[CC030: Uncle Tim's Children]

Uncle Tim'$ Children

Pretty little 16-year-old middle class chick comes to the Haight to see what it's all about & gets picked up by a 17-year-old street dealer who spends all day shooting her full of speed again & again, then feeds her 3000 mikes and raffles off her temporarily unemployed body for the biggest Haight Street gang bang since the night before last.

The politics & ethics of ecstasy.

Rape is as common as bullshit on Haight Street.

The Love Generation never sleeps.

The Oracle continues to recruit for this summer's Human Shit-In, but the psychedelic plastic flower & god's eye merchants, shocked by the discovery that increased population doesn't necessarily guarantee increased profits at all, have invented the Council for a Summer of Love to keep us all from interfering with commerce.

Kids are starving on the Street. Minds & bodies are being maimed as we watch, a scale model of Vietnam. There are people -- Our people -- dying hideous long deaths among us & the Council is planning alternative activities. Haight Street is uglyshitdeath & Alan Watts suggests more elegant attire.

What does it feel like to be one of the HIP Merchants? To know that you, personally, from the most cynical of greedy motives, have done this to all of these people!

Well, I'll tell you: it doesn't feel like that at all, because if that's who you are, then you're very careful not to notice what you've done. Even now, when the dying sprawl across the doorsteps & have to be swept off before you can open the store. The selectively expanded consciousness does not notice misery. Misery is not beautiful.

The HIP Merchants -- the cats who have sold our lovely little psychedelic community to the mass media, to the world, to you -- are blithely & sincerely unaware of what they have done. They're as innocent as a busy-fingered blind man in a nudist colony. They don't see hunger, hip brutality, rape, gangbangs, gonorrhea, syphillis, theft, hunger, filth. They walk in their own beauty down Haight Street & if they see the shit at all, they deplore it & say that Somebody should do something about it. Sometimes they complain about shoplifting.

They do not realize that they & Uncle Timothy have lured an army of children into a ghastly trap from which there is no visible escape. They do not see that they are destroying a whole generation of American youth.

And why should they? They are what they are: businessmen, salesmen, money counters. They see what businessmen see: business. Once you don't have any more money to spend in their plastic paisley shoppes, they stop seeing you. You become invisible.

That is, they're really good people in their way, but they have their limitations. $$$$$$$$$$$. That's as far as they go.

They're suspiciously careful never to go any farther, but I still think they're basically good people. No, make that nice people.

Adolf Eichmann was a nice person, too.

If it hasn't happened to you yet, & you want to see what the psychedelic utopia is like, go up to 1350 Waller & sit in the diggers' office for a few hours. Listen to the stories. Look at the casualties. If you dare.

The HIP Merchants have lured a million children here recklessly & irresponsibly, & now that the children are arriving, more & more every day, the HIP Merchants are maintaining their irresponsibility with an iron-clad firmness that borders on criminal insanity.

Only the despised diggers are acting in anything like a responsible manner in this growing tragedy the merchants have imposed upon us, & you know what the merchants think about the diggers. When one of the diggers, exhausted as early as last February, asked the merchants to help feed & house the millions they've lured here, the holy merchants accused him of threatening to bomb their sacred stores. (This is the only full-scale lie I've caught them in -- I was there & heard what was really said -- but this is such a skillful one (it got in all the papers, underground & straight, in record time) that I'm sure they practiced beforehand.)

The closest the merchants have come to coping with the problem of the summer that is already upon us is a beautiful thing called The Kiva, which may open by September if at all, & which only deals with the merchants' problems.

Why have none of the merchants undertaken to pay the rent on a pad where the dropouts they've seduced can crash? Why have none of the merchants volunteered to feed their victims? Why is it left to the penniless diggers to do this?

The Oracle, I admit, has done something to ease life on Haight Street: it's hired street kids to peddle the paper. Having with brilliant graphics & sophomoric prose urged millions of kids to Drop Out of school & jobs, it now offers its drop outs menial jobs. That's hypocritical & shitty, but it's something. It means that a few dozen kids who can meet The Oracle's requirements can avert starvation whenever The Oracle comes out. Groovy.

And why hasn't the man who really did it to us done something about the problem he has created? Why doesn't Doctor Timothy Leary help the diggers? He's now hard at work on yet another touring Psychedelic Circus at $3.50 a head, presumably to raise enough cash to keep himself out of jail, and there isn't even a rumor that he's contributed any of the fortune he made with the last circus toward alleviating the misery of the psychedelphia he created.

Tune in, turn on, drop dead? One wonders.

Are Leary & Alpert & Tsve & The Oracle all in the same greedy place? Does acid still have to be sold as hard as Madison Avenue still sells sex? What do those Nice People really mean by "Love"?

Yes, one certainly does wonder.

