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The Abbot Courant 

Published In December, March and June 
Printed by Town Printing Co., Andover, Mass. 


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Loose your doubts and 
Tell no lies 
Only the poppies 

And dragon iiies 
Can whisper and wimper 
And scatter their lives 
To tickle the wind 
And pepper the skies 



NO. 1. 



Summr Terra, Wi. 


n o ccclxx in. 

4j|t — — *fy 

Vermont Hillsides 


in fervent passion 

the low, ruddy, rolling, rise and fall of sea-form hills 
white-capped with the jutting stone 
churned by browning bush 


catching itself in the red-brick-tavern shades 

leveling higher; drawing the line between forest's scenting 

spray and valley's blinding tones 
this red that silently resounds; a siren, drawing me towards the fire 

above it all 

the turtle-green blends dark and low 
haunting its misty moors of mountain pines 
ghostly forms in upward flow 

escaping the reality of the darkness below 
trees become indistinguishable as they blend in the cold colorwheel 

cycle of green becoming blue absorbing brown fading black 

the mountain in abruptness becomes again a sailing sea 
overladen in the dips and droles coloring clouds 
feeling the soft salt spray as it echoes from within the belly of 
subtle form 


carrying my eyes until again they come to rest in dreams 

We usually took the Metro when we wanted to go somewhere because that 
was one of the best parts about living in the city. The ideal time to ride it was 
just before the siesta, when everyone went home for lunch. At that time one 
couldn't possibly avoid getting completely submerged by the Spanish culture. 
People are in their best humor and it's so crowded that everyone but tired mo- 
thers and old ladies and drunken men has to stand in the aisle, all squished to- 
gether as one. There is always someone who just makes it as the metro pulls out, 
and everyone except the stuffy businessmen buried in their newspapers smiles a 
congratulatory smile to his perspiring face as he wipes it with his white handker- 
chief. The car takes a great lurch forward and we're all on our way, swaying back 
and forth. Sometimes it will stop suddenly and it's too bad for you if you're 
not holding on to the arm of your companion. Of course, you're tossed about 
anyway by the people who haven't got anything to hold onto because they can't 
help it. Everyone is quiet but happy in anticipation of the big meal. That is, most- 
ly everyone. Sue and I could rarely resist the temptation to astound our fellow 
passengers, and being unwilling to be recognized as Americans we would speak in 
the obble language, which sounds like maybe Russian but rounder and even less 
intelligible. As I recall it involved adding obble to the first letter of every word. 
Sue was much better at it than I was because she's been using it ever since fourth 
grade to boggle her teachers. 

Often when we wandered the city together we'd get the urge to run and run 
and run, arms linked, hair blowing in the breeze from the port; both laughing. I 
think we must have done it just to see the reactions of the Spaniards. Gray -haired 
women in black stare, their tired wrinkled elephant faces strained from a day's 
worth of shopping, muttering to themselves as they go. Little girls, holding tight 
to their mother's hand look up at us in wonder, and say loudly, See, Mama, how 
they run in the street. Mama pulls them along, explaining as they go that they 
were not from Spain and they didn't know how senoritas should act. We were un- 
mistakably foreign. Tall girls were rare in Spain, and Sue's light features attracted 
many a curious eye. Men in tight pants and transparent pink shirts unbottoned 
to their navels followed us, calling, "Americanas, we espeaka dee Eengliesh. Come 
danzeeng weeth us." 

We walked on, peering into the windows of cobblershops and bookshops and 
twineshops and bars. And a bakery -yogurt-chocolate-candy shop with warm-from- 
the-oven donuts and croissants and danon yogurts calling us from the trays in the 
window. We walked down a little back street with sidewalks so narrow that you 
had to scrunch up against the tiled walls to let someone pass. We came upon a 
small open grocery store, not the big impersonal shiny linoleum-floored ones 
with gaping metal shopping carts on wheels that never stop rolling. This one was 


