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VOLUME 2, NUMBER 26
<> MONDAY, JULY 2, 2001
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| I was fourteen years old back in 1969,
growing up on the beautiful far-south side of Chicago. I
came home from school one day, and went over to my
grandmother’s house to have a Pepsi and watch her brand
new big-inch color TV. She had a copy of the current issue
of Look Magazine on the living room table. I took a hard
look at the cover. It was a picture of some crazed-out
hippies, hanging out at the intersection of Haight &
Ashbury, stoned out on (what I would later find out was)
acid. I picked the magazine up and thumbed through the other
pictures of the “San Francisco hippie scene.” I saw all
sorts of brave young rebels living out a psychedelic dream
in a world which they seemed to create from day to day. The
south side of Chicago is wild, but this was more than wild
— it was all-out rebellion; the total rejection of the
world which our parents tried to force upon us. Up until
now, I had felt alone. Were Bob Dylan and myself the only
ones who had figured out that it was all a trap? Put the
cheese on the lever and then they break you in two when you
try to nibble on it. Suddenly, I could see that I wasn’t
alone, and the proverbial light bulb clicked on in my head.
I said to myself, “Thank you mother & father for
bringing me into this world, but it is with much respect
that I decline to follow the blueprints which you have drawn
up for my life.” I made a silent vow that I would have an
apartment in the Haight one day. |
| About thirty-one years later, I was sitting
outside on the stairs which lead down to my basement
apartment in the lower Haight. It was a Saturday morning. I
was drinking a cup of green tea, watching today’s version
of freak-i-cide America, the new millennium, parade on by.
It inspired me to write the following poem:
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A Haight Street lullaby
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| echoes of freedom |
| ring |
| throughout my mind |
| forty-six years |
| and I |
| still |
| haven’t found |
| what I was |
| hoping |
| to find |
| there have ups |
| the downs |
| bummin’ for change |
| flirting with love |
| screwing around |
| trading in |
| mom & daddy’s |
| long lost dreams |
| for this |
| crazy little |
| postmillennium |
| hippie scene |
| when I was |
| young |
| I had said |
| that I would |
| try it |
| for a couple of years |
| “Watch out!” |
| they all said |
| “you will turn |
| into |
| your own worst fears.” |
| I did |
| but let |
| me tell you... |
| it ain’t |
| no big |
| thing |
| because tomorrow’s |
| always a new |
| day |
| which can bring |
| on anything |
| all you children |
| caught up |
| in the webs |
| of your parents’ |
| design |
| cut the chains |
| endure the rain |
| and walk out |
| of the front |
| door |
| life is hard |
| life is sweet |
| if you can |
| take the heat |
| the journey is |
| all that there is... |
| make it |
| your own
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| Patrick
Julian Cassidy |
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