Then a reporter from The London Times interviewed us. The article was extremely favorable and open to our ideas. We told him that we were considering chanting in front of the London Stock Exchange, as well as other sites. The reporter wrote: “The devotees of Krishna are considering chanting in front of the London Stock Exchange. What effect that will have, Krishna only knows.”

The international wire services picked up on this article, and one day someone saw the headline “Krishna Chant Startles London” in the San Francisco Chronicle and showed the article to Swamiji, who telephoned us, overseas, to tell us he was very pleased. By some little effort on our part, and by Prabhupada's and Krishna's immense grace, Krishna consciousness did indeed startle London in a very short time.

When Prabhupad sent me on a mission. He said, “Krishna will help you.” I have seen him encourage Rayarama to edit the first Back to Godhead magazine with those words, and he helped an artist Caruhasa the same way. Through the years, I have seen how Krishna helped me do seemingly impossible tasks, if I was sincere and perseverant. Krishna's mercy manifested itself spectacularly.



Krishna Consciousness Is Here

I was becoming accustomed to the new and interesting sights, smells, and sounds of England: double-decker buses, red telephone kiosks, subways that were called the “underground” or the “tube.” The men's room signs read “Gents,” and the lavatory was the “loo.” People were “in hospital” instead of “in the hospital.” “Thanks” became “ta” and I was called “luv” and “gov.” The British populace was very well-mannered in general. There was a small park, or “commons,” every few streets, dotting the city. Viewed from above, London seemed like a gigantic, green maze. The London community was made up of circles of friends that knew one another. These tribe-like connections were communal rather than geographical and provided us a good chance to meet people with similar interests again and again, even though we were in a large metropolis.

The city of London was becoming familiar to me, like a comfortable greatcoat, and I felt like I had been there in a past life. Although I liked London, I could have been anywhere, as our temple lifestyle was monkish, insular and completely engrossing. Our spiritual mission, my five friends, and baby Saraswati—these were my world, not the tourist sights or theaters.

As the Holy Names began to take root in the British Isles, I reflected on how my life had changed since meeting Prabhupada and learning about Krishna. Not only did I look different, with a shaved head, dhoti and sikha, but my right hand was often inside my bead bag and the Holy Names were on my lips. I chanted between conversations, while waiting for a bus, or in the temple room. Krishna had also blessed me with a chance to meet people from all segments of an exotically different society. I was experiencing new adventures. I was realizing transcendental insights. I was in ecstasy and shared this joy with others. I was changing people's views, their lives. I was helping attract many new students to move into our temple, simply by speaking about Prabhupada and Lord Chaitanya and Sri Sri Radha Krishna. I felt guided, and rather detached; Prabhupada's dream was coming into being, effortlessly.

We became acquainted with diplomats like Sri Pant and S. S. Dhawan, both the High Commissioner for India in London, and with other important members of the Indian community. It seemed as if the Indian people were happy at last to be worshipping as they did in India, but right in the heart of London. Tom Driberg, a Member of Parliament, was advising us, especially in the matter of registering ISKCON as a charity in the UK, and he wrote several letters of commendation on our behalf. One time, Mr. Driberg invited us to an historic English church where he was giving a guest sermon, and from this ancient podium he several times quoted from the Bhagavad-gita. We were being accepted by people from all walks of British life as an important part of the London Renaissance. Krishna consciousness, I thought, is indeed here.

Another letter from Prabhupada:

Seattle, 16 October, 1968

My Dear Gurudas,

Please accept my blessings. I am in due receipt of your nice letter dated Oct. 11, 1968, and by reading the contents it was so much encouraging, for me. Previous to this I received one letter from Mukunda and that was also very encouraging, so I am sure combined together you will have a great success in starting the ISKCON temple in London. I have also received one letter from Ginsberg. Mr. Tom Driberg is an intimate friend of Ginsberg and he has already written to him promising all help to us. So by Grace of Krishna there you are meeting nice gentlemen, interested gentlemen, and I hope it will become a very grand success.... So by the Grace of Krishna this mission is going on nicely, and I shall be glad to hear from you further good news. Please offer my blessings to your good wife, Yamuna, as well as all other devotees, Mukunda, Shyamasundar, Malati, Janaki, and Sarasvati devi. I hope this will find you in good health. Thanking you once more for writing me.

Your ever well-wisher, A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami



Ravi Shankar

Ravi Shankar, the famous sitar master, had scheduled a well-publicized concert in London. The London Times announced that a post-concert party would be held in his honor at the home of the Indian High Commissioner, S. S. Dhawan. After hearing of this, the six of us had a brief discussion and decided to crash the party. We hoped Ravi would remember us from previous encounters in San Francisco and at the Monterey Pop Festival, and that he would be glad to see us. And we wanted to meet High Commissioner Dhawan as well. Prabhupada had taught us that meeting dignitaries was helpful in spreading Lord Chaitanya's mission, as the Bhagavad-gita states that what great men do, others will follow.

We crowded into Shyamasundar's little, red pickup truck and drove to the High Commissioner's Kensington Street mansion. The iron gates protecting the ambassadorial enclave were open, so we drove in and parked the truck. Autumn leaves crunched under our feet, and the cold night air hit us. As we found the address, we heard names being bleated out as we approached the decorated doors, not Holy Names but names of Britain's elite peerage.
A butler in livery was announcing the entrance of each celebrity in a clipped high-class British accent: “Lord and Lady such-and-such.”

We scribbled “International Society for Krishna Consciousness” on a card, and the steward loudly announced, “International Society for Krishna Consciousness!” as we walked into the room. All heads turned. Ravi Shankar came forward to greet us warmly, followed closely by the High Commissioner. Ravi recognized us from San Francisco and asked how we were. We chatted for a while, and then the High Commissioner interrupted our pleasantries and, ignoring the other guests, invited us upstairs.

Mr. Dhawan led us into a simple room, sat on the floor cross-legged, and motioned for us to sit beside him. We sat and talked, and he was very friendly. We also showed him some slides of our worldwide ISKCON activities. The High Commissioner then enthusiastically invited us to a late dinner. We stressed that the dinner must be pure vegetarian without garlic or onions.

Mr. Dhawan was intelligent and thoughtful; he enjoyed conversing with us and took notes during our discussions on a little pad he kept in his pocket. He was an avowed communist, so we didn't discuss politics. In his role as High Commissioner, I subsequently called upon him to help us many times in our mission. I also met him again years later in Calcutta when he was Governor of Bengal.



California Contingent

By late 1968, London and San Francisco had become twin epicenters for the worldwide hippie movement, and we tried to stay in touch with friends and events in the Bay Area. One day Shyamasundar got a surprise phone call from Rock Scully, manager of the Grateful Dead. He had just arrived at Heathrow airport "with 6 friends" and wondered if we could put them up for a few nights until they got situated! They had come to London to meet the Beatles and generally to check out the London scene and establish liaisons between San Francisco and London hippie leaders and motorcycle gangs.

Shyamasundar went to the airport to meet them in the tiny red Ford pickup. We cleaned the temple and prepared a feast. I was in the kitchen cutting vegetables when they arrived. They sounded like a stampede of bulls at Pamplona coming up the stairs.

The first one to arrive was Rock, skinny and alert. Mukunda stood at the top of the stairs with me, “So we meet again. What's happening in San Francisco?”

Rock informed us, “It's gone down, man. Since you all left, there's been rioting on Haight Street. But we can survive.”

“There's always good people still around,” I said.

“Yeah, but many are leaving,” Rock said.

A petite, pretty girl named Frankie came in. She wore her hair cropped and was wearing tight leather pants and a red jacket. She looked tough and could have been hanging out on a stoop in the Bronx, but when she smiled, you could see her heart showing. After Frankie, Sweet William, and Pete stomped in, members of the Oakland chapter of the Hells Angels motorcycle club. He had a bored, detached look on his weather- and fist-beaten face. A swastika hung around his tan neck. His muscular arm sported a tattoo of a hand holding a knife. His leather jacket's colors said,
“HELLS ANGELS OAKLAND.”

I asked that everyone please leave their boots or shoes by the door. Sweet William hesitated, then reluctantly took off his thick, black engineer boots. Behind Sweet William came Pete, also in Angel colors, accompanied by his old lady, Angie. When Angie leaned down to put her boots alongside the rest, her purse opened and the handle of a gun popped out. She pushed it back in and closed the purse.

Next came Ken Kesey. I greeted him, “Hey, man, haven't seen you since the Be-in.” Kesey smiled his gap-toothed smile. Slowly, he recognized me as he morphed me from my hippie self to my monk persona. I saw him remembering our times together. He strode in with confidence, followed by an American-born Buddhist, who tried to be friendly but acted mostly aloof. I think he felt out of his element in our midst—he was no longer the authority and missed it. I still tried to make him feel welcome.

Exchanging news and happenings, I learned that the Haight scene was essentially turning nasty and that many shops had boarded their windows and closed down. The Grateful Dead were becoming even more popular, and a roving community called The Dead Heads was beginning to follow their concerts from town to town. Sweet William said that the Angels were being continuously hassled. The Vietnam War was bombarding everyone's senses on the evening news, and the U.S. was going through some hard times.

They asked us what we thought their chances were for starting a branch of the Hells Angels in London. We had to be tactful. Shyamasundar said he thought that, yes, they would find some willing bikers here. “Perhaps some skinheads?” (I had to laugh to myself—I thought it ironic that sometimes inebriated British drivers would yell, “Skin ’ead!” out of their windows when they saw us monks with shaved heads walking on the street.)

I said, “Here in London, it's like it was in Frisco before the Summer of Love in ’67: The streets are full of rebellious, searching, kindred souls. They are reenacting here what we did in San Francisco a year ago.”
“The Hell's Angels are famous; I think you will find some people who are interested,” Mukunda added quietly. (If you persevere long enough in your belief, people will become interested, I thought. It's simply a matter of getting your message out. Even fan clubs for serial killers, absurd as they are, exist. And here we are exchanging knowledge with them as if they were opening one of our temple branches.)

Joking, I asked, “Did you bring your hogs?”

“Yeah,” they replied, and they pointed outside.

Surprised, I went and looked out the window, and sure enough, there were two Harley-Davidson motorcycles tied up in the back of Shyamasundar's truck.

“We paid 500 pounds air-cargo for each one,” said Sweet William proudly.

They sat, and we served prasadam. They were hungry after a long airplane trip, and they ate with both hands. All the girls—Janaki, Malati, and Yamuna—were advancing quickly in the art of Krishna vegetarian cuisine, and the food was delicious. Then, like a well-run basketball play, we broke off into little groups: Yamuna and Janaki with Frankie, Malati with Angie, Shyamasundar and Mukunda with Rock, Sweet William and Pete.
I sat down near a window with Ken Kesey. The Buddhist guy sat by himself. Conversations filled the room.

Ken asked me how I was, what the London scene was like, and then, after the small talk, “Why do we need a guru? Why can't we find the way ourselves?”

I answered him this way: “We can find the path ourselves, but if we find someone who has experience, who has already reached enlightenment, we can learn very quickly how to become liberated. It's faster following a teacher. One way is taking the stairs, the other the elevator.”

“Why not learn from nature, or books?”

I continued, “They are Siksa Gurus, Nature is very nice to learn from, and books help, but which ones do you pick? Your method is one of trial and error and may take many lifetimes. A guru teaches by his example and gives you the correct holy books. If you were becoming a doctor, wouldn't it be better to learn the methods and books at a medical school rather than by the trial and error method? As a patient, I would certainly rather go to a doctor who was trained by another doctor.” Then, imitating a doctor, I said, “Mr. Kesey, you must have appendicitis, I think. It has to be removed. Do you remember what side it's on?”