different. There were sausages and dried peppers and cheeses hanging above us, 
and there was a special place for milk, unrefrigerated because that's the only kind 
of milk there is in Spain. It's always sitting on the plastic tableclothed table with 
the wine and oil and vinegar. In the corner, behind the meats there lay the most 
wonderful assortment of fruits. Besides the everyday apples and bananas and 
bright red-orange oranges there were smooth white melons and deep red cherries 
in a wooden crate and . . . pomegranates. Sue let out a squeal of joy. Oh, Ellen, 
do you know what those are? We must get one. I can't resist. John bought me 
one in the very beginning and I've been looking for them ever r ince! She pulled 
out her little brown leather purse and chose the biggest, reddest pomegranate in 
the pile. Her excitement had aroused the attention of the shop keeper and he 
stood by us with great curiosity while she made the decision. She handed the 
large hard fruit to him very carefully, and he smiled and brought it over to the 
scales that were hanging by the door. His round cheeks got even rounder with 
pleasure in the interest we'd shown in his prized fruits, and he said, that'll be only 
eitht little pesetas for two beautiful senoritas. Thank you very much, and may 
you have a good day. We thanked him and grinned back and walked out slowly, 
being careful not to bump the hanging goods. 

We continued on our way, in search of the perfect place to eat a pomegran- 
ate, past more bookshops and jewelry stores and news-stands and paper stores un- 
til we came to a park where only the sound of laughing children could be heard. 
Climbing over hopscotch games and garages in the sand we sat down on a green 
wooden bench under a palm tree and Sue brought out the red fruit and unhooked 
her pocket knife from her belt loop and split it in half very carefully. She cautious- 
ly plucked a small, almost round, shiny red berry. Open your mouth, she said, 
and she popped it in. It was a new and unfamiliar taste to me, so smooth and juicy 
and sweet. How do you like it, she asked me with a sparkle in her eye. She knew 
I'd like it because we always like the same things, so I just licked my lips. She 
handed me half of the pomegranate and told me to be very careful not to eat the 
white part because it was bitter. 


I think when I'm older, 111 be like a dead gourd 
All dried up and faded, with dead dried up seeds 
I soon will not hear the sound of the rattle 
Which implanted seeds might make from within. 

I think when you're older, you 11 be rather different 
I think you'll remind me of yellowing print 
Which is brittle and breaks with the turn of a page 
With little respect forwhat has been said. 

My happy man sits on a wicker rolling chair, only to lie still. Has the morn- 
ing come yet? No, he feels not. Ah, his bottle, it is hen;; liquidy and deliciously 
pure. He pours a glass of tarnished brown brandy - whiskey (it does not matter), 
which flows to the groggy, but to the supposedly stimulated intestines of moving 
film. Can he wait til it hits the pit. His body shaking and withdrawn; to laugh, if 
only he could, but that liquid is so tasty. 

The glass is short and piggish with bits of perfuming particles and beads, new 
and past. His hands play and fondle this glass. 

His crystal cut eyes follow the reflecting melody of his fret. The feet are 
large and clumsy, yet narrow. They seemed to be planted firmly upon the wooden 
floor, but his dribbling shoelaces are only a whisper to the folding pants of sha- 
dows, for his body is lithe and has a huge socket of plungers. His shirt reaped from 
buttons, bears this instrument, a function of gluttony. The top is a metallic ball, 
hobbling up and down to swallow. The lips are crusty; they do not savor the taste. 
The teeth are gnawed out, hollow, and the tongue poreless, nonfiltrating, but they 
ask for one more tide pool. 

His bed is unsheathed gray, just waits for a single luminous tone. My happy 
man sits on a wicker rolling chair, only to lie still. 



Steak House - Peter Stapleton 
King Lion 

Order, please. Can I have order? I'd like to call this segment of the meet- 
ing to order. C'n I have your attention please? I have a number of announce- 
ments for the fellow Lions here today, and we want to be sure to include 'em 
all 'for SOME of us have to get back to work. Notice I said Some. 

Now today we're honored to have several distinguished guests here with 
us that we wanna recanize and give 'em a little round of applause and recognition 
an' show we're pleased to have 'em with us. 