Meanwhile the diggers (who have their faults, as those hours in the office will show you) hardly ever talk about love. It's a word you'll hardly ever hear at the free store. They're too busy doing it to talk about it.

"Diggers are what diggers do." But not just diggers. People are what people do. By this standard, the HIP supersalesmen are fit to have lunch with the president.

Are you aware that Haight Street is just as bad as the squares say it is? Have you heard of the killings we've had on Haight Street? Have you seen the kids who've been beaten up? Have you seen dozens of hippies watching passively while some burley square beats another hippy to a psychedelic red pulp? Have you walked down Haight Street at dawn & seen & talked with the survivors?

The trouble is probably that the HIP shopkeepers have believed their own bullshit lies. They believe that acid is the answer & neither know nor care what the question is. They think dope is the easy road to God.

"Have you ever been raped?" they say. "Take acid & everything'll be groovy."

"Are you ill? Take acid & find inner health.

"Are you cold, sleeping in doorways at night? Take acid & discover your own inner warmth.

"Are you hungry? Take acid & transcend those mundane needs.

"You can't afford acid? Pardon me, I think I hear somebody calling me."

I don't know what they'd say to the little girl who got gang-banged. They might not even believe it, since it's a part of their religious creed that acid makes everybody automatically BeAuTiFuL, & therefore nobody would do that to a little girl. They might (as The Examiner certainly would) say that since the little girl had the clap before she was gangbanged, it's obvious that she wasn't gangbanged at all, but went through the whole ghastly business willingly, as if that made a real difference.

They would never believe that they are guilty of monstrous crimes against humanity. They won't believe it after they read (& noisily complain about) this paper. They won't believe it this summer, when the Street reeks of human agony, despair & death death death. If they were brought to court for their crimes, they'd be dragged to the gallows screaming perfect innocence.

The only man among them who'd believe it is Bill Graham, & only because he simply does not care.

Look: the psychedelic merchants are shit. Low grade deliquescent turds. Criminals. Murderers. Honorable thieves. They are The System, playing The System's games in The System's way, & they don't give a flaccid fuck about you or me or any of their sheep. They're interested in themselves, money & each other, in that order, and in absolutely nothing else. They have shirked every responsibility they've taken on. If there were anything like justice in this country, they'd be in heavy trouble, but there's no such thing, so forget them. Do unto them as they are doing unto you.

Until they start doing something more constructive than selling beads & mandalas, they deserve from you neither respect nor honor nor honesty. Fuck 'em. Hard.

And that goes for Uncle Tim, too, who turned you on & dropped you into this pit.

Love, by all mean, but love People, not money, not those warped creatures who only love money themselves.

And if you want to see (& feel & touch & smell & taste & know) what love there actually is in this so-called community, go to the diggers, who aren't as pretty or as clean as the merchants, but who are Real Men, not plastic flowers, & who can love & be loved like Real Men, & who think you're something more than an easy source of fast bucks.

For all of their messy imperfections, the diggers are the only human beings in the psychedelic ghetto. They're the only people here who aren't out to pick your pockets. They're the only people here who aren't so full of moldy bullshit that they have to wear perfume to mask the stench. The diggers & the Radha Krishna Temple, & the diggers don't even require you to believe in anything.

The merchants are going to scream at me for saying all this. They're going to come storming up my stairs yelling all manner of unlovely words, threatening all kinds of loveless threats, being totally upset & shooting off in all directions. Fuck 'em. If they want to talk to me, here's what they'll have to say:

* If Timothy Leary contributes a few grand to the diggers (who else is there?) to open & maintain pads for psychedelic indigents, I'll agree that maybe Timothy Leary isn't full of shit after all.

* If The Oracle ploughs less of its money back into the paper & more of it into the welfare of the kids on the Street, I'll grant the possibility that The Oracle may be something more that a poorly editied, sleazy, opportunistic rag.

* If any HIP merchant spends any appreciable amount of the wealth he's coining off of you to alleviate the problems he's seduced you into, I'll admit that that particular merchant may well be a human being instead of prettified monster of moneylust, unworthy of any man's respect.

* If the Council for a Summer of Love performs acts of love instead of polishing the Hippy Image & persuading The System that hippies are solid, hard-spending consumers like everybody else, I'll concede that the Council is not the cheap commercial scam it currently seems to be.

* If anyone but the diggers undertakes to feed the hungry, comfort the sick, shelter the homeless, clothe the naked & restore some measure of human dignity to Uncle Tim's children, I'll be very much surprised.

* If any of these mercantile phonies proves me wrong, I'll apologize in print in the grandest style imaginable.

But I don't really expect to have to. The hucksters will find it easier to denounce me than to correct themselves, & that, oh my brothers, is exactly what they'll do. But at least we all know now exactly where they're at. Remember that.