We laughed, and he said, "Hmmmm, I will think about what you said.” He then asked, “How do we know which guru to pick?”

“Pick the guru that resonates in your heart, and someone who you feel can teach you. Choose someone that you are ready to accept as someone who can answer all of your questions and, most importantly, choose someone who practices what they preach. My own guru says, ‘You must test the guru; there are many false gurus.’ A guru is someone you can feel a loving connection with forever.”

Then I reminded Ken of the conversation we had back in La Honda about fighting, fleeing, or observing. He remembered and smiled. I reminded him of what he said: “We want to use every moment wisely just like you did back then. LSD is more than getting high and going to rock concerts; we want to use it as a tool.” I learned that we all have an allotted amount of breaths in our life span, and I informed him that our lives are documented in the astrological book of Brighu. Yogis can equalize the breaths and practically slow them down to almost appear to be dead. Breathing so slowly, they live longer lives. I chant a lot. Each moment is precious.


“My guru is open -minded, humorous and wise,” I went on. “We chant the names of Krishna and Rama but he says any holy names will do. He is not saying our way is the only way,”

Then Kesey gave Prabhupada a great compliment: “Your guru is the heaviest.” Translated, that means: “The deepest, most natural, determined, non-compromising, real, not-afraid-to-say-what-he-thinks, brightest star in the honorific galaxy of living saints in the universe.”

Quietly, I said, “One of the Sanskrit meanings of guru is ‘heavy.’'” Ken was delighted by that tidbit, and he repeated “Heavy, man.” We smiled knowingly into each other’s minds and souls.

Malati interrupted. “We're showing a movie. Would you like to come and watch it?” We got up and went to another part of the room where a white bed sheet was hung on the wall. An 8mm film had arrived in the mail the day before from the Boston temple, and it chronicled some of Srila Prabhupada's visit there. Jimmy Doody, a young English boy and aspiring devotee, had brought a projector from the Arts Lab, and we started watching the film. We saw Prabhupada walking the snowy streets of Boston, along with two devotees. This clumsy homemade film gave us great joy, but it probably seemed totally boring to anyone who didn't know Prabhupada. Occasionally, His Divine Grace would look toward the camera or point his cane at something, and we would ooh! and ahh! I looked through the darkness and saw that the Hells Angels and their friends were asleep, looking like angels. Rock Scully was nodding off too. Jet lag had finally caught up with them. As we continued watching, we were excited by even the slightest twitch of Prabhupada's eyebrow—and so was Ken Kesey, who continued to watch with keen interest.

Upon waking, the San Francisco bunch was restless, and they asked where the action was. I didn't know what action they were thinking of exactly, but I suggested they start off at the Arts Lab, the local hangout. They thanked us, and as they left, the roar of the Harley's echoed and resounded like bowling pins off the walls of quiet Betterton Street. Along the fog-shrouded, late-night street, I saw lights flash on in many flats, and heads peered out to see what caused the noise. The entourage turned left at the corner of Drury Lane and disappeared into the night. Later, we heard from Jack Moore and Jim Haynes, founders of the Arts Lab, that the Hells Angels did pick up some converts that night, and then, because it was their nature to do so, they also trashed the place a little.

Prabhupada sent me an encouraging letter:

Los Angeles, 15 November, 1968

My Dear Gurudas,

Please accept my blessings. I am in due receipt of your letter dated Nov. 7, 1968, and I very much appreciate your sincere endeavor for preaching our Krishna consciousness Movement. I have received one letter from Dr. Athvale whom you met in Amsterdam, and he was so much pleased with your behavior and talk that he has been induced to see me at Los Angeles. A qualified disciple increases the importance of the Spiritual Master. So I find in you some good qualities. You think yourself as very humble but you appreciate the services of your God brothers and I am very much pleased on your behavior. I have received the news cutting. This is also very nice attempt, and by your sincere endeavor you have now got a nice house to stay free of charges till it is sold. So all this encourages me that you are doing your best, and Krishna will bless you for your noble attempt.

I hope his meets you in good health, along with Janaki, and Malati and Shyamasundar, and Miss Sarasvati. Please continue to keep me informed.

Your ever well-wisher, A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami



Meeting the Beatles

Underground movements, from the avant-garde, the bohemians, “the moveable feast” in Paris, through the beatnik ’50s, tend to remain hidden and spread out geographically. But the ’60s underground movement expanded in London, much as it had in San Francisco, in an explosive, public manner—basement doors were flung open, people came out of their garrets and went into the streets and parks. Surrealists met rebels; bohemians became friends with the new pop-intelligentsia.

All sectors of the underground community were linked: a writer for International Times knew an editor at Oz magazine, who in turn knew a filmmaker (Hoppy), who knew a poet (Allen Ginsberg), who knew a writer (Miles), who knew a disc jockey (John Peel), who knew a TV personality (David Frost), who knew Prince Charles—and all of them wanted to know The Beatles. We did too.

About the same time that we moved into the old International Times offices at 22 Betterton Street, The Beatles were going through their own changes. There was some disappointment with the Maharishi (they all had the same secret mantra), and The Beatles were weary of holy people bringing gifts. They were rethinking things.

Then The Beatles decided to organize themselves as Apple Corporation. They made their headquarters in posh Savile Row, adjacent to the custom tailors and high-fashion men’s clothing shops. They decided to get back to some of their original ideas and spontaneity, both musically and in their lives, and so they opened a boutique on Baker Street and made themselves accessible to new ideas, projects, and people. Soon, The Beatles were inundated with self-proclaimed messiahs, inventors, and tapes from garage bands. This is when we came on the scene.

We had been going to the most happening place in London, where artists, aficionados, hookers (such as Christine Keeler), and squatters congregated. We chanted there Wednesday nights. During the days, we practiced a version of the Brahma Samhita prayers, sung to a tune that Mukunda had written and arranged. We went through the arrangement a dozen times, and finally we made a demo tape on a small tape recorder. We were not in a studio, nor did we have proper engineering or professional musicians. What emerged sounded like a group of innocents with lots of heart and devotion. A copy of this demo tape was sent to Apple Records.

Apple Corp’s open invitation for new talent and ideas was a chance for us to also send some pushpana messages (arrows made of flowers) to The Beatles. We mounted a campaign to send them something—a flower arrow—every day for a week. That should get their attention, we thought. Our unspoken hope—though it seemed impossible at the time—was to someday record the Hare Krishna mantra with The Beatles.

The Beatles had recently published an advertisement picturing all four of them in concert, with the caption: “Send Us Your Ideas.” So, the first envelope we sent them a Back to Godhead magazine and included a photo I had taken of the devotees in New York, with smiling faces and arms raised in the chanting pose; we captioned the photo: “Come Sing With Us.”


The second day, we sent them part one of a two-part illustrated article about Prahlad Maharaja that we had recently published in the International Times. I had written the text about Prahlad, the great child devotee who overcame the attempts of his demonic father to dissuade him from worshiping Krishna. We illustrated the narrative with Gaurasundar and Govinda dasi’s paintings of the Prahlad story, painted on wooden rectangles.

On the third day, we sent the second part of the Prahlad story.

On the fourth day, we sent a walking, wind-up apple toy we had found at a kirtan program held at All Saints Church in Notting Hill. We wrote, “Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare,” in gold paint on the back of the red apple and sent it, along with one of our “Krishna Consciousness Is Coming” handbills, to the Apple offices. Yamuna had designed and written in calligraphy a cover for International Times that featured the Hare Krishna mantra in Sanskrit devanagari script.

On the fifth day, we sent Yamuna’s Sanskrit cover, plus our handbill showing Prabhupada’s eyes: “Krishna Consciousness Is Here!”
We sent the daily transcendental packets to Apple.

Peter Asher, the A& R (artists and repertoire) person for Apple, opened our missives. We never knew what he did with our presentations, as we never heard from him or from anyone at Apple Records. So, on the sixth day, we decided to make our daily presentation in person: We baked an apple pie and then cut letters depicting the Hare Krishna maha-mantra in the top crust. We brought the mantra pie, still fresh and steaming, to the Apple Corp offices. We inquired about our demo tape and tried to find Peter Asher, but we couldn’t find out about either. No one knew anything.

We then brought the apple pie to Chris O’Dell, an assistant to George Harrison. She was from Los Angeles, about our age, and happy to meet some fellow Americans. We talked for a very long time and were tempted to break into the apple pie, but no, this pie was for The Beatles. Chris promised to get the pie to George and the others and to follow up on our public relations packets. We gave her a copy of the demo tape as well. A few weeks later, we would be sitting in George Harrison’s home, having kirtan.

Soon after, the phone rang at Betterton Street. It was Rock Scully calling for Shyamasundar. He talked quietly in the corner for a few minutes, hung up the phone, threw his arms in the air, and started shouting, “Hare Krishna!” and dancing around the room.

“Wow!” Shyamasundar exclaimed. “That was Rock calling from their new place in Earl’s Court. He and Kesey and the gang have got a meeting set up down at Apple tomorrow with The Beatles—and he said I could tag along!”
The next day, Shyamasundar was really nervous as he prepared to leave for Apple. The girls had baked a cake topped by a green apple and the words Hare Krishna in frosting. We soothed his nerves with comments
about how Krishna would help him and saw him off down the stairs.

Shyamasundar describes his first meeting with George Harrison:

I had some trouble getting admitted into the Apple offices—finally, Yoko Ono drove up in a white Rolls and told the guard it was
OK to let me in. I told the receptionist I was with the group from San
Francisco, and she said, “Oh, you mean those, er, fellows with the, uh
motorcycles?” and pointed up some stairs to a large reception room.
When I walked in, the place was packed with about fifty people—rock
stars, elegant ladies, Carnaby Street hippies, guys in suits—and our
San Francisco crew spread out among them. I greeted Rock, then took
a seat at the far end of the room, away from two doors at the opposite
end, behind which everyone said The Beatles were having a meeting
and would be out shortly. Hours passed; no Beatles.

Finally, one by one, Paul, John, and Ringo each stuck their heads
out of one of the doors, then quickly bolted for the exit, not pausing or
speaking to anyone. A few minutes later, George poked his head out, and those famous, intense dark eyes quickly scanned the room and
alighted on me. Before anyone could react, George had shot out of the door, crossed the room, and come straight at me, grinning and saying, “Hare Krishna! I’ve been waiting to meet you!”
He sat down, and we started yakking a mile a minute, as if we were old friends meeting after a long time. The other people in the room were stunned and came over to gawk silently while we shot the breeze. Rather than nervous, I felt marvelously fluent, chosen, and wonderfully happy! George related how he often listened to the Happening record of Prabhupada leading Hare Krishna Mantra with the New York devotees. He described an incident that had happened to him a year before, when a light plane he was in suddenly lost altitude and started to crash, and George began shouting, “Hare Krishna!” at the top of his lungs, and the plane leveled out just before hitting the ground. I answered some of his questions about philosophy, we had a few laughs, then he invited me out to his home in Esher on the coming Sunday and sketched a map to his place on a napkin. I also invited him to Betterton Street to meet the other devotees when he could find the time.

When I got to know George, he told me how he chanted when the airplane was diving and how the plane righted after he chanted. I told him how in India, that phenomena happens often. When an airplane is crashing, the passengers and crew pull out their pictures of Krishna, Buddha, Ganesh, Shiva, Lakshmi, et cetera, and chant their mantras, and soon the plane levels out.

Regarding the two Prahlad articles in International Times, Prabhupada wrote:

From Los Angeles 1 December, 1968

My Dear Gurudas,

Please accept my blessings to yourself and to your good wife, Yamuna Devi.