Firstly I'd like to recognize one of our most distinguished citizens who's 
just been named to an important office. I'm sure we're all gonna be seein' a lot of 
him in the next few months. As you know Meriwether has been getting set to cele- 
brate its sesquicentennial next year. This is gonna be a very big and patriotic e- 
vent I'm sure everyone of us is looking forward to. We all know that Meriwether's 
a Community on the Move like Jake Morley keeps tellin' us over't the Chamber of 
Commerce, but we know too that we got a fine history behind us as well we can 
all be proud of. Well this celebration's gonna give us some of that emphasis with, 
I understand, some parades and pageants and a lotta carrying on. Well, anyway, 
we got a committee now's gonna start planning this very important event in our 
community, and today we're very pround to have with us the newly appointed 
Chairman of that Committee. He's a man we've all known a long time, and we all 
respect and admire him, and we're real pleased he's gonna be running this grand 
sesquicentennial celebration. Would you all give us a big hand for guest tbday re- 
tired Brigadier General Moses A. Teezevant! Yessir, General it's good to see you 
at our meeting today. We hope you'll keep on coming to join us an' let us know 
if you need any help on this fine historical event. 

Now as you know one of our problems in recent years has had to do with 
attendance at meeting and collection of dues and fines. Now our tail-twister over 
here he does a fine job of collecting for some of the little slips that happen here 
at some of the luncheons. Hi, Billy! But we wanna make sure that our Den keeps 
on attracting the high calibre individual our Organization stands for. Now this is 
particularly true when we're talkin' about attracting the Young People and giving 
them a place at meetings. Well that brings me to introducing our next guest. He's 
up here at the head table, and 111 know you'll wanna greet him as Cub Lion Bev- 
erly Wicks. Beverly's a key athlete over't the High School, and he's also on the 


debating team, and the Future Farmers. We chose him to come and join us here 
today so he could meet us and we could meet him and let him carry back some of 
his experience her to his classmates. It's young men like Beverly that are the fut- 
ure strength of the nation, and we're surely glad to have him with us today. Let's 
give Beverly a good round of welcome. 

Last but not least now on our list of distinguished visitors is a visiting school 
principal. He comes from Boston actually, and you know that's a part of the 
country I've been trina' sell to Canada for years, but anyways he's come down here 
to visit our Day School and fill in for Lion Sweitzer while Lion Sweitzer's up there 
in Boston telling them how to do things. By the way I'm all sure you'll be most 
gratified to hear that Lion Sweitzer's had an honor in the last two weeks. He's 
been selected by the Jaycees as Young Educator of the Year. Yes, indeed. Any- 
way we're glad to have new folks coming around and we hope you'll come back 
real soon. 

Finally in conclusion, I'd like to tell you a little bit about next week. Lion 
Herbert's been doing an outstanding job as our program chairman this year as I'm 
sure you are already aware of. At next week's meeting he's gone to special trouble 
to bring us in a real fine speaker to address our meeting here at the Steak House. 
At that time we'll be having Mr. Reg Walaburton from the Y.M.C.A. fitness pro- 
gram. I'm sure we all know how important this program is to our community's 
health and fitness. Reg's got some fine businessmen athletes down there. I guess 
maybe some of our brother Lions are enrolled too, though I can't think of who 
just here at this particular meeting. Anyway, Reg is gonna talk to us about jog- 
ging and its importance as a hobby and a sport. This isn't a topic you get to 
hear about too often from a pro like Reg, so I'm sure we'll all want to be right 
here for that special event in our calendar which promises to be entertaining as 
well as educational. 

Now if there's no other announcements we'll stand and sing America be- 
fore we adjourn. 


"You've got to treat him like a human." 

"What do you want me to do, slap him across the face and tell him 

he's a son of a bitch?" 

"Does that make him human?" 

"No. . . it makes him a goddam son of a bitch." 

"Well, is he?" 

"No!. . . yes . . . yes, because he's human and I love him." 

"You love him because he's a son of a bitch?" 

"I don't care if he's the son of a bitch or the son of God, I love 
him and that makes him human!" 

"Do you believe he loves you?" 


"That makes him human." 
" ... or the son of God ..." 


I am now just giddy enough to write my dream and my mind is loose, and 
mmm, yes, head, stop blinking around and flashing me all your opinions, because 
they just are not cohesive enough to present. 

