We watched Ang Lee’s ‘Taking Woodstock‘ tonight. It moved me, especially the part where he gets dosed and winds up in that van. I’ve been trying to write some early stories of these kind of moments, awakening through psychedelics, wanting to revive the warm corpse of the ’60s and not having the easiest time of it, material I should really know, and spent 35 years pursuing. I feel like this Eliot somehow: repressed, stuck in the world of ‘perspective’ and not allowing the universe, the love to come through, hiding, carrying burden, writing about dead people. But I’ve tried all these routes, drugs and sex and rock & roll and teaching children, and making rock and roll for and with children, and meditation, and writing, and walking in nature, and eating raw food and fasting and Judaism and travel and travel trailers and and and. And sometimes I feel like a motherless child, a long, long way from home.