With the greatest satisfaction I have read your letter of November 25th and just yesterday I received our published pictures of Prahlad Maharaja. I thank you very much for your sincere endeavors and I am sure that Krishna will bestow upon you all blessings for your notable service attitude.

This is the key to progressing in Krishna consciousness that one learns to serve Krishna and the Spiritual Master in humble attitude and this attitude in you shall certainly bring you further and further in perfecting your life. In humble submission the devotee finds such sweet transcendental pleasure that no more he is interested in the nonsense material world and no more he is affected by the influence of the inferior energy, maya.

Your idea of arranging meeting with all of the influential people who are interested in your activities is excellent suggestion and may prove very good results. So certainly Krishna is guiding you in your thoughts and activities. This is very nice, and all very encouraging to me.

You have requested of me to write one letter for opening the "board meeting" so when the meeting is arranged definitely I will send the same. So far as the dictionaries go, the Niruktih is the better of the two. I think that you may send me few more of the published Prahlad Maharaja prints so that other temples may be inspired and also may try to republish them in some American papers.

Once again I thank you for your nice labors and hope that you are all well.

Your ever well-wisher, A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami



George Harrison

Some mornings I would not want to get up so early and had no desire to leave the warm sleeping bag. However, on most mornings, the names of Lord Rama and Krishna danced upon my lips, and being filled with the encouragement of my beloved guru and Their Lordships, I bounded out of the sleeping bag, freshened up in the invigorating waters, and ran into the temple room to share in the sound of the Holy Names with like-minded souls. During the brahma-muhurta time (an hour and a half before sunrise), I would chant japa, 250,00 names with thoughts centered on Srila Prabhupada and Krishna, even though he was far away. This pastime of separation from my guru was analogous to the separation the Gopis felt when away from Krishna. After morning kirtan, we would hear read the Srimad-Bhagavatam.

That morning, I felt especially alive and hopeful, because it was the day we were going to meet George Harrison! After the morning service, with great anticipation and excitement, we prepared a sumptuous feast. Later that afternoon a slick blue Porsche sports-car roared into the narrow Covent Garden. The car stopped in front of our Betterton Street warehouse. Watching from the window above, I saw George emerge from his chariot wearing blue jeans and a denim jacket. He checked the address and rang the bell. Shyamasundar greeted him downstairs; when he arrived upstairs, Mukunda, Yamuna, and I were introduced, and we greeted him warmly.

George took off his shoes and put them with all the others. He entered the temple floor and went before Lord Jagannath, bowing his head reverently and gazing at the altar for a few minutes. Standing by his side I felt elated, for he was a great musician, an elevated person, and a voice for our age. But I soon popped my awe-bubble and began to treat him just like anyone else. He was also just another spirit soul on the planet.

We walked out of the temple room into the dining area. I introduced the new English brahmacharis (celibate students): “This is Colin, David, and Tim.” They pranamed (folded their hands), a little awestruck. I had suggested to everyone at a meeting earlier that day to restrain our urge to worship George, but I knew we all felt like he was a demigod. “George will appreciate us much more if we act ourselves and not fawn all over him,” I said. “People must do that to him all the time, causing him to always take the role of the celebrity. This is not fair to him. We will impress him with our natural demeanor, and with our Krishna conscious philosophy, chanting and prasadam, nothing else is needed. Be your selves; Prabhupada treats everyone equally.”

Malati came zooming out of the kitchen, her hands covered with samosa dough. I introduced her: “This is Malati.” Her eyes looked all over as she flashed him a quick smile.

George and I both smiled as she walked away in a gangly fashion. His was a simple smile, almost self-effacing. He was an unassuming, regular person, fun and interesting to share things with, who became my good friend. He seemed genuinely interested in learning new things, and there was an intrinsic spirituality about him.

“Who owns this building?” George asked.

I said, “Krishna,” and we all laughed in agreement.

He rephrased the question: “In whose name is the building?”

“Nigel Samuels,” Mukunda said.

“Nigel has so kindly donated the two floors for our use,” I said.

George asked, “What was the building used for before you came?”

Shyamasundar said, "It was the original International Times office." George read International Times.

Malati piped in, “Now it is used to store their old magazines.”

I added, “The top floor is being shared by Michael X and the Black Muslims with a rare-book company run by Nigel called Bibliophile.” George had a bemused look.

Yamuna came out of the kitchen with her beatific smile, holding the plate of mahaprasad, and beckoned us into the temple room, where she placed it on the altar. We handed out kartalas (hand cymbals), and George took a pair. I wrapped the cloth strings from the cymbals around two fingers and watched as George did the same. “Let's chant!”
Mukunda began with his swinging drumbeat. I clanged—da-da-daaah—and George picked it up immediately. Yamuna led the kirtan with her strong, sweet, soulful singing. “Hari hari bol,” yelled Janaki. We chanted in bliss for a long time. George was truly moved by chanting the holy names.

Malati took the offering off the altar and invited everyone to respect (eat) prasadam. We sat in an oval around a long table mat we had laid out. “Are you hungry?” I asked gently, and George said, “A little.”

At that point, Janaki started bringing out pakoras, Yamuna followed with lassis, and Malati came with fruit. Just in time for dinner, an intense, young English boy came in and left his sandals at the door, smiling self-consciously.

“George, this is Jimmy Doody, an artist and inventor,” Mukunda said. “He has just invented a light machine that projects images of colored oil and water mixtures on a wall.”

George listened with interest and then asked, “Is Krishna the only name for God?”

“There are many names for God,” I answered. “Just like you have different names such as George, or Son, or maybe someday Father, and they are all you. If someone chants with devotion any bona fide name of God, it is the same as chanting “Krishna.” Krishna and His name are non-different. When we say “Krishna,” He is actually dancing on our tongue. It is a transcendental sound vibration.”

George looked thoughtful and said, “That's lovely.” Then he inquired, “Why is the Hare Krishna mantra called the maha, or great, mantra?”

“Because Lord Chaitanya has made it easy and available for everyone,” Yamuna said, as she brought in a large plate of basmati saffron rice. Malati frenetically put plates in front of everyone, while Janaki followed with water in stainless steel glasses. The plates were heaped with dahl, two different vegetable preparations, puris, and salad. George ate with gusto. As soon as he finished one item, one of the ladies would replace it. Finally, George tried to cover his plate, but Malati slid some more puris between his hands, just like the East Indian community had been kindly doing to us for some time. We all had a laugh. I was hoping no one would milk the joke and keep piling prasadam on his plate. We were all still a little restrained and on our best behavior.

George looked like he wanted to get up. I led him to the sink, and as we washed our hands together, side by side, I perceived him as a friend rather than a musical demigod. I handed him a clean towel, and he looked me straight in the eyes and said, “I am inspired here.”

We walked back out to the main room, and George said to everyone, “I had a really nice time, and the prasadam was great. I especially liked the lassis.”

We said something like, “It was wonderful for you to be our guest; please come again.”

As he was putting on his tennis shoes, George said, ”I must go to a mixing session at the Wardour Street studio now, but could all of you please come down to my house in Surrey soon and be my guests, and we can chant there too?”

“Yes, that would be nice,” we chorused.



Kirtan at George's House

On the agreed date, we rode down to George's house in Surrey in the back of Shyamasundar's truck. It was a sprawling, Western-style, ranch house in a stately suburb. Though the rooms were quite spacious, it seemed all in all to be an ordinary house—until we came into the living room: A large altar hugged one wall graced by pictures of Krishna, Srila Prabhupada, Lord Shiva, Sri Yukteshwar, and Sri Yogananda. On another wall hung a picture of assorted dogs playing and cheating at poker. The contrast made me laugh.

Billy Preston sat at the piano-organ, smiling, his hair swept up in a huge Afro. Our friend Frankie from San Francisco sat next to him on the piano bench. Patty, George's pretty, blond wife, came in and was very gracious. George invited us to sit. We sat in a circle on the floor. "Shall we chant?" George asked.

With special excitement we got out our kartalas and mridunga drum, while George picked up an electric guitar, doodled with it for a minute, then laid down an introductory riff. We played the drum and cymbals, George led the singing, and Billy Preston chanted and filled any musical gaps with a rhythmic, gospel like organ pulse. Our voices rang out, and I felt that the roof might fly off this suburban house satsang (spiritual gathering) at any moment! The trees outside seemed to be dancing and raising their arm like branches to heaven. Yamuna's "Hari hari bol!" pierced the sedate Surrey countryside.



Recording with George

In our first meeting with George Harrison, we did not mention the demo tape that we had submitted to Apple Records. Mukunda, Shyamasundar, and I had discussed it, and we had decided to play it by ear whether to bring the subject up or not. Instinctively, we moved very carefully and slowly when dealing with George. We decided we wanted to give to him and not take from him. Nobody likes to be preached at. Due to our patience, the relationship between us flourished. Just before we left his house, out of the blue, George said, “I love this chanting. You all sound so great! The Radha Krishna Temple! I want Apple to record you guys chanting the Hare Krishna mantra, if it's all right with you.”

We all said, “Yes, that's all right.”



Alchemical Wedding

Jack Moore and Jim Haines were one of the main catalysts of the London renaissance. He was an expatriate from Texas and cofounder of the Arts Lab. One day he came over to our temple on Betterton Street to talk. I had always liked Jack; he was very smart, witty, and a great innovator of events and ideas.

We all sat together, Shyamasundar, Mukunda, Jack, and I. Jack began: “Jim Haines and I want to stage an event to call all the people together, and we would like you guys to be part of it.”

“Yeah, like a gathering of the tribes,” I said.

“Exactly,” Jack continued. “We will call it The Alchemical Wedding. We want all types of people from London to gather in Royal Albert Hall and sit in silence together. Would you join us there?”

We conferred briefly. “Yes, we can all be there but, according to the Vedas, we should be able to chant because chanting is also silence.”

“Well, OK. But please come anyway and add your charm to the mix! I'm making handbills. I'll drop one by when they're ready, all right?”

On the night of the event, we dressed in our finest dhotis and saris and set out for the program. Our party consisted of Shyamasundar, Malati, and baby Saraswati crammed into the cab of the tiny truck, and Mukunda, Janaki, Yamuna, and me, along with all our musical instruments, in the open back. Fortunately it was springtime, and the air was refreshing. We found a parking place in Knightsbridge and walked to the huge, round, beautiful music hall, usually reserved for the London symphony and other headliner concerts.

We found the entrance to the great ovoid Royal Albert Hall and went in. The middle of the floor was empty of seats, like a Roman theater in the round. A large white stripe—Jack's idea— was painted down the middle of the sunken area. Seats surrounded the empty circle, all the way around the hall and into the balcony, even though Jack said they were going to try silence, we thought it would be a wonderful venue to chant in. I had my Nikon camera slung over my shoulder and kartalas in my hand, and I was ready for something to happen.

Our plan was for the six of us to split up and each walk singly down one aisle, chanting. We would start from the top seats and then proceed down into the pit itself at a time which would reveal itself. We stood at the back of six different aisles circling the whole Royal Albert Hall and waited for the right sign the right moment to begin.
I settled into a seat at the top of an aisle and watched as Royal Albert Hall buzzed and filled with thousands of people, the leading characters of the London underground movement, decked out with feathers and beads, and wearing big hats. The colors of the rainbow adorned the clothes of the swirling and weaving girls and boys.
Now six Hells Angels came in, led by Sweet William and Pete, and did a scouting lap like lions in a zoo cage, looked around, and slumped themselves over 11 seats. Ken Kesey and Rock Scully came in and sat down near the Angels. John Peel, the hip radio announcer, arrived with a pretty woman. Barry “Miles,” dressed in a long Edwardian coat, came into the huge circular hall.

