I’m sitting in the Campus Restaurant,
Storrs, CT, August 1969,.
(The street entrance of which
Was right next to the post office.
You descend a long flight of steps, one story
And there are metal-edged formica tables
And orange vinyl cushions against the wall,
And the service counter in the back
Through the smoke
With the Wong brothers
Serving cokes and hamburgers.)
And, like I say, me
Sitting there, probably smoking a Cool cigarette
And Clark rushes in all excited about something.
(Unusual behavior for Clark, who is always stoned-out
And mellow, and never in a hurry
And never proactive, more of a joiner,
And yet (I want to emphasize this)
Absolutely essential for any kind of happening,
Clark (with his shoulder-length raven hair
To kill for) is saying,
“We’re heading for Woodstock.
Do you want to come?”
“How are you getting there?” I ask in my spotty memory.
“We’re taking my station wagon.”
(He is referring to his his brown Pontiac stationwagon.)
Next question, “What is Woodstock?”
(I think I asked, “Where” is Woodstock?)
He says, “It’s a rock festival. It’s going to be big.
We’ve still got room.”
(The last time I went anywhere in Clark’s stationwagon
Was to a Jimmy Hendrix concert in Hartford
At the Bushnell Auditorium.
There was so much smoke in the car
That I experienced the entire concert
Through a purple haze,
The song that Hendrix never performed that evening
Because the audience, 70% stoned,
20% drunk and 10% tripping
Was so bent on hearing Purple Haze
That is was hard to hear what Hendrix was playing
Over the frenzied chant of
“Purple Haze! Purple Haze! Purple Haze!”
His band took off at intermission
Leaving the audience to trash the auditorium
And I don’t recall how we got home.)
So, I’m sitting there, not wanting to disappoint Clark
But the truth is, I have just shaved my head.
I have a copy of “Civil Disobedience” in my pocket
And am no longer smoking dope because
I am trying to clear my head to figure out
How I am going to transform myself
From a long-haired, idealistic hippy-poet
Into a serious, sober card-carrying
Conscientious objector
Hell-bent on standing up for his core-principles
To the military / industrial complex killing machine.
Clark and friends and Woodstock receded
Very quickly that summer.
The lyrics from Buffalo Springfield come to mind:
“I think it’s time we stop
Children, what’s that sound?
Everybody look, what’s going down?”
Those lyrics perfectly capture that moment,
As if in a drop of amber,
When Clark came bursting in to the Campus Restaurant
Inviting me to join a car-full of friends heading for Woodstock.
I had stopped and I was looking around,
And I was seeing
As in a lucid dream
What was going down.
Now I am 73,
And it is, once again:
“. . . time we stop
Children,
What’s that sound?
Everybody look,
What’s going down?”
I always wondered (naively) what “that sound” was
That they were referring to.
Now I know,
It is the drumming heartbeat
Of the Peaceful Warrior.
Gary Lindorff - Nine Waves 