(inspired by Maggie B. who was there~)
Woodstock was both a peaceful protest and a global celebration –Richie Havens
This cat resembling Jim Morrison asks me to fool around. His curly, brown hair streams over one side of his face like a slice of art. He passes me a joint the size of Montana.
“This is good stuff, baby,” he says, inhaling deeply. His eyes are insidious pools of jade, glistening and glossy from hashish, from Jack Daniels, from lack of sun. He stands precisely where he is to urinate in the water. I don’t know anyone in the watering hole, just nameless freaks and exposed bodies of all sizes dancing and laughing.
Nothing is taboo. Sex is sex. That’s all. LSD is shared like a piece of Juicy Fruit, and marijuana is blown from mouth to mouth like sensuous kisses. If one had inhibitions, she/he may die here. On the other hand, the hippies might save this fucked up universe.
Somebody tastes my neck. It’s Jim Morrison. He’s mumbling undecipherable words, but I know what he’s saying, or at least, I think I know. His breath has the odor of whiskey and sour milk. He reeks of sweat and I couldn’t give a damn.
“How old are ya, baby?” he smirks and every white tooth is a line of Neruda.
“Who’s askin?” I can’t look him strait in the face. He may recognize I’m just a schoolgirl, a virgin, a plain Jane, a girl he’d never talk to in the real world. Away from this place. My freckles stand out like a dot-to-dot. Why didn’t I cover them up?
“Well, I think I love you, “ he whispers, licking the inside of my earlobe.
I may be sixteen, but I’m smart enough to know this cat is horny as hell and I’m not about do nothin’ I’m gonna regret. Not yet. But oh, my, he sure is pretty.
“I ‘hafta find my friends,” I say, pushing him away.
“There’s half a million people here, baby. There’s a better chance you’ll find alien life.”
Ironically, I find out his name is Jim. We stroll around the farm holding hands, sweat on sweat, skin on skin. We stop to excavate our shoes from the thick sludge; we smoke weed, chat with strangers, who offer us bologna sandwiches, cheap red wine, and soggy afghans. One chick offers me her baby. “Here, take him,” she smiles. “I need to take a siesta before Hendrix starts.”
At home, I keep hearing about the horrors of Hamburger Hill and My Lai Massacre, but here at Bethel, there is only love. It’s free and beautiful. It’s mine. It’s an endless rhythmic baptism.
At 9:00 AM, Jim and I lay a tiger striped blanket on the drenched ground. We sink into dirt, huddle together like a finished poem. Jimi Hendrix walks on stage; a black God draped in ivory fringes. His guitar screams and cries for all humanity.
After the concert, I glance towards the watering hole; hoping the freaks and misfits are still there. I want to hug them, kiss them, chat with them; say we’re going to change the world.
But they’ve all gone home.
There is only a silent, sad sky.