A huge, white cloth bubble, probably containing John Lennon and Yoko Ono, traveled out onto the central open area and stopped. As the lights were lowered, a general pall fell on everyone, as if an invisible sound barrier net was thrown over us. In the darkness, shadow people slowly emerged as my eyes adjusted to the dimness. No one said anything; no one knew what to do. A few minutes passed in hypnotic silence.

Suddenly an animal like screech from one of the Hells Angels pierced the silence, and minutes later an isolated voice shouted, “Strawberry fields forever!” Then someone yelled, “O-O-O-M-M!” Realizing this must be our signal, I start ringing the kartalas—one-two-sizzle, one-two-sizzle—Mukunda hit the mrindunga drum loudly and laid down the rhythm. The other devotees joined with kartalas and esraj, and we slowly, evenly, walked down the aisles. Malati carried Saraswati and played kartalas at the same time.

Very soon, people joined in. The holy sounds built, and the transcendental names surged toward the high-domed ceiling. No one was supposed to cross over the painted white line, so we stood tall and humbly defiant, lined up right on the line. A nonverbal electricity of understanding energized the hall. Janaki raised her arms and began gracefully dancing the Swami Two-Step, then we all started dancing with upraised arms and increased the volume of our singing.

The arena suddenly exploded with a mighty kirtan, and the lights flashed on. People jumped up and started dancing with us. We moved away from the white line and circumambulated in a circle through the crowd that joined us. I played kartalas and swung my camera out and rapidly photographed the joyous festivities around me. Someone handed me a microphone, and I began singing over the sound system. It turned into an improvised twelve-bar, blues-raga kirtan. This spontaneous, transcendental symphony was totally blissful and ecstatic. I continued to sing and photograph simultaneously.

The traditional building rocked like never before. Then, after what seemed like hours, some officials turned off the lights and the sound; but still the chanting went on, slowly becoming softer, dwindling, and eventually stopping. We decided a hasty exit was appropriate, and we went back to the temple feeling contented.

I immediately went to Fleet Street, where a friend at the Daily Telegraph, a major newspaper, let me develop my film. When the negatives were ready, I viewed them on the light table. Strangely enough, six other reporters and photographers gathered around the table too. “This is a unique story,” I thought; “I'm glad they are interested.” Then they took out a large magnifying glass. One of the men said, “I found it.” They all crowded round. “I found her.”
Apparently, some girl was so excited by the happenings that she'd taken her clothes off! Disrobing in public happened often enough in San Francisco but was a rare occurrence in London, and these lechers were more interested in that angle than our spiritual viewpoint. They offered me 80 pounds for the photos. “If you'll disassociate our temple from her, you can buy the photos.”

The Daily Telegraph ran an article picturing Yamuna and Janaki chanting in ecstasy, plus one or two other photos, and a blow-up of the naked girl wearing only a large, straw hat. The picture was so blurry, it was a very cheap thrill. The headline read, “Mad Rave-In at Royal Albert Hall.” I cropped out the word Mad and the naked-girl photo, and sent the article to Prabhupada in Los Angeles.

The International Times wrote about us as follows: “In their vegetarian loveliness, they turned a corporeal event into heaven.” Prabhupada loved the article. From that time on, due to the success of the event, we became an even bigger part of the underground scene in London.

From Los Angeles 24 December, 1968

My Dear Gurudas,

Please accept my blessings. I beg to acknowledge receipt of your recent letter (undated) along with copies of the syndicate contract inviting for newspaper reproduction of the Royal Albert Hall chanting and they are all very encouraging.

I am sure that Krishna is helping you all around for your honest and sincere endeavors. Just previous to your letter I received one very encouraging letter from Shyamasundar reporting of his meeting with George Harrison, who I understand has promised to give us a five-story building in one of the busiest quarters of London. You have arranged for the convocation and I have seen the list of invitees. It is very encouraging. Please conduct this convocation carefully and try to recruit some sympathizers for our nice London center. I am dispatching one tape by separate registered airmail, in which you'll find my speech for this occasion. It begins with "Ladies and Gentlemen." I think this speech will be nice and it is recorded on speed 33/4.

Regarding your analogy of sowing KC seeds, I may inform you that there is a Bengali proverb: Sa Bure Meoya Phale. This means that fruits like chestnuts and pomegranates, or similar other valuable fruits and nuts, take some time to be fructified. So any good thing comes in our possession after hard struggle and endeavor. So Krishna consciousness is the greatest of all good fruits. We must therefore have necessary endurance and enthusiasm to get the result. We shall never be disappointed when things are presented in reversed order. Anyway, your honest labor is now coming to be fructified. Always depend upon Krishna and go on working with enthusiasm, patience, and conviction.

Our policy of Krishna consciousness is very nice. We are offering people good family life with faithful wives in Krishna consciousness. Similarly, able husbands in Krishna consciousness so that the younger generation will be happy to have nice home, nice wife, nice food, nice dress, nice philosophy of life, nice culture, and ultimately, nice Krishna. So this movement is the nicest of all other movements. Simply the ministers should be ready, intelligent, honest, and sincere. Then surely, the Krishna consciousness Movement will be accepted by all considerate men and women. Thank you again for your letter and I hope this finds you in good health.

Your ever well-wisher, A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami



John and Yoko’s Bubble

As mentioned earlier, John and Yoko had made for themselves a round, bubble-like structure out of white canvas that covered them from head to toe. They could walk inside the bubble but remain completely covered. By attending events in their bubble, they were at a place and yet isolated at the same time. Zen-like, they could be there and not be there, just like the Irish expression “They are in the tall grasses,” meaning nearby but unseen.

The couple conceived the idea when a pushy music person scheduled himself to meet with Yoko. “John and I are shy people,” she stated to Dick Cavett during one interview. She described how she covered herself with a cloth so that she could meet the music agent yet remain hidden.

John added, “There is no prejudice when you’re in the bag. If a black man goes for a job in the bag, no one will know he is black. We both go to many press conferences in the bag; the press looks funny interviewing the bag.”

One time, John had to go to the dentist, so he asked Yamuna and me if we would replace him and Yoko inside their white balloon in order to trick the press at an Tate gallery art opening. I wanted to do it, but since I was temple president, with a modicum of decorum and very busy, I declined. Instead, I offered Suridas and Jotilla, two devotees from the Paris temple who were visiting London, the opportunity to pose as John and Yoko in the bag. Jotilla spoke with a strong Irish-American accent, and Suridas had a French-Algerian inflection. What made the event even more comical was the fact that she was taller than Suridas and had to pose as John, and Suridas as Yoko. Suridas (now Cheb-I-Sabbah, the disc jockey) recounts that when they arrived at the art gallery in John’s white Rolls Royce, many flashbulbs greeted them, and it was very hot inside the bubble. Still, the press believed it was John and Yoko who attended the event!



Abbey Road

George Harrison wanted us to record the Hare Krishna mantra on the Apple record label. We didn’t need much rehearsal for this, as we sang it all day anyway: to ourselves on a bus, in our hearts, or together in the temple— the maha-mantra was always dancing on our tongues, the Holy Names our constant companion. When we got some musical instruments—a harmonium, an esraj—we began to practice the standard Happening Records melody. We called ourselves The Radha Krishna Temple.

The recording session was scheduled one evening at the EMI Studios on Abbey Road, behind the famous zebra crosswalk on The Beatles album of the same name. Inside the studio, we took prasadam leisurely, chatted, and had a good time in general just lolling around. George was extremely patient, but eventually he reminded us that the studio cost 45 pounds per hour, and we should get started.

The recording went well, with Yamuna and Shyamasundar leading, our backup rhythms supportive but not overpowering. George laid down a beautiful guitar introduction, and the chanting built up nicely in tempo and volume to a wonderful crescendo that ended with Malati clanging a hanging brass gong. Our collective hearts stopped because the CLANG! sounded out of time—we hadn’t rehearsed it. We thought we’d have to do the whole recording over!

George was calm. Mal Evans, the roadie, didn’t move a muscle. George then led us back into the engineering booth for a listen. I sat next to George as he put the earphones on.

As we listened the mantra sprang forth, sounding fantastic and inspiring. George began sliding levers up and down, adjusting sounds on the various tracks. Paul and Linda McCartney came into the booth. We hardly noticed them, intensely waiting for the clang at the end. Once again our chanting came to a crescendo climax—and the gong clang was perfect in its timing and added a nice, conclusive, exotic ending!

George asked us to go back into the studio and sing over our own choruses, which we gladly did three more times. It was fun, and we became 12, then 24, and finally 48 voices. It sounded great to me. Paul McCartney became the studio engineer in the control room. George asked us back to the control booth to listen. The mantra rang out purely and joyously. I was completely encouraged and excited by the holy sounds we had rendered. Linda and Paul, too, were nodding with the beat and smiling. They indicated that they liked the sound, and soon they were singing along. I turned to Paul and introduced myself: “My name is Gurudas.”

Paul introduced himself and said, “And, of course, this is Linda.” I looked directly at Linda McCartney, once Linda Eastman, and said, “Yes, we were in the same homeroom together in high school.”

She looked startled with disbelief. “I attended Scarsdale High School, too, in 1955,” I added.

She looked suspicious. After all, I could have gleaned those facts about her from a music magazine; “Yeah, I sit around the temple reading movie magazines, seeing who got married and divorced last week in Hollywood," I thought sarcastically to myself. “We were both in Mr. Steele’s homeroom,” I told her.

Now she believed me, because that was a little-known fact (as was the fact that she seemed to be a snob in high school, but I didn’t mention that, as she seemed so friendly now). I also remembered that we stepped on each other’s toes at school dances.

She looked at me now, in robes and shaven locks, and replied, “I didn’t think anyone from Scarsdale would become a monk and renounce their wealth!”

I retorted, “Why not? Material wealth is only temporary, and besides, Krishna owns Scarsdale too. He is, after all, God!”

Linda was quite surprised, but seemed to understand what I was saying. Her reply then surprised me. “Paul is my God,” she said.

Then she changed the subject to vegetarianism, which I was very happy to discuss, and we listened to the final takes of the record until George was satisfied. Paul and Linda left. We packed up our instruments, blankets, prasadam plates, and babies and departed Abbey Road.

A few weeks later, the transcendental sound vibration of “Hare Krishna Mantra" was released by Apple Records, and the results were overwhelming. On our first attempt, Radha Krishna Temple had crashed all geographical and political barriers, and became the fastest-selling Apple single.

{Illustration} (article and Apple record cover)

The sound of the “great mantra for deliverance” had ebbed into the hearts of all who heard it, despite any flaws in our singing voices and our outward appearances. People all over the world looked past their differences to accept the unity of chanting the maha-mantra. Because they struck an eternal chord, the Holy Names flowed even through and across the Iron Curtain. For a few weeks, our “Hare Krishna Mantra" single became the fastest-selling of all the Apple Corporation’s releases, including those of The Beatles. In Czechoslovakia, the single reached #3 in the sales charts; it reached to #9 in the British music polls. We were in the Top Ten in Japan, Yugoslavia, South Africa, Australia, Germany, and many other countries. This was very rare for a first recording.

But since this mantra has come down to us from time immemorial, via Narada Muni, the eternal spaceman, the record’s magnificent success didn’t really surprise me at all. This was our first effort as essentially nonprofessional musicians, but because we were sincere devotees who were simply doing what we did best, all-attractive Krishna danced in the collective ears of all who listened to this record.