Chester Anderson

[I Ching hexagram #18:]
Work On What Has Been Spoiled (decay]

printed possibly too late by the communication company (u.p.s.)

[CC032: about time we started doin' ...]

about time we started doin' our own livin' and dyin'

And so, six months ago you watched two guys bring a milk can full of turkey stew into the panhandle and start the diggers. two weeks later free food in the panhandle at four o'clock was advertised in the berkeley barb and it never missed a day.

somebody asked: Why free food?

and anyone answered: free clothes.

the first free store opened in a six car garage on page street and it was small and the crowd knew each other and someone had written winstanley on the door and then the rains came and the roof fell in, and the landlord was harassed by the police and said please ... and someone said it was nice while it lasted.

and the diggers grew.

at 520 frederick street the second free store formed. and everything was regular again. free food all time.

lieutenant korelac headed a panty raid on the joint charging one of the two guys with maintaining and operating an opium den. and the place folded with hot dog bike trash trying to show somebody their cocks.

1775 became the second wave greta garbo and things happened lke birthdays in the street, benefits for the diggers were thrown all over the place with no admission, cover, or any charge, and free food was back in the park.

soon a pipsqueak prelate offered the diggers his church ladies' kitchen, and an office and all sorts of help.

and the two guys and the friends they had made sort of faded.

the diggers changed hands and money suddenly became a necessity. 1775 needed rent monty. people needed bail money. lawyer money. sound equipment money. gas money. and the diggers took donations. let's buy armenian hall! let's buy a bus! let's buy property somewhere. and free food got plenty scarce.

newspapers ran articles on the diggers and their mythical hero hogan and the stage got a little bigger.

a new breed slipped in and sat in the office getting sixteen dollar rewards for runaways, cashing 175$ checks into their personal bank accounts, and didn't do a fucking thing for nobody! ever! factions grew: turner was going to have tobacco killed and apache wanted to confront the cops and nobody cared anymore. somebody quietly opened a trip without a ticket on cole street and someone else put the page street back together as a children's arts and crafts workshop and the street filled to a bulge and sunday dance concerts in the park are getting to be a drag. 1775 is now a closed shop complete with tenure and seniority. 848 was abandoned to the selfishness of sidewalk bike riders. and free food hasn't been around for a long time.

jackson king of ksol announces that chester anderson lays down techniques of surviving the haight scene without becoming a casualty ... the chronicle still calls the people the love generation. well love is a slop-bucket and we are the children of awareness but our courage has yet to manifest itself within our floating community ... we put down the merchants, the bullshitters, the hustlers and we sit around and it's all the same and there's nothing new under the sun and free food seems a long time gone becauuse we're playing the game of the 1930's we're the new cry babies and james dean's tears have finally taken root in a shallow weak kneed series of cabals which expect someone to take care of their livin'. some revolution

[signed] X

printed 4/20/67 by the communication company (ups)

[CC031: Gurus Wizards Teachers]

Gurus Wizards Teachers

The kids are coming. The kids are here. Make yourselves available to the kids. Seek them out. Talk to them. Go where they are and teach/love. Now -- these thousands of kids -- is your chance to create the world as you know it should be. These kids are the future. Here and now. Please, do not wait for the future to seek you out. Go now to the kids now and teach now The Way. Now.

The kids are on the streets, in the coffee houses, at The Trip Without a Ticket, The Psychedelic Shop, The Print Mint, Tracey's, the digger office, Haight/Ashbury everywhere. If you wait to get organized, they'll be gone. Find a kid and talk to him on your own, unled, unorganized. The future is now. Dot it now.

the communication company (u.p.s.) 4/17/67

[Image of I Ching hexagram at top of page.]

[CC033: The News Before It Happens]

a c.c. flash

Last January I asked the I Ching to comment on the subject: "This summer & the revolution." Five minutes ago, without knowing what I'd done (since I don't talk about my readings very much), Claude did exactly the same thing. "This summer & the revolution." Both times -- last January & just now -- the Oracle gave the same reading. This in itself is sufficiently interesting to share with the street.

[Diagram of I Ching hexagram #64]

The Judgement. Before Completion. Success. But if the little fox, after nearly completing the crossing, gets his tail in the water, there is nothing that would further.
The Image. Fire over water: the image of the condition before transition. Thus the superior man is careful in the differentiating of things so that each finds its place.
The Lines. Six at the beginning means: He gets his tail in the water. Humiliating.
Six in the third place means: Before completion, attack brings misfortune. It furthers one to cross the great water.
Six in the fifth place means: Perseverance brings good fortune. No remorse. The light of the superior man is true. Good fortune.

which leads to

The Judgement. The Creative works sublime success, furthering through perseverance.
The Image. The movement of heaven is full of power. Thus the superior man makes himself strong & untiring.

