“Howdy part’ner, I’m just bored and kinda spinnin’ in my organized chaos. It’s kinda late actu’lly, but I’m not tired. I wish I could fly on a lunar moth and travel to the moon.
“I could become a moon baby and have moon chicklets. They’d look just like me, but perhaps they would be made out of cheese, just like the moon, and I would fall in love with the moon.
“Yes, I think this is ideal, and then my moon chicklets will be made with love, instead of desperate times which called for desperate measures or reproducing just for the sake of it.
“You, of course, would be invited to my wedding and I would,
of course, pay for your ticket, but theoretically, if I didn’t have enough money, I’d only be able to afford to buy you a one-way ticket.
“In which case you would be stuck on the moon forever, or until you saved up enough money with the moon cleaning service, that you’d create to buy a ticket back home. But perchance by this time, you too will fall in love with one of the universes many surprises and you might be happier staying where you were, and you too would get married and invite me but wouldn’t have to buy me a tick’t seeing as I already lived there, and you would be so thankful that I was poor and could only afford to by you a one-way ticket because it allowed you to find the one true love in your life.
“You too could have chicklets, and we’d have li’l get togethers’ with appetizers and everything and we’d drink martinis and get piss drunk when the chicklets weren’t looking or on adult nights out -
where we’d have crazy fun dancing till the crack of dawn when we’d realize that we had duties to fulfill and we’d grown old right in front of our eyes but were too wound up in the organized chaos, which we’ve accepted as life - the world is a shitty place, don’t lose yourself.”
Her handwriting was as beautiful as she, the curves of the e’s and o’s, the small dots always at the top of her i’s, everything was perfect in her imperfections, as her eyes were as beautiful as the brilliant clear starry sky above, the depth at which only the ocean could match. I remembered her face so clearly as if I’d seen it just seconds before, but my heart stung from the truth that I hadn’t seen her in four years. No last note, no goodbye, just left. Maybe it was for the better, but whenever I saw pictures, of us, happy together, I cried. I wondered, what the hell happened. Why couldn’t I stop her? Tears splashed around her eyes, her hips, her hair, shining in the tarnished frame. She was the most beautiful person, entity or perfection known to this world. Her eyes, a beautiful brown, her nose, cute and buttoned, her hair flowing more flawlessly than the ocean. When she smiled, it was as if the room got brighter, more cheerful and livelier. She was the life of the party.

In the 60’s, I was in the anti-war movement. I was looking to have a good time. Sat for hours, happily, at those amazing protests, they were sights to be taken in, and that was where we met. On the emerald green of those grassy plains, the sun shining in righteous dominance through the clouds, she stood, at first with a sort of fragility, but the longer I looked, the more it seemed to fade away. She screamed and yelled, more furiously than anyone in the crowd. She was primal, and beautiful. Her last resort moneymaking scheme was a pink pill that tasted like winter green mints. REALLY RANDOM. DOESN’T ADD TO THE STOREY AT ALL. MAYBE MAKE IT SOMETHING MORE INTERESTING OR MEANINGFUL. IF SHES SO AMAZING, THEN WHY IS SHE CREATING SOMETHING TO PETTY AND BORING? “If I’m gonna sell-out, I’m gonna do it as badly as I can.” She’d say, not even feigning interest for the government’s forcedly self-deprecating “jobs”. Machines went awry, in the manufacturing plants, and everyday, each relative or friend of a worker was scared shitless of having to go to their houses and have the phone ring, saying only, “There’s been an accident, _________ (enter lover/friend’s name here) is at the hospital.” click. Phone dial tone dead, hopefully they weren’t. All in the name of the great American dollar.
I took in her sight once more, yelling in all primal fury, and I bathed in her aura, her presence, before turning back and fighting the system. I remembered, that last sight though, her waist-long hair, shivering with intensity every time her mouth moved. Her initial fragility had by now become a foresight, but that was to be found only years after. I yelled and yelled, hatred for the oppressive society our civilization had thrust upon us, but could never forget that vision. Life has a way of repeating itself. How does this relate to your last statement? I think it’s a good point…it just might be in the wrong spot.

“You can either laugh with me in front of the whole world, or not.” Memories flooded my mind, going in sync with my emotions leaking out. The hard times, she would easily walk past me ignoring, her knowledge of my presence evidential. Then I’d leave, no lost words lost. I wondered why today wasn’t different from the past. I asked that question many times, her answer indecisive always. Love to her, seemed only to be à la communication not face to face, What does “a la communication not face to face” mean? a smile more elusive than sex in some instances.