Govinda

“Govinda,” the second single by The Radha Krishna Temple, was recorded at Trident Studios, in an alley off Wardour Street near Piccadilly Circus. For this record, George consulted with George Martin, who was also known as the fifth Beatle because his arrangements so enhanced their music. For example, the violin and cello background in “Eleanor Rigby,” with a symphony orchestra counterpointing the guitars, bass, and drums, was arranged and produced by George Martin. We visited him at his home, and he had a swing in his living room. He was a soft-spoken English gentleman, very efficient with his suggestions for embellishing our “Govinda” recording. He thought that strings, choruses, and a harp would go nicely with Mukunda’s original arrangement.

During this recording session, our mood was a bit more intense and uncertain. We rarely sang the “Govinda” (Brahma Samhita) prayers, we hadn’t practiced much, and we now had to coordinate about 25 devotees instead of the original six who had recorded the Hare Krishna mantra! Furthermore, the “Govinda” arrangement includes several verses and choruses and complex Sanskrit words and phrasing, totally unlike the Hare Krishna mantra we were used to chanting 25,000 times a day.
Here are the verses to “Govinda" with translations:

Verse 1:

venum kvanantam aravinda-dalayataksham

barhavatamsam asitambudha-sundarangam
kandarpa-koti-kamaniya-vishesha-sbobka-govindam
adi-purusham tam aham bhajami


Translation:
I worship Govinda, the primeval Lord, who is adept in playing on His flute, with blooming eyes like lotus petals with head decked with peacock feathers, with the figure of beauty tinged with the hue of blue clouds, and His unique loveliness charming millions of Cupids.


Verse 2

angani yasya sakalendriya-vritti-nanti

pashyanti panti kalayanti chiram jaganti ananda-
chinmaya-sad-ujjvala-vigrahasya
govindam
adi-pui-usham tam aham bhajami


Translation:
I worship Govinda, the primeval Lord, whose transcendental form is full of bliss, truth, and substantiality and is thus full of the most dazzling splendor. Each of the limbs of the transcendental figure possesses in Himself the full-fledged functions of all organs, and eternally sees, maintains, and manifests the infinite universes, both spiritual and mundane.

George Harrison directed the whole session, and even though we were under pressure to do our best with this less-familiar mantra, he was a master at guiding our large group. George arranged a series of large, sound-diffusing panels around clusters of our singers and instrumentalists. Ishan played the trumpet a bit off-key and too loud, so George sent him out into the hallway. Yamuna sang the lead verses. Mukunda was the lead mridunga drum player, and I was the lead kartal player. I played my rhythmic riff on kartalas near the end of the song. Shyamasundar played the esraj, and Hari Vilas, who was born in Armenia, played the oud, his Middle-Eastern notes cascading between verse and chorus. George played harmonium and the guitar introduction. George Martin directed the harpist and other members of the London Philharmonic, who created the huge ethereal wall of sound that makes “Govinda” so unique. The recording was well accepted, it sold well, and again The Radha Krishna Temple made the charts in many countries.

When Prabhupad heard the recording, he cried and asked that “Govinda” is played every morning to greet the Deities in every ISKCON temple on the planet. And still, whenever I hear the chorus building up at the end of “Govinda,” tears come to my eyes.

It took some time, but eventually we set the reporters and news media straight—our group, The Radha Krishna Temple, was perceived as a religious group that happens to sing, rather than a one-hit-wonder rock band. At first, we were considered quite a novelty with our constantly changing personnel, e.g., “Bibhavati has to take care of her baby, so she can’t be at the concert tonight.” We had no groupies hanging around the front of the temple, nor did we take drugs or do the things most other music groups did. And yet we were accepted all over England.

Our two hits were another coup for George, for he had sponsored the fastest-selling single record that Apple had ever produced, even among The Beatles’ hits. On the spiritual platform, George had helped introduce the great chant of deliverance into the hearts of millions. George Harrison also wrote and recorded many of his own songs with spiritual, Krishna-conscious themes. Literally hundreds of devotees have approached me, asking me to convey to George how his music helped them to become devotees of Krishna and encouraged them in their spiritual journey.
Reporters from the British music magazines started coming around the temple at 7 Bury Place for interviews. They were sent up to me in my office on the top floor. I would be sitting cross-legged on a cushion across from a part-skeptical, part-curious interviewer:

Q: “How long has your group been together?”
A: “Some of us have been together for a year, and some joined two days ago.”
Q: “So your group changes personnel a lot?”
A: “Yes. I don’t allow our celibate students to go to nightclubs with us for live engagements. We are first of all devotees of Lord Krishna; we live simply, like monks. These songs are our prayers. Other people like them too—that is why our Hare Krishna mantra is a success.”
Q: “Who is the leader of the group then?”
A: “My guru, A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami, is the leader of our group.”
Q: “Which one is he?” (We are looking at a promotional photo.)
A: “He is our guru, our teacher. See, we are holding up his photo in our photo.”
Q: “Does he sing too?”
A: “All the time. He taught us the songs we sing. However, I understand what you are getting at; yes, he is always with us in our hearts and souls, but His Divine Grace was not actually in the recording sessions we did with George.”
Q: “Where did the song come from?”
A: “The song came from Narada Muni, passed down to us through the ages stemming from the Satya-yuga, or Golden Age—about 380,000,000 years ago.”
Q: “Oh.”

The Radha Krishna Temple group was featured in all the European and British pop music magazines. Other worldwide magazines began interviewing and writing about us as well. Reporters came from as far away as Egypt and Argentina. An Italian movie company filmed Mukunda and me walking across Trafalgar Square. Another time, a movie producer came to my office to arrange a pilot film-shoot with Vanessa Redgrave. Terms for payment were settled, and on a foggy, steamy night, 14 devotees and I chanted on the East London docks. Vanessa Redgrave was being chased. She came upon us, found refuge, shook my hand, and ran off. I don’t know the title of the film or if it ever got made. I also arranged for us to be on the David Frost show. They paid us 75 pounds.

Derek Taylor, the PR man at Apple Records, once rented a large marquee tent in Plimpton near the Crystal Palace to announce the launching of “Govinda.” We cooked vegetarian samosas, rice, and vegetable subji prasadam. Dozens of reporters milled around looking for alcoholic drinks and found only juice nectar. At first, they simply picked at the food, and then they ate heartily.

Another time, Derek rented a marquee for us at an international rock festival in rural England. We chanted outside the main venue, and there I ran into my old friend Jon Hendricks, the jazz singer. Jon was glad to take prasadam with us again; I had not seen him since we shared prasadam in San Francisco in 1967.



Top of the Pops

The most popular show on British television in the late ‘60s was called “Top of the Pops," a sort of variety-musical, half-hour evening show. Young and old, a significant portion of Britons watched “Top of the Pops,” as there were only two channels at the time, BBC and ITV (Independent Television).

The first time we went, on the show we sang “Hare Krishna Mantra” without paraphernalia or incident. For our second appearance, we came with more people and more instruments and props: slides of Radha and Krishna, Bhaktisiddhanta Saraswati, Bhakti-vinoda Thakur, Gaura Kishore das Babaji, Garuda, temples in India, et cetera. I arranged the slides in order for a projector to flash them on the screen. We laid down a madras cloth and sat cross-legged in a semicircle on the stage.

The director of the show asked us to do a sound-check rehearsal. As we began to sing, some go-go dancers got into cages suspended above us and started gyrating to our sound. I looked up at them and realized that the Brahma Samhita prayers and go-go dancing are simply not compatible! I raised my hand for us to stop all activities. As I was temple president, everyone stopped singing immediately. I said to the director, “We don’t require the dancing, especially since we have supplied supplementary visuals with the slides.”

He was silent, and we seemed to be at an impasse. Finally, he said, “They are union dancers and must dance every song.”

I said, “But that kind of dancing is incompatible with our prayers.”

The director, who was pulling out his already-scanty hair, said, “Then I don’t know what to do!”

I then replied, “What will you do with four minutes of blank TV space?” I motioned to our entourage to pack everything up and we started to leave. The director knew we were serious, and since it was a live show with 10 minutes until airtime, he begged me to reconsider.

I had an idea. I said, “Get some long cloths, like saris, and we will dress the dancers and teach them the ‘Trance Dance.’” This was a win-win compromise.

They found some long lengths of cloth, and Yamuna, Mondakini, Janaki, Jyotirmayee, and Malati assisted the dancing girls. We gave them a quick course in the side-by-side Trance Dance—also known as the Swami Two-Step—and they loved the novelty and easy sashaying of the dance. The musical intro to “Govinda” came on: We were on the air, and we began to lip-synch with the words, pretending to play our instruments. We had fun miming it. Slides of Krishna continued to flash on the monitor sporadically.

The nicest aspect of the whole production, however, was how angelic the dancing girls looked, swaying like wheat in the wind to our ancient prayers. Everyone was happy, including the director, and our appearance on the show was a great success.

People stopped me on the street and said, “I saw you on the telly.” As well, some of the British pop magazines featured articles describing our beliefs and practices. These articles attracted many interested young potential devotees to our doors.

We saw George soon after, and he was so happy that he saw us, his project, on “Top of the Pops.”



The Radha Krishna Temple on Tour

I also worked with a booking service that Derek Taylor told us about, the "Red Door" Agency, and they started booking us into all sorts of venues, all around Britain. Nearly every night of the week we would ride into a town—anywhere from eight to a dozen of us—and perform a one-night gig, including getting the audience to chant with us. We sang the same tunes that were on the Apple recordings, but, as we were now performing live shows, the personnel were often different for each engagement. We also sang an original song composed by Jivananda and accompanied by Yogeshwara called “The Beauty of Krishna." I would not allow the brahmacharis (celibate students) to go to the nightclubs. When we went to concerts in the Krishna van, I would make sure there were a few empty seats in case anyone wanted to return with us to our London temple. Usually, two or three people would ride back with us.

We had a no-meat clause in our contract, stating that if we were to be offered any food in our dressing rooms, it was to be strictly vegetarian. Although sometimes we were treated quite nicely, there was usually only a tiny dressing room, or no dressing room at all, and no food. At one night club, the audience threw beer and whisky at us.
Sometimes we were the sole act, but often we did shows with other holy men or with other artists. Once, we shared a stage with Swami Satchidananda. Saraswati cried when he held her.

At Harrow Town Hall, we had a joint kirtan with Quintessence, a well-known Anglo-American, psychedelic mantra-rock group. I became good friends with Shiva, the lead singer, and Stanley, the manager, who I knew from the Lower East Side. Quintessence did a set, we did a set, and then we chanted Hare Krishna together at the end of the show.

We were often booked at the Roundhouse in London and shared bills with unlikely groups like the Fugs, Joe Cocker, Deep Purple, and some guy who smashed his guitar. After many successful engagements in Great Britain, we started to get bookings in Europe as well—venues like the Conzertgebouw in Amsterdam, where Deep Purple was our opening act!

We also did gigs like a huge rock festivals all over Europe. I particularly remember the Festival of the Midnight Sun in Sweden. The night sun was huge and luminous, and thousands of people cheered us after our young Swedish devotee, Lilashakti, gave a great talk in both Swedish and English. We ended the whole festival by sweetly chanting the maha-mantra as the large, golden sun shone down on us throughout the night. After the show, dozens of people stood in line to get our autographs!



Die Reperbahn

As we rode through Hamburg’s red light district, Die Reperbahn, I tried to cover my eyes, my senses, my lust, as we passed by the garish and brightly illuminated sex signs. Girls and women—maya in all forms—dressed in flimsy lingerie, displayed their bodies in bay windows, a small door and a bed just visible behind them. I closed my eyes and sank deep inside myself. With the Holy Name on my lips, I withdrew into a peaceful reverie. The sound of a loud horn and a near accident pulled me into the world of illusion again.