Pick-pock, pick, pock pick pockety pock pock pock, that is somebody play- 
ing on the tennis courts. That sound is pretty nice, and hitting that ball is very 
nice, and I know who's playing, and he has never let me play tennis with him, and 
I want to play. Gotta put on my tennis shoes, so LH to into this house, which I 
know is my house, though my parents have never lived in it with me, and I've 
never seen it, but there are some very friendly people in it. None of that attracts 
me the way he does, and so I've got to find my tennis shoes. So I walk on to this 
lovely sunporch, where I recognize my lovely, lazy, unmade bed. No, bed, sorry 
I am going to get my tennis shoes, because the pick -pock is picking up, and there 
is nothing I'd rather do. I've never played with him before, and there's never been 
a game like this one is going to be. Hello, friends, you're all people I like to see, no, 
I want no tea, have you seen my tennis shoes? 

No response, and they are unconcerned by my search, so 111 find them my- 
self. Soon my game will start, those damn shoes are nowhere-though perhaps-and 
I go out to check that sunshiney porch, because it looks like a fun place to play, 
and perhaps tennis shoes like to jump into the drops of sunshine that squeeze be- 
tween the leaves, which move constantly, trying to protect the persian rug from 
fading. It's a lovely dark red which teases the sunlight, and that sunlight hasn't 
done any harm to the rug that I can see. All very pretty pictures, but I now see 
everyone, including the persian rug is teasing me out of playing. And I am fur- 
ious. No one is helping me. The pick-pock has stopped, and I cry into the shoul- 
der of my soft rumply bed, which gives me sleep to play with. The tennis play- 
er returns and has tea with my friends, and he comes and lies on my bed with me, 
but I don't want him like that, because when I ask him to help me find my ten- 
nis shoes, he rolls over, and kisses my shoulder, and thinks I will forget. 


There are two loves, 

Love for humanity and love for a loved un. 

My loved un loves an occasional pat on the back, 

And loves to be told to be happy, 

And loves to nurse flowers, 

And loves to talk, 

And never talks of love. 



evil clowns 

of satiric souls and edged laughter 
swaggered in * 
and raped the town. 

they stole down the alleys of the peoples' minds 

and into the back doors of their fear 

the clowns grinned and jested horror 

their razor blade laughter slit the veins of true joy 

in the town 

they smiled poison into pure water 

and befoulded the food 

they stole into the dreams of the people 

and twisted them into nightmares 

of white painted faces 

red bulbous noses 

and terror filled grins 

the river ran brackish and golden green trees 

were distorted into deformed black limbs 

without bodies 

clawing for the sky 

a crimson, the crawling old age 

of the yellowy dancing sun of yesterday 

sank across the dirty sky without spirit. 

and the clowns rejoiced and giggled 

behind their garish costumes and white faces. 


fear constantly screamed along the wires 
in the spine of the people 
and horror seeped in to the mind, 
the town drunk 

quietly drowned the leering clowns 

in wet sticky nightmares 

floating in his private sea of oblivion 

the hollow judge with his echoing courtroom 

withered and died 

his coffin lawbooks 

and his mallet was the neglected cross 

no flower on his grave 

the people thought for their own fear. 

the law was now only the whispering 

of dry brown leaves 

soon to be blown away by the winter breath 
of the clowns 

the town justice was enforced 

by a jury of jesters who shouted merry murder. 

the clowns unlocked hallowed doors 

and threw mud at the holiness inside. 

they shreiked with delight 

and danced in the debris 

their caravan became bright blood red 

stained in jagged splotches 

with brown greed. 


the town began to disintegrate 

under the merciless whipping 

the rags of the town's spirit fluttered 

hopelessly in the biting wind 

a sweet virgin no longer 

the people are stones 

squeezed of blood 

night closes on the town like a steel glove 
and the sky dropped its suffocating black 
over the charred and shriveled buildings 
over the people pale with empty numb fear 
the clowns' mockery 
oozed to the depths of the people 
and turned the fluid of their image 
bitter as gall 

and fragile as pale blue shells 
total eclipse is imminent 
and in its place 
a shabby peace 

for the judge entombed in his musty books 
for them all outside their cringing spirits, 
the end of the last night 
of the last hour 
of the last minute 
was coming, heralded 
bye the booming boredom 
of the evil clowns 

they left to gash and scar their way across 
another country 
in elsewhere 

they left by the only passage out 
in a solid wall of hopeless stares. 

