There I stood, a plastic magic mushroom badge on my dungarees…I had never taken them…I had humiliated myself on hashish oil from a vegemite jar in a room full of bikers. Falling through the looking glass, suburbia had a sense of wonder. Long unconditioned hair, the perfect hippy girl sat in front of me in the French lab. She wore gumboots and her dungarees. I went from a D to a B plus. I wanted nothing of this world than to find an east coast beach in Nga, drink smoothies made with honey and bananas and make bread with her. I had dreamed of this existence a year before as we bundled through the Parapara in an old Chevy high on marijuana and hopeful for music. This was not Woodstock…May have been better, stars are beautiful.

Jane and Rachel seemed to know how to live this way…I was in awe, lonely and having moments of intense visible alienation, playing my warped copy of beside you, feeling the breadmakers love Tassajara from the smoky valley to Brooklyn.

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