This is the reading that, last January, underlay the forming of the communications company, has informed the company's deeds since then, & has come forth again like a blessing from the Ching. We are publishing it to the street because the mere coincidence is groovey, because it marks a magic anniversary for us, and to advise & encourage our brethren on the trip.

Be advised. Keep your tale above water. The above is how we mean to meet the summer. Light above the abyss in the movement of heaven, spring moving to summer, to the children of the Solstice. Be advised.


printed in awe by the communication company (ups) be ye therefore joyful be advised

[CC036: Saturday -- April 29 -- Santa Fe, N. Mexico]

The Hopi counselors had come to the home of a son to listen to Dick Alpert, PhD, the I Am Church, and peyote sectarian hippies advise them of the benefits of a Be-In this June at the Grand Canyon.

Alpert, PhD, explained that the national publicity of such an event would certainly reveal to the public the injustices of reservation life and give way to redress at the hands of the Federal Gov't. He referred to the prophecy of the Hopi which states that the sons of the white-evil-man will be brothers to the Indian. He called for spiritual unity among brothers and spoke of 10-20,000 warm bodies soaking up the magic sun of Arizona.

Ginsberg recalled 'The Gathering of the Tribes' in S.F. and how colorful -- how perfect -- how warm and full of love -- but cautioned the fact that many were stoned and a few were zonked.

Thomas, interpreter for the Hopi People of the Third Mesa, said no. No, because you mean well, but you are foolish. You are foolish because you don't think of the Indian. -- We are a small people -- You fathers crush us -- You are a tribe of strangers to yourselves -- You gather and you disperse -- You are not together -- You are not one with each other. -- There is no need for us to invite brothers to our home -- There is no need to advertise in all underground papers of a Be-In in Hopi Land -- There is no need to organize the discovery of one's self into a false tribe of 15,000 seekers. If you want to come to Hopi Land you will. If you want to understand the Indian way you will come to us and be silent and watch with closed eyes and we will not have to invite you nor will you have to invite each other -- it will be.

Larry Bird spoke of the hunt and how the hunter is the target. He said it was a time of coming together with oneself as nature is adjusting to the unnatural acts of money man. You cannot look beyond yourself and not see nothing. (Besides the temperatures in the Canyon are 120 degrees throughout the summer and there is no water and the Arizona cops are already arresting 150 hitch-hikers a week and slamming them into small town jails forever.)

Princess Morning Star (spokeswoman through descent of small L.A. tribe) spoke of the Omnibus Bill, whose author is anonymous, and how it will go through Congress and, finally, terminate the land rights of all Indians on and off reservations. She asked for help -- help from those who pay taxes and vote and whose fathers have made the laws to negate nature and the timelessness of time. And then she gave Larry Bird three eagle feathers from her headpiece and said her heart felt that he would help his people like few others. Larry Bird said nothing.

Grogan talked from his youth and sought awareness -- He questioned the motives for a Be-In at Hopi Land. No, we have a community. We have many communities. And these have grown out of a natural explosion -- Now we must follow the organic steps toward our own development as a tribe.

At this point some of us are fed up with cities and the psychology of the streets -- We are hungry for our own rituals and lines of life. But there is no need, on behalf of the people, to organize a Be-In, publicize a Be-In, construct a Be-In -- Let the Oracle and EVO and the ad-men keep that artificial symbol of solidarity to themselves.

The young people of this world who are ready will feel it beautiful to leave the cities this summer and go to Hopi Land and other Indian communities and no one will have to tell anyone anything -- They will go because it is time for them to go. And some of them will homestead land in Idaho or New Mexico and we will never hear of them until they want us to. The great Be-In/Pow-Wow in San Francisco was a shuck! It was as empty as the news copy it engendered. It was removed from the people and organized by merchants. It was a mere celebration of figures who have chosen to be our leaders and a glorification of their stage hands. Only the people can do it -- only the people will do it. On June 21 -- Summer Solstice -- the people are going to celebrate their lives in the community of San Francisco. The people will develop their own rituals -- they will learn that a street has brothers and a city has tribes. The people will look to no one but themselves. They will build their courage and leave Be-Ins to the college students, ad men, and news media. They will look to their brothers not men who claim to be their leaders. And they will never tell anyone what they saw.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The Hopi, Larry Bird, Ginsberg and Grogan left. And a little while later -- Alpert, PhD, and his friends (all of whom either own or work in tourist shops in New Mexico) decided to have a Be-In anyway. On June 21 at Raton Pass near Taos, N.M.. They they smiled at each other and began wording invitations to rock groups and press-releases to the media and Alpert, PhD, talked about his trip to India -- he leaves June 15.

[Signed with Running Man symbol:]

straight (5/9/67) communication company (ups) be advised


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