98 The book of judges

Still doing time with the Jesus Freaks. I looked at them knowing many of the people there had good meaning in their heart, but at the same time I felt as though they were damaged and weak. I never got near the people running the place except for the one Bobby Beausoleil character. He's the one that took my jeans to be sewn. I call him that because he had a look much different than the rest of the members. He had a dark impish look and he wore black. I thought there might be a chance to relate to him. I don't know if you understand how I was a dark themed hippie. Love and all, but let's check into the dark side once in a while. I was a Black Sabbath girl. Even Jesus spent time with the devil in the desert.

In between checking Beausoleil out, I was falling into a deep funk. I just wanted to go. Why could I see what was happening and no one else? Because I had balls of steel, that's why. I held my mind and didn't let it sway. I knew the tricks that were played. Every fucking day the same thing. Hold back food then glorify the message with reward. That small piece of chocolate. No time to gather your own thoughts. Broken sleep, prayer and chores. The masters of manipulation learn human nature early.

If I had such fortitude why didn't I just go? It was getting close, but a few things stuck with me from Catholic school. The Dominicans main lesson "Use the brain that God gave you to think about what will make this world a better place. Think of others. Don't follow, hold onto the free and individual spark in your soul. Think but be kind." One of my mom's themes too. These people were twisting LBJ's brain in a way I hadn't seen before. He was a big "fuck you" kind of guy and now he was following orders. 

On the few occasions that I quickly saw him, which was really weird because we were usually in constant fornication, I pleaded with him to leave. "I hate this place. Can't you see it? They're using food and sleep to weaken people." Now you might think "but he was happy." Not what I saw. He had a vacant look in his eyes. My thought is that they gave that part of his brain where he was thinking about the trouble he left a rest. I appreciated that. That's why I stayed as long as I did. But I felt that they were getting free labor and a sense of power out of it. Who was I to judge, right?

So it was twirling in my brain that for my own sake I had to get out of there. Not any kind of existence I longed for. I was still working on LBJ but I had another obstacle too. How could I love a pair of jeans that much? Because they were an expression of what I was. Every patch, every color of embroidery thread. I astounded people with them. I'd see the Beausoleil guy "Are my pants ready yet?" "No. Not yet." "What's taking so long? Give them back to me." I couldn't even get in to talk directly with the sewing ladies.

Far, far beyond this in creativity

"No. We have to let them be sewn by the sewing women. Let's pray they get done soon." No. I'm not going to pray they get done soon. Give them back to me." He just stood there and I walked away. If you ever wanted to see me mad, this was the time.

Next day the Beausoleil guy approached me as I was outside, the only alone person. "Are my jeans ready?" "No. Let's sit." I am not unreasonable so I sat on a log bench with him. Here's a little conversation.

"I hear that you've practiced witchcraft." 

"What?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. The person that I shared my bed with and had such intimate conversation exposed something personal to a stranger. Witchcraft in the early 70's was severely frowned upon by many segments in the population. Not the mass produced wicca of today. Uh oh. I didn't say anything.

Then the Bobby fella went on to explain his dark path that he had taken. No wonder he had the black and the silver. "I used to practice witchcraft." I don't remember all he told me about how he fell into so much depths and dregs, but he had been into it darker than I was.

I could have sat there for a few more minutes. I am always open to discussion, but he started veering from the kind and forgiving Jesus and ventured into the cruel and wrathful God. I was going to burn unless I changed.

I was hurt beyond words that I was so betrayed.

97 The strasberg

There's still more to be told of my time at the Jesus Freak commune. Think of a state of food regulation, sleep deprivation, sweeping, standing away from the masses and watching it all like a movie. But I've been listening to Lola by The Kinks everyday and it reminds of a little story that might be a bit interesting to some of you.

We need to jump ahead to 1974, close enough. I wrote about some of the shitty apartments I lived in at the beginning of blog but there was one shining star. I was living in Long Beach, one of the crappiest cities in New York at the time. But this new place was about two blocks from the boardwalk and the beach. It was after the apartment on Park Avenue that was condemned for super bad plumbing and cockroaches.

Cute building from the 30's. I lived on the ground floor which was the coolest. It had a side door into the old kitchen. Good working order. Old stove, old refrigerator. Living room in the front, bedroom in the back. Hardly any cockroaches 'cause everyone in the building was pretty clean. So lucky to get it. I don't know how it is there now... but in those days you had to go to a real estate agent for rentals unless you knew the landlord. It was always a woman in her 40's or 50's dealing with apartments. This one lady liked me for some reason and tried real hard to find something decent. Good job lady.

This story isn't about the apartment but about a few of the people that happened to visit.

So it starts with Mike B. One of the kids in Catholic school, a grade ahead. He was one of 13 children. There were quite a number of families that size. No wonder the parents were all alcoholics. Anyway, I have something to say about how judgy people are about kid raising. When you're around families like that you witness the miracle that we are individuals. Is it a spark in the soul? I don't know. Families can produce saints, priests, nuns, derelicts, drug addicts and criminals all in one group. No rhyme or reason. You just gotta try.

