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Carol Adler is a renaissance woman with her mind focused on business and her fingers on the world's pulse. Still, this publisher - editor - writer - poet - journalist.
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- Slouching Towards Bethlehem Quotes by Joan Didion
- The Saturday Evening Post
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Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind's door at 4 a. I think we are well-advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were.
I remember walking across Sixty-second Street one twilight that first spring, or the second spring, they were all alike for a while.
Slouching Towards Bethlehem Quotes by Joan Didion
I was late to meet someone but I stopped at Lexington Avenue and bought a peach and stood on the corner eating it and knew that I had come out out of the West and reached the mirage. I suppose that it begins or does not begin in the cradle. Although I have felt compelled to write things down since I was five years old, I doubt that my daughter ever will, for she is a singularly blessed and accepting child, delighted with life exactly as life presents itself to her, unafraid to go to sleep and unafraid to wake up.
Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.
Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the specter of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that answering it becomes out of the question. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves - there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference. I could taste the peach and feel the soft air blowing from a subway grating on my legs and I could smell lilac and garbage and expensive perfume and I knew that it would cost something sooner or later—because I did not belong there, did not come from there—but when you are twenty-two or twenty-three, you figure that later you will have a high emotional balance, and be able to pay whatever it costs.
I still believed in possibilities then, still had the sense, so peculiar to New York, that something extraordinary would happen any minute, any day, any month. It is less often said that New York is also, at least for those of us who came there from somewhere else, a city for only the very young. Perhaps it is difficult to see the value in having one's self back in that kind of mood, but I do see it; I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not.
Can it really be that love and a focused universal consciousness will transform Earth's awful realities? This is a fast, fun sexy read.
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Whether you believe in extraterrestrials or not, you do believe in love, don't you? And who among us doesn't think our current crop of politicians need to get a divorce from big business? With great imagination and humor, Adler weaves her cautionary tale of star crossed lovers and the "rough beasts" determined to separate them. There's a problem loading this menu right now. Get fast, free shipping with Amazon Prime.
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Amazon Rapids Fun stories for kids on the go. Amazon Restaurants Food delivery from local restaurants. He paces nervously around the room he uses as a studio and shows me some paintings. We do not seem to be getting to the point. She had followed him to Tangier and now to San Francisco. But Max has Sharon. Steve is troubled by a lot of things.
He is 23, was raised in Virginia and has the idea that California is the beginning of the end. At least there I had a target. Arthur Lisch is a kind of leader of the Diggers, who, in the official District mythology, are supposed to be a group of anonymous good guys with no thought in their collective head but to lend a helping hand. For one thing, the telephone keeps ringing. Arthur promises to attend a hearing at city hall. Another confusing element is somebody named Bob, who just sits in the living room and looks at his toes.
First he looks at the toes on one foot, then at the toes on the other. I make several attempts to include Bob before I realize he is on a bad trip.
Moreover, there are two people hacking up what looks like a side of beef on the kitchen floor, the idea being that when it gets hacked up, Jane Lisch can cook it for the daily Digger feed in the park. Arthur Lisch does not seem to notice any of this. He just keeps talking about cybernated societies and the guaranteed annual wage and riot on the Street, unless. I call the Lisches a day or so later and ask for Arthur. Besides the freak-out in the bathroom, they are expecting a psychiatrist in to look at Bob. Also a doctor for Edward, who is not OK at all but has the flu. Jane says maybe I should talk to Chester Anderson.
She will not give me his number. His statements, which are left in piles and pasted on windows around Haight Street, are regarded with some apprehension in the District and with considerable interest by outsiders, who study them, like China watchers, for subtle shifts in obscure ideologies. The politics and ethics of ecstasy.
Rape is as common as. Kids are starving on the Street. Minds and bodies are being maimed as we watch, a scale model of Vietnam. Somebody other than Jane Lisch gave me an address for Chester Anderson, Arguello, but Arguello does not exist. I decide to lie low on the question of Chester Anderson for a while.
Paranoia strikes deep — Into your life it will creep — is a song the Buffalo Springfield sings. Tom will take it too, probably Sharon, maybe Barbara. They are not crazy about STP, but it has advantages. It was the chicken pox, which he caught while baby-sitting for Big Brother and the Holding Company one night when they were playing. Later he wrote her a letter in care of her mother urging her to go back to school.