Folly Amuses Wisdom 
Youth Confuses Itself 
Beauty Disturbs Tradition 
Abbot Disrobes Truth 
Folly Seduces Fools 

Youth Amuses P.A. 
Beauty Confuses Wisdom 
Abbot Disturbs Itself 
Folly Disrobes Tradition 
Youth Seduces Truth 

Beauty Amuses Fools 
Abbot Confuses P.A. 
Folly Disturbs Wisdom 
Youth Disrobes Itself 
Beauty Seduces Tradition 

Abbot Amuses Truth 
Folly Confuses Fools 
Youth Disturbs P.A. 
Beauty Disrobes Wisdom 
Abbot Seduces Itself 

Folly Amuses Tradition 
Youth Confuses Truth 
Beauty Disturbs Fools 
Abbot Disrobes P.A. 
Folly Seduces Wisdom 

Youth Amuses Itself 
Beauty Confuses Tradition 
Abbot Disturbs Truth 
Folly Disrobes Fools 
Youth Seduces P.A. 

Beauty Amuses Wisdom 
Abbot Confuses Itself 
Folly Disturbs Tradition 
Youth Disrobes Truth 
Beauty Seduces Fools 

Abbot Amuses P.A. 
Folly Confuses Wisdom 
Youth Disturbs Itself 
Beauty Disrobes Tradition 
Abbot Seduces Truth 

Folly Amuses Fools 
Youth Confuses P.A. 
Beauty Disturbs Wisdom 
Abbot Disrobes Itself 
Folly Seduces Tradition 

Youth Amuses Truth 
Beauty Confuses Fools 
Abbot Disburbs P.A. 
Folly Disrobes Wisdom 
Youth Seduces Itself 

Beauty Amuses Tradition 
Abbot Confuses Truth 
Folly Disturbs Fools 
Youth Disrobes P.A. 
Beauty Seduces Wisdom 

Abbot Amuses Itself 
Folly Confuses Tradition 
Youth Disturbs Truth 
Beauty Disrobes Fools 
Abbot Seduces P.A. 

Folly Amuses Wisdom 

s gP 




The crystal moon, 
Smiling her strange, 
Wide-eyed smile, 
Resting in the filigree 
Of branches; 

She weaves in the sky a sheen 
Of gossamer, embroidered 
With the dark leaves. 
The moist stars 

Glimmer around her in the darkness, as 

She swells the night with 

Her silent symphony. 

She etches the black shadow of branches 

Into the glittering snow; 

She pales the blades of grass, 

And turns the dewdrops at their tips 

To trembling gems. 

The splayed mountain peaks, 

Cloaked in her cold splendor, 

Float in the black sea of night; 

The quiet stream 

Is a mirror of obsidian 

Under her gaze. 

She kneads the ocean gently, 

Causing it to flow and ebb, 

Rise and fall, 

Like a breathing animal, 

Deep in a dreamful sleep. 

And she caresses with her hands 

The mist that sighs 

Over the silver 'd sands. 

She touches the horse's dark hide 

With sliding, taper 'd light, 

And makes his mane a living wave 

That billows in the night breeze. 

The shuddering aspen leaves 

She vains with silver, 

And silvers the upturned pinions 
Of the nighthawk 
As, swift and silent, 

He pursues the translucence of a white moth. 
She whispers her sweet madness to the wolf, 
Her urgency 

To the glass slippered deer. 

She pours rippled diamond panes 

On the floor 

Of the clear-eyed poet, 

And from these panes 

He fashions the windows of his soul: 

Endymion, with the slender hands of a child. 

Sweetly sleeping in her love. 

swarming black night 
swat those buzzing flies 
away ; far away . 

chase them into dark deep corners, 

open wide the gentle winds 
to flights of butterflies 
to drift 

through flowers of my head, 
the moment of honey pleasure, 

leave me to sleep 

but not untouched. 




A Pantomine 

Stage: table and chair, very plain, candle on table, 
dim light. 

Man enters. Goes to table and sits down in 
chair. He reflects, then lights candle. 

He sits, intently watching patterns that the 
candle is forming on the wall. 

Smile slowly forms on his face. A picture 
forms. Tall grass is seen being blown by wind. 
A grasshopper is on a blade of grass, his body 
in motion with the grass. A line comes out of 
the grass's depth and sucks in the grasshopper. 
A toad, brown and warty, with big shiny bug 
eyes, is pictured. 