I was the highest I had been in a long time. You might recall the last protest, where I saw her first, the last I’d smoked was the march, the event after that rally. About two months had passed since, and although my memory wasn’t all that amazing anymore, she was all I could think about. Now, I was relaxing with a friend. I was arguing, failing, but trying anyways. ARGUING WITH WHAT?????????????????Making shit up as I go along, no grasp of any names or truthful facts in any argument. I was yelling, he was yelling, in the end I concluded with, “Man, we gotta grab some gange.”THE SPEAKER IS VERY ELOQUENT AND THOUGHTFUL, THIS LINE DOES NOT SUIT CHARACTER. HE DOES NOT SEEM TO BE A “DUDE” TYPE OF PERSON ~maybe say ‘man’ instead Ta da like magic the arguments are gone, replaced with the ooo-s and the ah-s. That my friend was today, you missed all the fun, me trying, but failing to duel to the death in words. He concluded to me when he replied to my question, he wondered if he should introduce to me to an acquaintance of his.
The second time I saw her, when I met her today, she was even more beautiful, strong and secure. She was woman, hear her roar, and she was proud. Once again, through all this shock of beauty and soul, though, her hair was the main feature to this show. Striking, almost as a cape, for her to do whatever she pleased with it, though she let it free, to roam and hunt. When she was angry, it seemed to gang up on you, coming at you, aiming for death. When she was sad, her hair wanted to curl up with you, her to hug you was to let her hair have a friend to hold as well, but the most amazing state of natural beauty and freedom as hair as the one emotion that everything shares in at least one moment of it’s life. In happiness of hair, the world seemed to sigh in relief, as if a great burden being lifted and for the happiness to overflow and bloom all flowers in a second. What burden is being lifted? Be more precise. By the way, that sentence did not make sense Time stood still and I thought all of this.
Good god I love Mary-Jane.

Six weeks wasted, my tears stopped, my attempt at real life now almost plausible. Little things would remind me of her, and I tried to be happy, and I could generally smile. Then the times when I couldn’t smile, because now I can remember how many good times we had, how she loved the New York trains. She lived there before coming to the protests. Her accent gave her an exotic appeal, and although her train rides gone, she still felt at home. Because she wasn’t at home, and for her, sometimes home wasn’t the best place. She was everywhere always, impossible for anyone else, but if you knew her, you would not have been surprised.
Everyone knew her, and everyone loved her. She felt bad because she felt cared for, and she wasn’t truly ever comfortable with that. She felt she was getting her childhood back, in scarred, broken pieces, and that made her feel vulnerable, scared, isolated to be what others thought of her. She once said, “I’m the person in the back throwing popcorn at the screen, not the one in front enjoying it.” For her, the front felt disgustingly elusive, and she never felt she could do that, live on that ‘edge’ without hurting someone. She wished she could. She wished she could destroy her emotional walls, instead of having them tower over her like the Berlin wall. If she had such a bad childhood, how can she have such great self-esteem and have everyone love her? This paragraph seems unsettlingly conflicting but I’m not exactly sure why. Re-read She would if she could. She was just an honestly kind person.

Six weeks wasted, my tears stopped, my attempt at real life now almost plausible. Little things would remind me of her, and I tried to be happy, and I could generally smile. Then the times when I couldn’t smile, because now I can remember how many good times we had, how she loved the New York trains, she lived there before coming to the protests. Her accent different to normal, and her train rides gone, she still felt at home, because she wasn’t at home, and for her sometimes home wasn’t the best place. She was everywhere always, impossible for anyone else, but if you knew her, you would not have been surprised.
Everyone knew her, and everyone loved her. She felt bad because she felt cared for, and she wasn’t truly ever comfortable with that. She felt she was getting her childhood back, in scarred, broken pieces, and that made her feel vulnerable, scared, alone. She once said, “I’m the person in the back throwing popcorn at the screen, not the one in front enjoying it.” For her, the front felt elusive, daring, and she never felt she could do that, live on that ‘edge’ without hurting someone, but she wished she could. She wished she could leave her bags behind. She would if she could. She was just an honestly kind person.