Mike was a New York hippie. Not the wussy stereotype west coast style. Peace in the world, but bar fights if pushed. Mike had strength of character and decency to no end. There's a story about him taking the worst part of a drug rap (a small joint) under the Rockefeller Laws to spare others. But it's really his older brother we're talking about here. I forget his first name because everyone called him by his Polish last name. Guys that tough on the southwestern shores of Long Island didn't use their real first names.

The ethnic Catholics in those days could be very heavy drinkers. Mike stuck with the pot, but older B drank like Van and Jim. Those of us that were goofier and hippier used to try to convert them to just weed and a little Mateus but to no avail. "Yeah. That's the drug of the establishment." Didn't work.

Well, my man used to meet up with the older B on occasion in a few of the many available dive bars on Long Island. We didn't call them that, they were just bars or old man bars. Older B looked like he'd turn and knock you down with his pinky, but he was a gent to the ladies. Word was he had criminal ties, but I didn't pay attention to that stuff. I was always into the entertainment value. You almost couldn't avoid it.

Just an example

Sometimes he'd stop by. That's just the lifestyle back then. There'd be a knock on the door and people would pile in. The purpose would be to listen to music, smoke some pot and talk. I don't know, people liked coming over. No invitation, no big preparation. Whatever. It was much better and more fun. Usually someone that had a car brought people.

Mike B and older B never came over together. They didn't hang out with each other. Older B started bringing his girlfriend. I couldn't tell you her real name, it was different every time. 😅 I'm going to call her Lola 'cause that's the most memorable.

Lola was a topless dancer at one of the sleezy clubs in a nearby town. I think it was Freeport. Some towns had them, some didn't. Older B was a white Polish Catholic, in those days we said Polack, and Lola was black. That was still quite a deal in the early 70's. Especially to the old timers. Watch the movie Joe to get a taste of what they were like.

She was naturally flamboyant and I was curious about her personality and her lifestyle. The fellas would be drinkin' and we'd be talking about womanly stuff. It wasn't just talk about sex, but about life and the sucky things in society. You can think what you want, but birth control and more freedom for women was still in its early days. There was some tough stuff to put up with.

But the reason I named this story after Strasberg was that she was completely into her "work characters." She started coming over to just talk with me. She knocked on the front door and each time I opened the door it was a different human. Different wig, different outfit, different name. I opened the door one day and she had on a blonde wig. "Don't you know me, S.? It's Lola."

"Oh Lola. C'mon in." Isn't it cute that she liked to talk to me 'cause I was a goofy flower child? 

One evening I was sleeping already and my man was in the living room. Apparently. It's hard to explain the way some people thought about different things during that time. We were forcing change, I guess. I'm not taking all the credit though. I think it's some kind of strange force in the universe. Dorks we were, huh?

Who knows why I was knocked out already? Maybe a long day at the beach? I loved the challenge of body surfing with crowds of people. The waves could knock you over when they were big enough, if you didn't dive into them at just the right moment. You'd end up scraping along the bottom, for example, if a fat guy got knocked over and then went ahead and knocked you over like a bowling pin. You'd be riding the wave with him on top and you with the shells.

Sleeping, sleeping. There was an open widow a couple of feet from the bed. I hear my name. "S. S." It was Lola outside calling my name. Huh? I got up because she was whispering. What? "I just gave your man a blow job." Huh? I just woke up. She repeated "I just gave your man a blow job. I thought you should know." One of the weirdest ways I ever woke up.

I laid back down. How do I explain what was happening then. We were so anti-establishment. People were trying for free and honest. There was a lot of it in certain circles. Humans are so weird. Changing back and forth, back and forth. We can't make up our god damn minds.

96 Oh yeah that was the departure

I knew I'd forget a couple of things and have to come back later and throw them in. I need to add a little something about leaving Berkeley. Yeah, we cleaned a couple of rooms at the dorm but we needed to survive. LBJ worked, not everyday, and I did the Free Clinic panhandling thing, close but not everyday. But take a guess, we didn't care too much about money. We ate food and we hung out. Trying to figure out what the hell was going on in the world. We believed that and I still do. People need to spend some time when they're not working their asses off in the rat race. Our Long Island parents were fine examples. I don't think I knew anyone whose parents weren't alcoholics. Most of them were the moms. Miserable in their situation. "Hello Mrs. S." She just had her hair done and her eyes were real glassy. They threw us in Catholic School so we didn't notice.

So when we were going to leave we had some money, but who knows what was going to happen. Little bit extra could keep us from being hungry. I planned this. I did go out one more time for the Free Clinic the day before we left. I stood in front of the food co-op and did fine.

On the streets when we hung out we all took care of one another. We had to survive. It really was a community. No phoniness. We talked about the beautiful places we went and the places that were cool with us being there. We shared our survival stories. And created stories of how the world should be.

So right now I had to survive. I heard the thing to do was to get the box, do the thing, keep your last take and hit the road. The people at the clinic knew this happened but they were all about helping people out on the street. They looked at you like this was the last time they'd see you and the dude always said something about taking care. These were the best people.

My day ended. Night was getting closer and I did what I heard. I went into a restroom somewhere out of public view. Turned that box upside down and started shaking. It took work. I smashed it up on the floor and got the last bit out. Threw it in the garbage along with my panhandling license. Split the next morning. Thing is they kept my birth certificate. Nobody cared. What did you need ID for back then. Nothing. And that was the end of Berkeley.