Man laughs almost madly to himself. Picture 
becomes wavy and disappears. Man reflects. 
Another picture starts to form. A lions face 
is made out. His eyes are wide and saliva is 
dripping from his large jowls where a few 
teeth are visible. He seems to be on a hunt and 
suddenly charges toward empty space. 

From nowhere a gun appears in man's hand. 
He fires it. A faint moan is heard, then a thud. 
The picture has disappeared. 

The man sits there with sweat dripping from his 
forehead. He rubs his eyes, then stares at the 
wall. A lion starts to form again. He fires 
immediately. An echoing moan is heard. The 
picture has disappeared. 

Man stares wild-eyed at wall, gun cocked in his 

Footsteps, having a distinct pause between each 
step, are heard. A man from a grey background 
becomes visible. His whole body is like a shadow 
except for his eyes. They stand out, red, with 
the glare of the devil in them. The figure walks 
closer. The man, his eyes glazed, slowly raises 
the gun with both hands and fires. 

Candle goes out and falls to floor. A dim light 
still shines on the wall where three bullet holes 
are pictured. One hole drips blood. 

Black Out 

Character Studies 


the ripples break the silence of the surface as an oriole 

beckons his mate 
precious blue, deep soul conscious blue of mountain strength 

rustles slightly as a breeze might disturb a silent poplar 

tree; Setting it to singing 


majestic robes of purple trimmed white 
upheld in the joyful outburst of autumn in its final 
statement before death 



closely resembling a young girl 
struggling to reach womanly form 
growing and changing ever so slightly 

as the ages pass 

A message wrought of continuous trials, tribulations, tragedies, trickles, 
pickles, hitches and stitches of wanderings, as is readily apparent from this most 
picturesque stationery-the illustrious "Harbor Light", "Trailer Park" - (do not 
ask how whence we came to this place, my mind is complicated, all things are 
muddled). I am presently recouping from a delightful hangover, another temp- 
tuous episodeal delight. Feeling semi-lousy, so not the best time to write, but 
I suppose any time is as good as any time. Have no idea what the date is. We dis- 
covered that it's Sunday because all the super-markets, if you can call them that, 
were quite closed. Now that I have succeeded in telling you nothing about what 
is/has happening/happened, I had best begin. From where? Je ne sais pas. Be- 
lieve it or not, I have been speaking french to a lot of people here. It's really 
fun(ny). Find myself mixing languages in my head, speaking french to english 
people, getting generally confused. We hit Canada after a few days here and there 
— in puddles of mosquitoes on a sea-cliff; trespassing, rain, rain, insane — we were 
rescued in Ellworth by a savior who gave us his house, land, shower (HOT!!), 
peace and quiet and stereo while he went out to night-school, we split before he 
and his girlfriend came back, returning to our quiet haven amid fields of mos- 
quitos (in East Sullivan as I recall). Onward to Acadia, embarking on a cosmic 
orgasm with James MacMalster Whedon - an organic creature - into geodesic 
domes, organic farming, Kundulini Yoga, I Ching, macrobiotics, LSD, an "alone 
trip", also madly in love with Judith. He's really a nice boy after you get through 
all that outside shit. He's been through a lot, still lost at 21. His own furm, dome, 
garden, land, yet no one to share it with. Very lonely. J. and I helped him a lot. 
He shared our twobody for a night, a squish, and I was somewhat relieved to get 
rid of him in the morning. Things were just getting too heavy for everybody. 

Abigail my dearest so begins the beginning of letter no. 1!?! 

this page i started somewhere (time) ago but apparently only got as far as 
the beginning. Thusly, i begin upon a new place and a new page. Tonite we are 
mooching off the Canadian Government. Got picked up by these two guys see, 
Wayne and Jeff, who work in a government forestry, and were on their way to an 
unknown apartment for a weeks' stay pre-paid as is their gas, food, lodging, etc. 
Nothing fishy here. Jude's dead tired, we weren't up to another hours' hitch in 