I was having so much trouble talking. These things make you see different, but I kept seeing her. She’s real! She’s his acquaintance, and he’s my new ‘best friend’. ‘Best friend’ has to introduce me for myself, and he explains. Her response, “that’s cool, I’m drunk.” Then she giggles, and she turns into the most huggable, beautifully cute person, her eyes twinkle, and her little munchkin nose crinkles, and heaven rains down.
I reach out my hand for her to shake, learn to use my mouth and introduce myself properly. Some small talk, and then I ask her.
“Were you at the rally about two months back, at –“
So, I thought to myself, she’s impatient, that’s a little different. She interrupted me, “Umm hmm, I saw you there. It started getting a little… rough.”
Her voice, high, but sweet, honey-like, raining down with words which lacked the importance for such an occasion, such as a symphony of sounds that no voice has ever made before.
“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. I’m really happy to meet you, in all honesty, I can not stop thinking of you.” Wonderful, I’ve dropped the bomb before I even know what her favourite anything is. I give a little chuckle, thank you to my being baked as much as bread is, into toast, to make me sound like a complete idiot. She sits down, gives a little giggle, and says, “Anyways…” My blood is racing like all the cells are in a racetrack, faster and faster, my heart beating like a pair of bongos. I love fate.
“I’m sorry, I’m a little out of it right now.” I flash my best ‘I’m sorry’ smile.
“Ermm, it’s ok…”
“Let’s start again. Tell me about yourself.” I can’t ever act sober, how the hell can I act the fact that I want to jump her and get locked in a room somewhere. For the next ten minutes she tells me the most interesting story I have ever heard, and it’s about her day. She makes something as mundane as any day into a story so incredible and capturing. I felt this weird, sly, undying smile on my face the whole time, but could never change. I was just so intrigued by her. Her face was more communicative than any person’s I’d seen before, even a deaf man would know what the words to her story were. I couldn’t choose where to look on her face, each region still needing to be newly explored. Her cheeks were so rosily squishable, here nose so endearing, the kindest, most woodedly brown eyes ever to gaze and be sucked into. The most kissable lips ever to grace this world, and only by some poetic magic could she always have been so mind-bogglingly beautiful. Then destroyed all stereotypes where the most beautiful girls were always the rudest.

Years after she initially came to San Francisco, she came to the Golden Gate Park. She loved Jefferson Airplane and with, free concerts, booze and life, she couldn’t be happier. She could drink whatever she wanted, do whatever she wanted, and enjoy her youthful teenage years. Ironically enough, we all lost sight of reality, of how in the end we always die, how every trip must end. We were already with the big guy above, through our minds and the fact that we loved those years, and could never take them for granted. We were all rebels, fighting for our rights, when really the only thing that all we needed was just more love in the world. Down with the system, up with life.
All we were asking was for people to be tolerant, kind and that the world leaders should stop and talk about conflicts rather than wage war until thousands of people were died before they realise that… oops… they made a mistake. Still, they called us wrong.