We arrived at our venue, the Star Club, where The Beatles “got their chops,” together and appeared early in their careers. George once told me that the Star Club gigs had enabled them to come together as a musical group. The Star Club was a dark and dingy hole of a place. The stage was small. The audience was comatose for a long while, but gradually, since they were there anyway, they warmed up to our chanting. It was like a rathskeller— German beer house—chant, but that was fine with us. We did two shows and were supposed to collect 1,000 marks, but they paid us only 250. They gave us a small, ratty room, and we found it hard to sleep.

Mukunda and I had the address of the promoter, so we decided to go there to try and get our money, as we were leaving for Kiel the next day. We trundled through the Reperbahn and found the address. The apartment was on the fifth floor, so we trudged up the stairs. We were slightly out of breath when we arrived at the apartment door. Though it was late at night, we knocked on the door; it was slowly opened by a curvaceous woman wearing only a thin slip, who blocked the doorway.

“Is Gunther here?” I asked her.

As she was telling us he wasn’t there, we saw a rifle barrel through the slit between the wall and the door. I didn’t know which was worse, the girl in the slip or the gun.

Again, she said, “Gunther is not here, ja!” We left the message with her that he owed us 750 marks and quickly left.

We did not receive our money from Gunther until we returned to Britain, and then it was the "Red Door" agency that collected it for us. The rest of our German tour was less eventful, but much more successful. We went to the Top Ten and Jaguar clubs. We went to universities and homes, and we held sankirtan on the streets of Munich, Frankfurt, Kiel, and several other towns in Germany. The club owners paid us concert fees of 500 pounds, or about $1,000, per night. Royalties from sales of our two hit singles, the money from concerts and club gigs, and collections by the sankirtan party on the streets of central London financed our ever-growing UK temple. And all this publicity was attracting more and more new, fresh, bright, and enthusiastic young devotees to join us every day.



Finding 7 Bury Place

By the spring of 1969, about 30 devotees were regularly attending our meetings or were living with us, and we were outgrowing the Betterton Street quarters. Most were young British boys and girls, but, London being an international hub, some devotees came from France, some came from America—veterans of the Vietnam war—and another came from Armenia. Germans, Indians, even Arabians came and took part in our devotional activities. We definitely required a larger headquarters.

We looked at various options for a new temple, including a World War II morgue. This building consisted of two floors of dull and dreary rooms at the end of a hidden alley in East London. We could feel the ghosts of slain soldiers, and when we saw the metal tables with holes to allow blood and body parts to pass through them, we knew this building was not suitable.

George Harrison was very kindly willing to be our guarantor on a new property.

We looked at many places in central London, all of them far too expensive for our limited means. Then one day, I was standing in queue at the bank, in dhoti and sikha, and an English fellow came up to me and asked if I knew an American bloke from San Francisco named Shyamasundar. I said yes, that in fact he was in London, and then told him our whole story. It turned out that this guy was formerly Shyamasundar's neighbor in Haight-Ashbury, but now he was an estate agent in London. Furthermore, the man had a building, ideal for our purposes, which he was willing to lease at a very nominal rate. It was on Bury Place, not too far from Betterton Street.

Shyamasundar, Mukunda, and I walked the six blocks over to 7 Bury Place and looked at a narrow, five-story building that was once used as a Bible-distributing office.

(Illustration)

How appropriate, as the building was already zoned for religious activities. The location was perfect. The charter allowed two caretakers. We were now about forty devotees, but we reckoned we would figure that out later. Shyamasundar had shipped a load of redwood lumber from Northern California for the purposes of building the interior of our new temple. We wanted to get started, but we would still have to find living quarters during the rebuilding process.



Tittenhurst Park

John Lennon had just purchased a vast estate in Buckinghamshire, near Windsor Castle, about an hour’s drive south of London. One day, he mentioned to George that the place needed lots of work on the house and the 35 acres of grounds. George knew our plight, so he said to John, “Well, why don’t you let the Hare Krishnas live out there in return for a bit of work?” John agreed and asked us to come out. He would provide room and board, and in exchange, we would do repair and grounds work while we lived there.

Tittenhurst Park was named after its original owner. Mr. Tittenhurst was a horticulturist who erected greenhouses and nurseries, and he planted virtually every type of tree and shrub that would grow in the British climate. Many plants were imported from other parts of the world. The estate was laid out with a large main house in the center, surrounded by greenhouses, lawns, and a lotus-pond fountain on one side of a long arbor of sculpted trees. There was a large building called the Gallery, very ornate with white marble columns, where we set up our temple room, and two-story blocks of servants’ quarters, where we lived. The estate included a forest and fenced-in pasture grounds, bordered by trails and footpaths. One of the pastures was the habitat for a donkey, which Derek Taylor had brought over to Tittenhurst. The main house, where John and Yoko lived, sat on a raised hillock overlooking the grounds. It was large but very simple inside. The bare living room, furnished only with a piano and an old confessional booth, looked down wide cement steps to the beautiful sloping grounds below.

All the devotees except Shyamasundar and Tirthapada, who were remodeling the temple at 7 Bury Place, moved to Tittenhurst Park. Soon, we settled into a daily routine, attending early morning and evening kirtan services and helping the Lennons restore the buildings and grounds during the days. We led an almost monastic life during our stay at Tittenhurst Park, although I was required to travel to London quite often.


We were now situated, all 25 devotees, so we wrote Prabhupad that we were finally ready for him to come.



Prabhupada's London Arrival

September 11, 1969: Prabhupada was finally coming to London! We made first-class arrangements for him. John Lennon provided a white limousine to drive Prabhupada from the airport to Tittenhurst Park, where he would live with us until the renovations at Bury Place were completed. Because of our hit recordings and exposure, the press was interested in the person who had started this Hare Krishna phenomenon, so we arranged a press conference in the VIP lounge at Heathrow Airport.

The chairs were arranged in a circle, with Srila Prabhupada seated at the head. The media asked the usual questions about the meaning of tilak markings, etc. Then they asked Prabhupada why he rode in a huge Rolls Royce limo. Prabhupada answered, “I am God's servant; what He gives me for His service, I will accept.”

Then one gentleman asked, “Why have you come here?”

Prabhupada answered immediately, “I have come here to teach you what you have forgotten: Love of God.”



Prabhupada at John and Yoko’s

When Prabhupada told us that he was coming to join us in London. We were all very excited About 25 of us, including Srila Prabhupada, then lived in the smallish servants’ quarters about 100 feet away from the main house at Tittenhurst. We were sheltered, and we were near Prabhupada as well. I was elected President of our London yatra, so I would walk around the vast estate checking on how everyone was doing. I tried to emulate Prabhupada in my management techniques. If encouragement was needed, I supplied it as best I could. If discipline was required, I also tried to be both firm and kind.

Behind the great house was a gallery, which was formerly used for chamber music recitals. The gallery hall was huge and had a large fireplace. We made a makeshift altar with pictures of Prabhupada, Bhaktisiddhanta Saraswati, Bhaktivinode Thakur, and Gaura Kishore das Babaji on one level. We placed paintings of Lord Chaitanya and Sri Sri Radha Krishna on the altar as well. Then Lord Chaitanya, Adwaita Acharya, Sri Nityananda, and Srivas were added. We also built a high vyasasana, a seat, for Prabhupada.

After walking behind the gallery and living quarters one day, I arrived at an enclosed, isolated pasture where the Apple donkey munched peacefully. I put my foot up on the lower fence rail. The mule reminded me of Eeyore, Winnie the Pooh’s friend. I was staring at the mule, he was staring at me; as I was chanting, he was listening.
Prabhupada lived with his assistant Purushottam in one of the cottages, which had a small kitchen and sleeping area downstairs and a room for Prabhupada’s office and darshan upstairs. It was simple and sparse, but Prabhupada was happy. He could continue writing and chanting and be near his beloved disciples. He walked the grounds of the estate and talked to me of how nature was the highest reflection of Krishna and how, by studying nature, one could feel closer to Lord Krishna. He led the services both mornings and evenings, lecturing publicly in the Gallery temple.

I wish to thank John Lennon and Yoko Ono for the great kindness they bestowed, letting us stay there while we built the Bury Place Radha Krishna Temple.



John and Yoko

The famous conversation between John Lennon, Yoko Ono, George Harrison, and Srila Prabhupada—which is transcribed in the booklet Chant and Be Happy: The Power of Mantra Meditation—occurred in the small front room of the servants’ cottage at Tittenhurst Park. Mukunda, Shyamasundar, and I also crowded in. As always, Prabhupada was gracious and could make everyone feel so welcome and special.

Yoko Ono: “If all mantras are just the name of God, then whether it’s a secret mantra or an open mantra, it’s all the name of God. So it doesn’t really make much difference, does it, which one you sing?”

Srila Prabhupada: “It does make a difference. For instance, in a drug shop, they sell all types of medicines for curing different diseases. But you still have to get a doctor’s prescription in order to get a particular type of medicine. Otherwise, the druggist won’t supply you. You might go to the drug shop and say, ‘I’m diseased. Please give me any medicine you have.’ But the druggist will ask you, ‘Where is your prescription?’ Similarly, in this age of Kali, the Hare Krishna mantra is prescribed in the shastras, or scriptures. And the great teacher Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, whom we consider to be an incarnation of God, also prescribed it.”

Something remarkable about this meeting is Prabhupada’s reference to druggists and prescriptions as an analogy for receiving the right mantra from the right source. At the time, John and Yoko were having their own battles with addictions—they were “chipping” heroin (shooting in the skin rather than the veins), so Prabhupada’s reference was especially relevant and potent. Prabhupada gave an example of being “addicted to Krishna.” I never heard Prabhupada use that analogy before. Prabhupada’s point was that we can love Krishna similar to the way addicts love their substances. The addict feels separation from—is always longing for, waiting, and thinking about—gratification. But the difference is, while material relief is temporary, spiritual addiction is eternal bliss. Prabhupada offered an eternal solution to one’s corporeal problems: love of Krishna, or God.

John asked how to recognize the right spiritual master. Prabhupada said that finding the right guru is very special and that the guru should be tested just like the disciple. John listened intently.

After the meeting ended, John and Yoko went down the narrow stairs. At the foot of the stairs, I overheard Yoko admiring how honest Prabhupada was and how simply he was living. She said to John, “I don’t think we could live so simply; do you think we could live that way?”

John answered, “No, I don’t think we could be so renounced as the Swami.”




Best Perch

After the morning program in the gallery, I made sure all the devotees were eating prasadam. Then I made my morning tour to see that everyone was engaged and that everything was going on all right. I finished my rounds on a brief but invigorating morning japa walk and then, feeling refreshed, proceeded to Prabhupada's quarters to report to him.

When I entered, Prabhupada smiled and said, “I was just thinking of you, and you have come. That means you shall live a long life.”

I sat down, and as Prabhupada seemed to be in a meditative mood, I also sat silently, content just to be with him.
A butterfly was circling the room and fluttering toward Srila Prabhupada. Prabhupada put out his finger and motioned slightly with it. In easy flight, the butterfly jumped onto His Divine Grace's finger!

“This butterfly must be a great devotee,” I thought.

I had my camera with me, and thought of taking a photo as Prabhupada raised his hand slowly to show me the perching butterfly. I really wanted to photograph this scene, but thinking of the butterfly’s bliss, I didn't want to disturb the moment with movement or loud camera shutters. Then the butterfly lazily flew up to a corner of the room. Prabhupada immediately changed expressions and started talking to me about the day's activities and an upcoming program. "I have accepted Mr. Such-and-Such’s invitation," he said.

I replied, “We went to his house one night and only a few neighborhood people showed up. They talked during our kirtan. I think it is a waste of our time to go there.”