We are eating a little tempura in Japantown, Chet Helms and I, and he is sharing some of his insights with me. A new group is supposed to play today in the Panhandle, a section of Golden Gate Park, but they are having trouble with the amplifier and I sit in the sun listening to a couple of little girls, maybe 17 years old. The boots do not look like an affectation, they look like she came up off a ranch about two weeks ago. I wonder what she is doing here in the Panhandle, trying to make friends with a city girl who is snubbing her, but I do not wonder long, because she is homely and awkward, and I think of her going all the way through the consolidated union high school out there where she comes from, and nobody ever asking her to go into Reno on Saturday night for a drive-in movie and a beer on the riverbank, so she runs.
We were at the Avalon and the big strobe was going and so were the colored lights and the Day-Glo painting, and the place was full of high-school kids trying to look turned on. The Avalon sound system projects decibels at feet but to Chet Helms the sound is just there, like the air, and he talks through it. The second is, 50 percent of the population is or will be under Thursday comes, some Thursday, and Max and Tom and Sharon and maybe Barbara are going to take some acid.
Once the sign is finished Sharon gets restless. Barbara is not in evidence. Tom keeps walking in and out. He is turning the stereo on and off. He takes the joints back to the bedroom, and Sharon goes with him. After a while he brightens and develops a theory around it. Sharon drifts in, smiling. Barbara stayed in the bedroom, smoking hash.
A curtain billowed in the afternoon wind. Except for the sitar music on the stereo there was no other sound or movement until 7: I spot Deadeye on Haight Street, and he gets in the car. Until we get off the Street he sits very low and inconspicuous. Deadeye wants me to meet his old lady, but first he wants to talk to me about how he got hip to helping people. And that can help them in more ways than one. He takes a much-folded letter from his wallet. The letter is from a little girl he helped. When you feel happiness, I do, when you feel. He hesitates only a few seconds.
See, in my pocket I had a hundred tabs of acid. When I was in San Francisco a tab, or a cap, of LSD sold for three to five dollars, depending upon the seller and the district. LSD was slightly cheaper in the Haight-Ashbury than in the Fillmore, where it was used rarely, mainly as a sexual ploy, and sold by pushers of hard drugs, e. Nobody knows how much LSD is actually in a tab, but the standard trip is supposed to be micrograms. There was not only more tolerance of speed but there was a general agreement that heroin was now on the scene.
I ask Gerry what work she does. Gerry demurs, then goes into the bedroom and comes back with several theme books full of verse. I leaf through them but Deadeye is still talking about helping people. Dawns are roseate, skies silver-tinted.
She is telling about somebody who propositioned her yesterday. She has been sick a week now, 10 days. When I saw Gerry in the Park the next day I asked her about the sick girl, and Gerry said cheerfully that she was in the hospital with pneumonia. Max tells me about how he and Sharon got together. His whole trip was to practice screams. It was too much. Max walked to the kitchen and back with the tab, wondering whether to take it. Because once you drop acid with somebody, you flash on, you see the whole world melt in her eyes. No milk today — My love has gone away.
The end of my hopes — The end of all my dreams —.
Deadeye and Gerry tell me that they plan to be married. Barbara has baked a macrobiotic apple pie — one made without sweets and with whole-wheat flour — and she and Tom and Max and Sharon and I are eating it. Most of the time she keeps house and bakes. I ask if she wants to drive in the Park but she is too busy. She is out to buy wool for her loom.
Barbara comes to the door. Every third person in the Park this afternoon looks like a narcotics agent and I try to change the subject. Later I suggest to Max that he be more wary in public. What happens is that this cop and I meet in various late-movie ways, like I happen to be sitting in the bleachers at a baseball game and he happens to sit down next to me, and we exchange guarded generalities. No information actually passes between us, but after a while we get to kind of like each other.
He tells me about an undercover who was taken out of the District because he was believed to be over-exposed, too familiar. He was transferred to the narcotics squad, and by error was immediately sent back into the District as a narcotics undercover.