"In these mountains, I remember, were a group of caves cut high into a steep hillside and overlooking ridges and valleys of conifer forest which stretched to the coast. A few young people lived in the caves year-round, subsisting on wild herbs and brown rice, and on weekends adolescents from the city below gathered to make love and conversation and take drugs. There was something primitive to it, and as one listened to them murmuring around their fire at night, one thought, of course, of tribal rites. What they had done, unconsciously, but precisely, was to reproduce for themselves a common rite of initiation and isolation - as if, through the silence of the hills and temporary exile, they could come to terms with themselves. When they spoke there was a slow thoughtfulness to what they said, a solemnity - as if their distance from the urban sprawl below, the flatland, allowed them to sense the dimension of their own manhood."
This little gem of a book was given to me by a man whos bookstore was closing down
Its called - The Free People, a photo essay of the Woodstock festival, with photographs by Anders Holmquist and one of the best introductions I have ever read (a snippet above) by Peter Marin. I wish I could include the entire 7 page rant... this was someone who really enjoyed the 60s.
No comments:
Post a Comment