Prabhupada agreed and said, “I must accept; that is my duty. Now you must think of a way to not go; that is your duty.” We laughed together.

The butterfly began to fly around the room again. Srila Prabhupada noticed it and pointed toward the window, silently indicating: open the window so the butterfly can go out, otherwise he will not have anything to eat.
His face and mood had changed again, so completely and so easily. I felt like I was in a scene in the heavenly planets or Krishna-loka. I was in a scene in Krishna-loka.



Early Arrival

David and Donna were street vendors on Tottenham Street in downtown London, where we chanted daily now. One day they saw our sankirtan party pass by on Oxford Street. Spontaneously, they folded up their barrow, packed up their incense, crystals, tarot cards, and very young baby, and followed our sankirtan party back to Tittenhurst Park. As we arrived at our temple, they were interviewed by a television crew. They were asked, “How long have you been devotees?”

David and Donna replied, “About 20 minutes.”

They joined our group and moved in at the estate, and never left. They were living together but not married, so we asked them to get married, and they agreed.

They were fortunate to join us when His Divine Grace was present. Prabhupada presided over their combined wedding and initiation ceremony at Tittenhurst Park. The ceremony was held in the huge gallery temple on John's estate. The spacious room, with a fireplace and stone floors, enabled us to surround Prabhupada and the fire ceremony. The mood was festive and cozy—intimate, as only the small band of London devotees attended. Srila Prabhupada was expert and wonderful as always, and I learned so much simply by watching and listening to him. After the fire sacrifice, His Holiness gave the new disciples the names Draupadi and Devadhatta.

A moment later someone asked, “What is the baby's spiritual name?”

Prabhupada replied humorously, "Baby comes out after wedding, not before." We all laughed. Then, as he had done so many times before, Prabhupada relented to the will of his spiritual children and said, “The baby's name is Dhruva.”



Ghost Story

On the morning walks, Prabhupada would often greet Tittenhurst's gardener, Frank. He and Frank had respect for each other, as they were about the same age. Frank was living in a small, cozy Tudor cottage, and he had reported to John Lennon that strange sounds kept him up in the night. He thought the cottage was occupied by ghosts. John consulted with Srila Prabhupada and asked him if he could do something to remedy this situation. Prabhupada replied that he could.

He gathered us together, and we marched in a great procession across the low, grassy hills down to the cottage. Prabhupada led a dynamic kirtan and told us to “blow the conch shell very often and very loudly, as ghosts don't like that sound.” After a while, he said, “They have gone.”

Frank later confirmed that the strange sounds he heard in the night were gone.



Krishna's Mercy

Krishna's mercy through Prabhupad was becoming more evident and commonplace for me, but this story exemplifies this nicely:

I realized that very early in the morning, about 3 A.M., was a nice time to be with Prabhupad, for he was in an especially mellow mood. It was quiet, with no visitors, or activities. I wanted to have more precious darshan (an audience with) time, even though he gave me so much time with him already; I still wanted to be with him more.
I went outside his rooms. I made slight noises chanting outside his quarters. He heard me and came out to see what the noise was. When he saw me, he invited me inside.

I repeated this the next morning. The sky was overcast. I went near his rooms and made my walking and chanting sounds. Prabhupad came out again and smiled. He walked up and down on the balcony with me, then turned toward the fields. He looked out and said, “The farmers beg Krishna for rainwater. ‘Give me water, give me water!’”

He then said, “All right, take it.” He majestically swept his hand down, as if dispensing rain. Simultaneously, as he did this, a lightning bolt crashed; the sky opened, and rain came furiously down.

“Take it!” he said quietly, and walked back into his rooms.



Walking on Air

The expansive grounds of Tittenhurst Park were shrouded in morning mist. From the gallery and old servants’ quarters where we lived, Srila Prabhupada, Purushottam, Yamuna, and I strolled past the main house. There was a manicured, grass yard that sloped onto a long, open field area where Prabhupada liked to walk. The early morning air was wintry and cold, and our breath made smoke-like patterns in the frosty air. We walked in a V formation, with Prabhupada leading.

As we walked, I saw an earthworm heading right for Prabhupada’s feet. No one else in our group saw the worm. It was on a direct collision course with His Divine Grace’s lotus feet! I thought maybe I should say something and save the worm’s life, but then again, if the worm went under Srila Prabhupada’s boots, it would be liberated, just as those who fall under the wheels of Lord Jagannath’s cart are liberated. I thought about how Prabhupad did not demand respect; in fact he was quite humble, and that made me respect him more. George was impressed by that as well.

As I was philosophizing, mind machinations abounding, and before I could make a decision, the worm was under Prabhupada. Then I saw that there was no impression in the tall, wet grass where Prabhupada walked, whereas our sneakers made deep depressions in the grass. I looked back and saw that the worm was still going merrily on his way, as we walked on with Prabhupada leading us.


Those days with Prabhupad at Tittenhurst Park were some of the best times, as we were together every day and often. I felt protected, secure, and cared for in his presence.

One day, Prabhupada and I were looking at some beautiful Krishna-lila paintings. Prabhupada said, “Art means full belly.” He continued, “People must be well-fed before they can appreciate [the luxury of] art. Similarly, we must feed them before they can appreciate the value of Krishna consciousness.”

One day I found Prabhupada sitting on the floor. "They have dethroned me," he laughed.

“Who, Srila Prabhupada?” I asked.

“The mosquitoes. But I am fooling them. I am sitting on the ground, because they rise to the ceiling.” He etched a spiral into the air with his golden fingers fluttering upwards.

After a pause, I asked, “Are there mosquitoes in heaven (Krishnaloka)?”

He paused ever so briefly and replied, “The mosquitoes there, but they don't bite; they sing.”



King Dog

A rich but miserly man was once bragging to me about how he served half-cooked chapatis and a very hot chili-potato dish at a feast. Then he brought the guests lots of water, and in this way the water and the half-cooked chapatis bloated everyone's stomachs. When everyone was full, the host brought expensive savories for guests who, by that time, were so full they had to refuse them. The man pretended to be a good host by serving everyone else first, when in fact he wanted to serve himself instead. I told Prabhupada about what the clever man had told me.

Prabhupada replied with a Bengali proverb: “If you make a dog a king, and he is sitting on a throne, if you throw him a shoe, he will run off the throne and bite the shoe.” In other words, no matter what position or pretense a person has, eventually his essential nature will emerge.

“Essential truth, spoken concisely, is true eloquence.” —Chanakya Pandit

Another way to illustrate this concept is with a story that Prabhupada often told:

One time, a scorpion wanted to cross the river. He came upon a camel who was about to cross the deep river. The scorpion said to the camel, “Please, Mr. Camel, take me across the river.”

The camel replied, “Oh, no: your reputation precedes you, and I am afraid you will sting me.”

The scorpion said, “Why should I do that? For if I did sting you, both of us would drown!”

That made sense to the camel, who thus invited the scorpion onto his back. In the middle of the river, the scorpion stung the camel on his hump. Prabhupada demonstrated this by imitating a scorpion's tail with a fast, downward thrust of his arm. Then Prabhupada imitated the camel, who looked up questioningly at the scorpion. “Why did you do that? Now we shall both drown,” the camel asked, his voice quivering.

“It's my nature,” the scorpion replied.



Unlimited

Walking by the ocean one day, Prabhupada said, “There are more demigods than waves in the sea.” On another occasion, while walking on the same path, he said, “The waves look beautiful from the shore, but when you are in them, it is very difficult.” He explained that the ocean waves are like the captivating effect of Illusion (Maya): “She appears attractive but is entangling.”



Faulty Logic

There was a doctor who could cure pneumonia but not colds. Prabhupada told the story that this doctor instructed his patients who had colds to soak themselves in cold water, so that when they contracted pneumonia, the doctor could then cure them.

Prabhupad also once asked, “When a poison substance is considered order less and tasteless, who tests it, in order to discover that it is tasteless?”



Unending Compassion

One afternoon, as I was walking through the streets of London, I noticed the struggle and squalor and started reflecting on injustice, wars, starvation, and prejudice in the material world, and became sad. I went to Prabhupada's room and remarked to him, “Sometimes I feel sad for humanity.”

Prabhupada replied, “Why sometimes?”



George and Prabhupada

George Harrison displayed great respect for Srila Prabhupada. He bowed before Prabhupada at each of their meetings, even though he was never formally initiated. I witnessed in at least three of their meetings, and how George demonstrated so much love toward Prabhupada, how he was treated like a son.

George was very generous, but only after he knew and trusted us. That story is interesting, as I mentioned that Shyamasundar, Mukunda, and I did not want to ask George for anything. Then Prabhupad called Shyamasundar in one day and said, “The Krishna book is ready, I want you to ask George to finance the publishing costs.”

Shyamasundar was devastated. He tried to explain our plan of only giving to George, never taking. Prabhupad said, “You can make me the bad guy.”

That night, George and Shyamsundar were invited to the house of David Wynn, the sculptor laureate who forged the Queen’s head on coins, for dinner. Shyamsundar was waiting for the right opportunity to breach the subject. No opportunity arose. The night was very gloomy and rainy. Finally, after dinner, Shyamsundar reluctantly asked George for the money to finance the Krishna book.

When George heard this request he turned dour and silent. Shyamsundar thought that George was thinking, “Oh, you guys are like all the rest of them, wanting to get something from me.”

Just then, a huge thunderstorm shook the house, lightning appeared in the sky, and the lights in the room went out. When candles were lit, George had a big smile on his face. He looked toward the sky and said to Krishna, “Must you be so theatrical?”

He then asked how much the cost of printing was, and he gladly gave the 17,000 pounds. He wrote a wonderful introduction to the book, and yes, he did remain our friends.

George was also very understanding and giving. He overheard Shyamsundar and me talking about how the Paris temple needed help to get started. We thought if we went there and contacted the press, that would help out. George heard us and asked, “Can I go? If I go, the press will pay attention.”

Wow, going to Paris with George! We were given use of the posh Savoy Hotel with its high ceilings, sporting gold decorations, and we were booked in a large room. George and Shyamsundar sat at a table with pamphlets explaining our philosophy in French.

My job was to let only three reporters in at a time. The conference started out fine, until the rude French reporters forced open the doors and stormed the Bastille again, running over me and my protests. George saw them advancing and looked around, spying a maid throwing linens and laundry down a chute. He ran to the chute and jumped in. He had experience at these things. He landed safely in the basement on the pile of linens.

Shyamsundar saw him and followed. I also jumped down the chute to safety. By that time, George and Shyamsundar were at the rear of the hotel, being picked up by a waiting car. I ran after them—they were at the corner surrounded by screaming fans. They came back for me; I got in and we drove the opposite corner. We inched our way out of the alley into the main road. I knew what it felt like to be a Beatle for a moment.

By serving Krishna, George was even reaping more spiritual rewards. For such a rich and famous man, he was humble , curious, unassuming, very funny, and a good friend for all these years. I was with him at the end. He was prepared for death. George left us a 17-acre manor near Watford, formally charging us 1 pound a year. We named the estate Bhaktivedanta Manor.

{{Illustration}



John Lennon

John and the other Beatles became more favorable toward us and we chatted from time to time and soon became friends. Each Beatle approached us from a different perspective. George was always the friendliest; however, John and I also became friends through the many discussions we shared.

I was fond of talking with John, because he would want to talk philosophy. He challenged organized religion in general, pointing out various tainted incidents in the theological history of Western civilization. He spoke about injustices and restrictions and made some good points, such as how religion can subjugate people's creativity and the sales of indulgences by early Christians. I suggested that spirituality can also enhance one's creativity. “If we create for God, the result becomes eternal.”

