Loneliness

photo from http://blog.clickbangwhirl.com/

I had forgotten. My life is seldom lonely, hasn't been for 20 years. But there was a time, right after I got to New Orleans, that was the bottom for me. I had been a couple of years in college, out on my own at 17, been to Utah and back, married and divorced and was there by choice. Had a job in a print shop, an apartment on Rampart Street. And every night I went over to the bars on Bourbon Street, to Fritzel's in particular. It had just opened then, in 1973, I knew the owner and a couple of the regulars, although I barely spoke to them. I was just getting to know the guys at the print shop where I worked.

There were a couple of bookstore owners over on Royal Street that recognized me when I came in. But I had no friends. I had books to read and food to eat and money for beer. 

One night I started to talking to a guy at the bar. He seemed ok. He wanted to know what I wanted out of life. I told him, I just wanted to walk down the street and know everyone and be able to say hello and ask after their relatives. I wanted to be famous, but didn't really believe in my heart of hearts that would ever happen. I wanted to be a writer. (But I was put-zing at it at that point. I had folders of lots of bad poetry, a couple of short stories I had written and a "Novel" that I wrote a little on here and there.) The guy at the bar told me he was a part of a family down from Boston to try their hand at making some money here. They were living the life I had just described. The group was supportive of each other and respectful of each other and no one was ever lonely. Would I like to come over and talk and get to know them? I said sure. 

It was 1973. There were communes we had heard about, seen in Easy Rider, knew from experience among friends of friends. I thought it could very very cool. I had always wanted to belong, but had never felt I could because of who I was and still am. Maybe this would be different. Maybe I could be accepted in a way I never believed possible.

So I went over one evening. I can't remember if they fed me or not. They probably did. there were about ten people living together in the house. None of them seemed to be partners though. The guy gave me some newspapers that their group had published in Boston. I read the tracts of the guru, a guy by the name of Mel Lyman. He thought he was the reincarnation of Jesus Christ and Abraham Lincoln and Gandhi etc. So I tried to discuss the whole philosophy with my host and after a little while he took me to a girl so I could talk to her. I was giving him a headache. I thought that the whole guru thing was just a metaphor and that they believed in the principles but not the real guru thing, but all these people really believed old Mel was Jesus Christ. Then they stopped talking and started getting mad at me. I was pretty weird myself, arguing with them about what they believed- I think now that I was testing them- making sure that they would reject me for my craziness, because I was sure they would reject me anyway. 

I always meant to write about this, so I could really figure it out, but I never did until now.

So now I and three of the people are in this very heated argument about god and reality and who knows what else and then a couple of guys come in and start to physically push me out the front door. And they are having a hard time of it, cause I'm 6'8" after all. Halfway to the door, I collapse and tell them all I'm sorry and I didn't mean for all of this to happen. And then they convince me, that I'm very confused and I need to go get my bare belongings and come back tomorrow and they will put me on a bus to Boston. I need to give up everything and they will take care of me. I said ok. 

Part two- tomorrow