the dark to an unknown hostel -- she wouldn't have made it. So here we are, a 
barrel of laughs - ha ha ha - more like beer beer beer. These guys are perpetual 
beeries, all they do is»drink, smoke and read comics ("Wyatt Earp (his guns are 
law)", "The Mighty Marvel Western, Rawhide Kid, Kid Colt, Two Gun Kid", 
and "All New Fightin' Marines" (published in Derby, Conn.) Ya see, they're 
both on liquid diets to get rid of their beer bellies, Quite Harmless, i assure you 
(and myself for that matter). Anyway, we're enjoying ourselves here, took a 
delicious bath in a tub with four little footsies. The guys just joined me at the 
kitchen table to play cards-crib, it's called. Well, back to more illustrious ad- 
ventures. The reason page no. 1. was in a lousy mood cause i was marooned two 
days in a Pictou trailer park, on accounta J. was hot an' heavy into another ro- 
mance, only this one i could take seriously 'cause i like and respect him tremen- 
dously. His name is Raymond, he's 22, rides a motorcycle, looks extremely 
British, dresses stylishly (green leather jacket, white scarf and goggles). Also 
quite good-looking. Anyway, they met on the ferry from P.E.I. (Prince Edward 
Island), split, and then he drove about 50 miles from hostel to trailer park to 
seek his love. Ah, but it worked out well. An interesting story indeed. This all 
leads up to the hangover -- we all went to "the hangout", a greasery 50 's Pictou 
spot for FOOD. Great fun. Then decided to hit a late-nite lounge, ended up at 
the Pictou Lodge, a rustic affair way out in the boondoggies, built of logs, moose 
head, potted palms and old, old, old bluesy jazz records (which i adore) and my 
first drink (Tom Collins) in a bar ($1.50)! !! That was fine. Then J. and Ray 
disappeared to dig the sand (beach) leaving me to fend off drunken slobs and feel 
sorry for myself. It's happened before, but this time i was marooned - stuck -- 
couldn't risk a ride out with a drunken idiot, or a 2 mile walk down a dark dirt 
road to hitch the lonesome hiway at 11:35. So i twiddled my thumbs, surveyed 
the geraniums (not fake) and made friends with a drunken Pictouian named Judy. 
When Ray 'n J. finally came out of their hole (in the sand), three shooting stars 
later, my Pal Judy dragged us all in for drinks with rex, sister and brother in law, 
and other assorted oddities. A little beer and i was far out. Forgot to say that 
John the bartender, a fat little guy with a long nose, speaks seven languages. He's 
a sweetie. Anyway we all had quite a few chuckles with Judy, who addressed J. 
as "my name", and wanted to come with us to Connecticut. She danced with 
Rex to the Monkees' first album. Finally, at 1:45, we hit that long dirt road 
back to the long dark hiway. How i made that 2H miles (at one point collasped 


on the yellow line) should remain a mystery to us an. Whenever a car came, we 
hid. Sure was fun and the moon made the whole thing worth it. Ray finally 
left a day later, 5 p.m. today, after a whole day of good-byes, i was ready for them 
to ride off happily ever after -- they were both upset in leaving -- ( by the way, he 
was recouping from a 3 yr. love affair which came a week within holy matrimony ) 
— 1 write so much of Ray because he's been what's happening lately while I've been 
stuck in Pictou with French poodles and color T.V.'s. Such a relief to be back on 
the open road. Love those travelin' cliches, that oV hiway in the wind. One more 
story for this one, o.k.? Canadians finish every sentence with A ("Where ya goin', 
A,") or "Is that right?" or "0 yeah.". That's not the story, it's a real spine killer, 
the kind that gets yer gut and spits yer sweat. Well it's a real heavy, and i can't seem 
to get into writing about it 'cause it seems so silly now, yet at the time 