She asked if anyone wanted a cab ride home to share. I was stoned once again that night, a quite stupid miscalculation for now I could hardly use anything (for instance my legs), but fun all the same. I said yes, or rather, I gurgled out a quite irregular sound. She kindly smiled, always too kind for her own good. She helped me to walk out of the place. I remember that in the cool air of those San Fran early morning fogs, the night was still young, I walked on my own. I thanked her as best I could, though once again, not really making any regular noises. I asked about her, and she said she was sober because of a New Year’s Resolution, but she wasn’t doing very well. We’ll get onto that later, for right now I know nothing of the sort. We called a cab, yet waited for those bad service mornings. If there was one thing I learned that late night, early morning, it was the she was an amazing mixture of beauty and brains, as cliché as that sounds, truthful even more so astounding. I trusted her even with my life from that moment on, for no reason other than the fact that we could talk so easily. Trust could be so easily manipulated by her, no negation intended, because of the fact that she kindly mothered all. No animal too small for her, nor too big, she gladly inherited one and all. She was, in a sort of retrospect, Mother Nature. And somehow, just now, just waiting for the taxi, I’ve now listened to many stories of her, heroics in abundance to be heard. I trusted everything she said, and so did everyone around her, for a lie was nowhere to be found from these lips. In a drug-induced stupor, I fell asleep onto her, always seeing her somewhere in my tempting, fantasmical dreams. My dreams were always amazing, for I had a talent for controlling them, yet, when high, I just seemed so much more creative.
I woke up in an hour, and I then realised we were living in the exact opposite of the city, yet living nowhere in particular at all. I slept at her ‘place’-
No, it’s not what you think, by that moment the only physical contact we’d have had in my knowledge, my sleeping on her doesn’t count, as I was sleeping, so therefore we’d only truly had two moments of physical contact, the hand shake and my needing her to help me walk. That’s all. So now, she showed me where I could sleep, so I slept. I thanked her once again, flashed my ‘I’m sorry’ smile again, she said “G’nite,” and walked away. Her voice seemed to shine an even greater side to this angelic creature. It was a Disneylike sound, a tone so perfect it seemed a Siren was singing, yet no intent of any death, nor harm, for her voice also showed her kindness of her soul.
She was kind in her vocabulary and no listener was offended, for she picked each word so carefully as to not sound in any way offensive.
Through all my thoughts on just those few words alone, she looked at her wrist and then took in the fact that she hadn’t worn a watch since she was nine. She laughed embarrassedly to herself, (once again, that giggle laugh gave such joy from just being heard). She got the time, and realized she had to leave ten minutes ago.
I watched her leave, her hair indecisive, I watched and I wondered who wished up this. Probably me in a past life, or maybe just someone like me. Person, I thank you, for you have enlightened my world. From this moment on, I agree with this philosopher’s ideas, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who said that, “the natural state of humans was one of peace, of peace and harmony." This must be the natural state of humans, because I am at a place of much harmony, such peace.
All things must come to an end, so therefore I sleep, and the end has come. I wake up the next morning and it takes me about 20 minutes to realise once again how I got there. Perhaps the THC was only half the high, the other amazing part is the fact that we could be caught, they turned a blind eye now, but what when that changes? It was a false allegiance, a switch that could change so quick and deadly. There was nothing to fear except fear itself, so therefore we rebelled to that theory as well. Give Life it’s own rules and it will bite you in the ass, so hopefully you’re into that. If not, then
shit happens. That’s called a transition sentence using no thought at all. Now I needed to find her in order to get out of here. This was the unrehearsed part, for not each morning I woke there, she lived in the less fancier, as fancy as our little dwellings could be, camping-like park ‘shelters’. She said she enjoyed the ambience, the aura. There it seemed as if everything was dead and lonely, yet for always she had glown through it, and would, as she did in the past, and for all time. She was just so, benignly kind, towards others.
I wanted her to come and live with me-- us, at the Golden Gate Park, in the mighty wooden bushes, seemingly strewn through each other, their branches intersecting and cracking through. They were grown through for each so much, for so many years, the wooden caves could now hold out sometimes even the rain. A week later, I got a place all set up, told her how it would be no hassle, we were opening up, she was free to come anytime. She happily, said no, her love for the aura dauntingly undying. It took a couple of years before she came, my theory, only because of the Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane concerts. Different story for later on, though. For now, she loved, as she always, although minutely, would, the element to what it took to live where she did and be falsely happy through the knowledge that she could put a smile on the darkest face. The raids were horrible and the conditions even worse, but she contentedly replied, “I’m happy here.” So we moved along. We had no way to convince her, no way to just get her to move, though whenever she talked about travelling and living, it seemed the fondest thing of hers. She was a contradiction to every sort of label people placed her under, if they had the audacity to do so as she was making them all better.

Living with her made me realise how I had lived under two realisations of life, for my whole at-family-home lifetime. I was fighting for myself in the war of Classy Snobbish Look-At-Me Life, or the other choice of actually doing what I want to, with people I want to, and being quite loudly disagreeable, if I may ask for so much Life. I felt I needed to hate my parents for giving me so much, for if I loved them, I would then ultimately have adaptationally needed to love the things they gave me, all those things other than those lessons you only earn once in your life. Those material things so sought after by some, that they would go by any means to have. Power corrupts, “Absooooooooolutely” and we were living in an age where power was beginning to be no more than made through money. Politicians’ flocked to corrupted life, at the same rate that machinery had started to replace automobile manufacturers’ worker’s jobs. The age of Ford at his finest while Cadillac a close second place, approaching ‘side to first in the 70’s at least. There were two worlds at this point, the real one and then the one that not many people knew.
Yet the others that had known, knew it each new world all too well. The Great Depression was quite fresh in most minds, yet we were choosing to live, although in a much easier sugar coated conversion. It was contradictory in our parents’ hearts. Scars opened from other memories, their morals pained once again. So for the rest of us, our world was the world where we could all believe in what we needed, though, I guess it couldn’t have been that much different from the real world, wasn’t it…? There is no truth, only consensus.

The first time we could spend a lot of time together was when she first came to the Golden Gate Park for the Trips Festival. I think she was the only person there who chose to not do acid, but when it’s at a festival dedicated for it, that’s just going against the so called, strength, of the will of god. She came up still as close as she could to me when we were in our sleeping bags, and I’d hold her in my arms. Up top the stars were above, shining in all radiance, yet falling short of outshining her. I could die then and there and die a happy man.

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