Regarding the sales of indulgences, I told John that I was not an apologist for Christianity, but that anyone on the spiritual path must try to be pure in his intent. I added that there are also many false yogis and swamis who misuse their power.

John always wanted to hear my answer if he asked a question. If someone challenges just to challenge, nothing is accomplished. But to try to understand another's point of view is the essence of life. The Native Americans have a saying: “Never judge me until you walk a mile in my moccasins.”

John and I slowly got to know one another. First, he had to trust me before he opened up. On one hand, I really didn't want to hear conversations unrelated to Krishna, but I thought back to one time in Prabhupada’s room when we had to listen to a man prattle on and on about how to manufacture a bucket. Yet Prabhupad remained interested and even asked questions. Prabhupada was inquiring and curious about people and the nature of human interaction. So, following his example, I entered into talks with John and Yoko freely.

I had heard that John and Yoko were interested in macrobiotics. One day, as I turned a corner on the third floor at Apple Records, going toward the copy machine with some bhajans (prayers) to reproduce, I met John again. We smiled at one another, and I said, “I heard that you and Yoko are interested in a macrobiotic diet.”

John answered, “Yes, we've been eating macrobiotic food for two years now. It feels good.”

John was becoming interested and asked me if I had tried macrobiotics. “Yes,” I answered, “first in New York in 1963. Some friends were studying with D. T. Suzuki. I read You Are All Sanpaku, and two macrobiotic restaurants opened on the Lower East Side where I lived, so I decided to try the diet. A few months later, I tried the ten-day rice fast.” I said, “Have you tried the ten-day rice fast?”

“Not yet—there's not ten days in a row I have off,” John said.

I replied, "Yes, it requires at least ten days, and then it helps to have a few days before to get ready and then a few days after to readjust to a busy schedule like yours.”

“So how did it make you feel?”

“For the first three days or so I had to get used to a half cup of brown rice, six ounces of water, and a little tamari (soy sauce). Sometimes thoughts of other kinds of foods invaded my mind. I wish I had known about chanting then—I would have been able to control my tongue a little easier! But after the third day, the rice became pleasurable, appreciated and, although simple, it appeared and tasted like a small feast.”

John was silent and engrossed.

“At first the days wore on slowly; however, after three days, the meditation became almost effortless. Basically, I read, reflected, ate the small bowl of brown rice, and drank my six ounces of water. Then I started to feel more ethereal and light, and I actually became naturally high, like I do now when I chant. The experience was quite nice, actually.”

John was very interested now, but he was also in a hurry. He apologized, “We'll talk some more another time.” Next time we talked about music, specifically Chuck Berry and early rock and roll.

One day, he came into the Apple offices and saw me. He said, “Hi, Gurudas, I want to give peace a chance, so I am going to let my hair grow until there is peace!”

I thought for a moment and replied, “Peace takes sacrifice. You like your hair, so cut it off for peace, like me, and everyone will know you are serious.”

A week later, Yoko and John had short crew cuts.

Another time, John confided to me that he felt used. Everyone wanted something from him, he said angrily.
I empathized. “Yes, people will want things from you when you’re wealthy or famous. Each person is like a link in a chain, and now the chain is completely around you and squeezing you. You stand there and polish the chain. Break the chain,” I suggested. His eyes got large and inspired and he thanked me and rushed out.

John became my friend as well as George, and I treasure that, because John did not like fools or phonies. He was an iconoclast, rebel, and cynic, yet he channeled the good by all of his activism that, like George, tolerated criticism and loss of some so-called friends.

Sometimes we just joked around. He was bright, peace-loving, loyal, imaginative, irreverent, thoughtful, and someone you would want in your corner. I glad he was my mate. I miss him.

Paul was always very busy and a homebody, preferring to spend time with his family. So, although we had so many things in common and although I’d gone to high school with Linda, we never had a chance to cultivate a friendship. Ringo would bounce in here and there, make a nice simple statement, and smile. They liked us. We liked them. We all liked each other.

One day, Ringo wanted to know about reincarnation and whether or not he could come back next life as a cat. We asked, “Why a cat?”

“Because I like cats,” he said, and laughed. I thought to myself that I like cats too, but that we humans have had to endure so many animal births in order to reach a human birth. I kept the thought to myself.

George was truly a spiritual person. He was my true friend. George was a real person, and when he could have been vain and filled with airs like many wealthy and idolized people, he was instead very unassuming. George was caring, sensitive, honest, a great conversationalist, deeply reflective, and spiced with a keen sense of humor.
Because he often visited us, ate with us, and sang with us, he became our friend. His second wife, Olivia, calls Shyamsundar, Mukunda, George, and me “the old gang.” George not only supported us by his friendship but by his deeds as well, his many selfless services, and a great social consciousness, like the "Concert for Bangladesh.” He arranged it because “a friend asked me to.”

George’s compassionate songs not only identify the problems but give viable solutions as well. He put Bangladesh on the map. By assembling so many wonderful musicians together, he spawned many similar concerts since.



Shyamdevi

We were invited to the Hindu Centre for a kirtan program. As we entered, a woman with long gray hair was singing Hare Krishna; she was pretty and ageless as the holy names rang out of her lips. She was from Vrindavan and sung beautifully. When we sang and Yamuna led, she was overwhelmed to see Westerners blissfully chanting songs she was raised with in the holy place (dham) of Braja (Vrindavan).

Shyamdevi and I became friends. She went from Kenya to England and was based mostly in Leicester. One time, the British authorities impounded her deities from Vrindavan. The authorities thought the deities Radha and Krishna were antiques that she was going to resell for profit. She was distraught, as her Lord was in Prison; I interceded. I explained to the authorities that these were deities that she worshiped and there was no question of resale of profit motives. They released Radha and Krishna, and she was overjoyed.

Another time, as I was visiting Shyamdevi, she swooned and fainted on the floor when I left, feeling our separation. This is called Vipralamba. Her disciple from Vrindavan also fainted in ecstatic separation. They both said, “You must come to Vrindavan.” I took that to heart, as I’d already asked Prabhupad if I could go there.

Years later, when I first arrived there, I went to see Shyamdevi first. She gave me a room near the Cow Protection barn, and I heard people chanting all night under the full moon. Later, as life unfolded, she wanted the same property that we were building the Krishna Balaram temple on. Because of her motivation wanting the same site, she suddenly became our enemy! Life is like that. However, our friendship was another sign that I should go to Vrindavan.

Meeting A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami allowed me to study deeply the Vaishnava way of devotion, and simultaneously I learned more about Vrindavan, India, the birthplace of Lord Krishna. I remembered reading about Vrindavan in Paramahansa Yogananda’s Autobiography of a Yogi: A place where personable demigods are accepted and even the movements of blades of grass are known by Krsna. Nothing is inanimate; everything has a soul and a spiritual personality. There are 10,000 kalpavriksha trees with individual personalities, and demigods are overseers of the workings of Mother Earth.

I read about legendary Chakora birds who eat moonbeams. Every personality is sat-chid-ananda vigraha (the form of eternity-bliss and knowledge). Even the ground is chintamani (spiritual touchstone). Chanting wafts into ears on purnima (full-moon nights), trance, loose bodily joints, and glosseria are common. All the magic of Vrindavan lured me closer and closer.

All the time in London was a blessing of how faith and perseverance can make things happen, but I still desired to taste the full essence of Krishna Consciousness in the heart and center of the spiritual universe. Vrindavan
Krishna fulfilled my wish.



Vrindavan

18 March, 1970 Los Angeles

My Dear Gurudas,

Please accept my blessings. I beg to acknowledge receipt of your letter dated 18th March, 1970.

At first, I must thank you very much for your slides and the viewer, which I enjoy whenever I find some time. The pictures of London Temple immediately get me there, and I enjoy your company. So I can understand that everything is going on well in London Temple. The service of the Lord should be so nicely executed that Radharani will bestow upon you blessings, raising Her right hand palm. You have got a very nice wife, a devotee and intelligent. So both husband and wife combined together please see that the temple service is being executed regularly and nicely, and thus make your lives happy and successful.

Side by side, both of you should train your junior brothers and sisters in the service of the Lord, so that in case both of you go for preaching work, the scheduled program of the temple may not be hampered. We should follow two important lines, namely the Pancharatriki-vidhi as well as Bhagavata-vidhi. The Bhagavata-vidhi is preaching work, and sankirtan, and Pancaratriki-vidhi is temple worship of the Deities. The temple worship will keep us sanctified, and when we shall preach in sanctified, pure heart, the preaching will be immediately effective. So we have to follow the two parallel lines simultaneously for successful execution of devotional service.

Regarding George Harrison, I am sure he will improve now in Krishna consciousness. Krishna consciousness is developed only by service. So he has very willingly and gladly served Krishna in many ways. The recent "Govinda" record, which your good wife has sung along with you, is certainly super-excellent, and it has become so nice because of George's attention upon it. So whenever this nice boy comes to our temple, please receive him very nicely Give him prasadam and if possible talk with him about Krishna, and thus he will advance more and more in Krishna consciousness.

When I remember all of you in London, as well as George Harrison, I become very happy because the combination is very much hopeful. I am so glad to learn that George has said, "I don't want to make nonsense records anymore." This version of George I consider very valuable. His popularity and his great talent can be very nicely utilized by producing such nice records as "Govinda," instead of producing something nonsense. In our Vaishnava literature there are hundreds and thousands of nice purposeful songs, and if those songs, under George's supervision, are recorded, I think it will bring a great revolution in the record making business.

So when he says that he does not wish to produce nonsense this does not mean that he has to close his business. On the other hand, he will get greater opportunity for producing the finest transcendental records, songs which are still unknown to the world. When you meet him again, you can talk with him what I am speaking to you in this letter. My special thanks are due to your good wife, Srimati Yamuna devi. Her singing songs of Krishna consciousness, and Krishna will certainly bless her and you all.

Please offer my blessings to all the boys and girls, and be happy.

Sometimes you desired to go to India, and Krishna will fulfill your desire to a greater extent.
I request that you to go there with your wife and preach Krishna consciousness amongst the Indian community.

Krishna's service is so nice. Keep this faith always in mind and serve regularly your life will be sublime.

Hope this will meet you in good health.

Your ever well-wisher, A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami

P. S. Please send more beautiful slides in plain cardboard frames.



Because the London project had been successful, and Prabhupad asked me and Yamuna to go to India. I could finally go to the beloved holy place Vrindavan! My wish had finally come true. What new sweet or challenging Krishna adventure awaited me in the place of Radha and Krishna's lilla (pastimes), I could visit any of the 5,000 temples, or go to the well where Krishna drew water from a well for the saintly Sanatan Goswami. I could watch daily processions glorifying, and appreciating, saints, gurus or gods. Someday, I would loll in the Yamuna River, seeing elephants, striped diving birds, peacocks, monkeys, and turtles bathing nearby, while children rode the backs of the soaking water buffalo. I could hear the beautiful sounds of Krishna's names 24 hours a day, across fields or in private homes. The wondrous unknown beckoned me.

Vrindavan is an ambiance, a feeling within, as well as a place. It called to me, and now it was possible enter its golden gates. When would I drink in the sacred abode surrounded by the Yamuna River, where lotus-eyed cows who graze in the sacred forests called me? When will I feel the spiritually nurturing atmosphere and bask in the radiance of Radha and Krishna's love, and may someday carry that love inside me forever? The place of pilgrimage for thousands invited me and may become a sheltering home, that I would snuggle in for five years.

Some of the blessings I have received. Some of the events I have shared with you. Some of the variegated flavors that have contributed to who I am are in these pages. I hope you may find who you are, and be good to yourself and others.

END