... all right, get on witn it. We were trapesing merrily off to Canada via Houlton, 
Me. The idea traversed our little heads of "customs" and "dope". After several 
stupid hiding places in J.'s pack, i transferred the cache to the bottom of my 
brown rice bag, we figured on no hassles from the Canadians (they're so much 
better about these things, eh?) Well, things started off bad three miles from the 
border when we got stopped by a friendly police officer for, yes, hitch-hiking. 
He gave us a warning and offered us a free ride to the border "where we would un- 
dergo thorough investigation" A WIZE CHOICE "if you don't have any "stuff". 1 1 
We chickened out, made up some lousy excuses and wandered sadly back to town 
to further contemplate the issue. The first car i asked (filthy rich old folks) offered 
us a ride across the border, we figgered no hassles, so hopped in. Not so easy; our 
friendly hostess complicated the issue by explaining we were hitch-hikers picked 
up by a policeman. His face dropped, we were rushed out of the car from office to 
office, pink slip to pink slip, both sweating madly and attempting vague cracks at 
jokes. J.'s pack was scrutionously dissected down to underpants, shaking out emp- 
ty pack, analysing vitamin pills, pawing our whole wheat flour, shaking out maps. 
Me standing in a puddle of paranoia. A sweet young thing was doing my pack and 
when she got to the mess kit i almost threw up and split to the bathroom and to 
tell our friendly chauffeurs to forget us permanently. When i came back my pack 
was finished but J.'s dilligent young man found a few grains in her side pocket, he 
ushered in the supervisor who confirmed the stuff and marched us back for more, 


1 - all quotes from F.P.O. (Friendly Police Officer) 

or less, pink slips. We were brutally questioned "Where's the stuff?", "Didja flush 
it down the toilet, huh, didja, huh???!" J. made up a story which got us off. At 
first we were denied entry and officially deported, not allowed entry etc. etc. I 
was paranoid cause i figgered for sure our packs were being dilligently researched 
and ramsacked. We ran out of customs, clutching our pink slips, and praising the 
Lord, or whoever. ($300 fine for PIPE ALONE!!!!!! YE GADS!!!) How can this 
horrible gripping fear be communicated ?? And we had to sit and smile through 
the whole f— ing thing! How did i do it??? Anyway to end this closing vignette, 
J. said that when she (custom's lady) came to the mess kit she said "What's in 
there?" J. said "FOOD!:" She sniffed, said "Oh." and put the thing down. Didn't 
even open the damn thing. Jesus. Summer would have ended right there. Believe 
me, i was sure we were permanently cooked. Guys we met at Hostel busted at 
border were jailed six weeks. Trying to raise bail and fine. Ray was jailed six weeks 
(solitary confinement for refusing to cut hair) for stealing 22 cents worth of but- 
ter. Moral of Story : smuggling butter's better (or worse) than dope. Don't try to 
be sneaky in icky places. Watch those tricky fingers (butter fingers) and keep 
Cool, all is groovy LOVE DEBSER 

P.S. An extra added dividend - 

So to them a crumbly po-eme i send 

They make me glad 

3 cheers for Mom and Dad! 

Hip Hip Horay-Woppee Ding Dong 

Sing a song, ring a ding the pho-en 

for Ma 'n Pa Ow-en 
They make me glad 
So to them a crumbly po-eme i send 
(get it, po-eme?) 
To Ho-Ho-Ho-eme 

yes, yes-it's too late for this sort of nonsense, the point is, i called the par- 
entskiis today, quite spontaneously, yes sir ec (after WIERD Dreams) to 
discover their paren(t) (an) oia and iron things out a bit (No scorches). 
Good, good talk with Mom, o so glad i called-shc told me they called Ma- 
tin, nearly sent out the mounted police even before J. wrote home a thumb- 
tale, and called all over the country-side. Jeepers Creepers!!! A Shock- 
eroozie but everything's fine now, We had a real good talk. Now time for 
a snoozie. (An' a bed 'II be coozie) To the crux of the Matter -- a big fat 
thank you to Ma and Pa for saying such nice things about us nice things, 


i mean girls. Set my parentanoiaskis at case for a sneeze. Now it's a breeze. 
They're neither queezed nor bumming on the thumbing. The hitches are un- 
hatched. The eggshells (placentas?) arc split as we breathe the clean (not 
foul) air of freedom and responsibiliti-hc-he- Share this letter if it will make 
anyone feel any better. Mighty noodle, lost my poodle. 




^LLY cooper 

)<AREN Tu LI 5- 


j 3^vi.^iw v Ion si *iha : amo 


blend, oh my days, into weeks, months, time to endure 
push me, like the strong wind moves the tumbleweed, roll me 
past the moment - it drops back into the brown dust storm 
f past, while I go forward, unstopping, unable 
to the future 

Oh. that I could plant my roots in the soft soil of moment 
and feel warm sun, and see the sky