My most Memorable Story with Herbert Huncke
By Stephen Bornstein
Herbert
Huncke, legendary, almost mythic icon of the Beat Generation appears as
an important character in Jack Kerouac’s Beat Generational masterpiece
“On the Road”. Kerouac actually credited Huncke, in his writing and
filmed interviews, with creating the term “Beat”. He was actually a
Times Square hustler in the years right before WWII, when he met William
Burroughs and quickly got him addicted to heroin. He’s the main
character in Burrough's first book “Junkie”. It was the combination of
Burroughs, the Ivy League educated son of a wealthy family, and Huncke,
underworld drug addict street wise hustler that created the Beat
Generation. Young and impressionable students like Allen Ginsberg and
Jack Kerouac were intellectually drawn to the weird couple while
Columbia University students in the years during World War II.
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| Herbert Huncke, Allen Ginsberg approx. 1955 |
I first met Huncke in October 1964 at Debbie Black’s apartment on East fifth street on the lower East Side. I also met another major influence in my early youth at the same time, Jerry and Ellen Jofen, who were also there at Debbie’s California style decorated, first floor, rail road flat. Ellen and I are still friends to this day, 2022. We speak often. Huncke and I hit it off immediately. I was 16 and Huncke almost 50. He loved an attentive audience.
What a serendipitous coincidence!
I discovered that my own most vivid and fondest memory of Huncke was the same one that he chose to tell in a video taped interview given in 1994 shortly before his death.
This is my recollection of the actual events and then Huncke’s version in his own words follows.
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| Huncke as he looked when I first met him in Oct. 1964 |
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| Allen Ginsberg, Stephen Bornstein, Peter Orlofsky, Nov. 1965 |
The
following incident began in December 1964. Huncke’s regular method of
living for decades was basically as a “live in guest “ or “couch
surfing“ in current vernacular. He would typically stay several days, a
couple of weeks, a month, maybe even a month and a half before his
welcome would run into what had become a rejecting host. He would move
from apartment to apartment offering his hosts easy access to drugs,
leaving several with a serious addiction.
After a few months staying away most people would usually feel sorry for him or want the benefits of his companionship for its constant access to heavy drugs. Then the whole cycle would start again.
For the occasion of his upcoming 50th birthday, Allen who had known Huncke for 20 years, decided to set him up in his own apartment. Hopefully, breaking his ongoing cycle.
Setting him up was more a hands-on procedure then simply writing a check. He found Huncke a nice one bedroom apartment in a walk up tenement on the Lower East Side’s East 9th street. I remember accompanying Allen to set up Huncke’s gas and electric account and Allen then helping Huncke furnish it very rudimentary with some of his own furniture and Goodwill. Not a lot was needed. Huncke was ecstatic, a rare emotional display for the normally nihilistic Huncke.
After a few months staying away most people would usually feel sorry for him or want the benefits of his companionship for its constant access to heavy drugs. Then the whole cycle would start again.
For the occasion of his upcoming 50th birthday, Allen who had known Huncke for 20 years, decided to set him up in his own apartment. Hopefully, breaking his ongoing cycle.
Setting him up was more a hands-on procedure then simply writing a check. He found Huncke a nice one bedroom apartment in a walk up tenement on the Lower East Side’s East 9th street. I remember accompanying Allen to set up Huncke’s gas and electric account and Allen then helping Huncke furnish it very rudimentary with some of his own furniture and Goodwill. Not a lot was needed. Huncke was ecstatic, a rare emotional display for the normally nihilistic Huncke.
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| Huncke's place on E.9th Street between Avenues A and B. |
His
50th birthday was just about to occur in January 1965 and this was his
first place he had in decades. He decided to host a get together for
himself, a birthday party.
I remember looking forward to attending with Allen. About fifteen of Huncke’s friends showed up and kind of moved in. It was really expected. Huncke himself had been the beneficiary of this ubiquitous 1960’s Lower East Side housing practice.
I remember looking forward to attending with Allen. About fifteen of Huncke’s friends showed up and kind of moved in. It was really expected. Huncke himself had been the beneficiary of this ubiquitous 1960’s Lower East Side housing practice.
Among this band of gypsies was a character named George. He was everybody’s worst nightmare. He could’ve just met you, and he shows up at your house a few hours later, barges his way in and ends up staying for a week and a half either destroying your place or setting it on fire. He was everybody’s nemesis.
He was primarily a heavy amphetamine user, meaning he never slept. He was always making pagan totems and incoherent incantations over his amphetamine solution. He carried with him several flutes and recorders and you could hear him coming from a block away. Even just hearing him playing on the street below your window could create a feeling of terror.
George was understandably there. Still in relatively good spirits. I made eye contact, that was enough for me. The less George knew me the better.
Allen stayed a few minutes. This wasn’t really his group and he soon bid farewell and unceremoniously left. I figured I would stay for a while and then head back to my own recently acquired apartment.
Huncke, in a particularly good mood, got everybody really high on heroin, he and George particularly. Almost predictably a long-running confrontation resurfaced. George produced a short green 18 inch machete, the kind sold as a survival tool in most army-navy stores. It came to a point and both sides of the blade were sharpened.
George backs Huncke up against the front door and holds the machete just under his chin. They both were so high they started to nod off as is common among heroin users. They would end up sliding down to almost their knees before they realized what they were doing and then pop back up again and nod right down again.
I hadn’t partaken in any drugs other than a little marijuana, so I was observing this whole thing going on for at least 10 to 15 minutes. It finally got ugly when Huncke slumped to the floor unable to get up unattended. I decide the prudent thing would be to take him to my very first, own apartment, as well-meaning friends had done for me several times over the years.
Let me tell you a little bit about my very first apartment. It was on the top floor of a six story walk up, in a practically abandoned tenement on E. 5th St. between Avenues C & D. Avenue D was where the projects were and that was a no man’s land for non Puerto Rican’s.
What made this apartment really exceptional was that it was right behind Allen’s. It had been given to me by a friendly girl who left for Rio de Janeiro. The building was abandoned by the landlord due to multiple violations, and was now owned by the city. My apartment had so many violations that the rent was the minimum the city could charge, one dollar a month. It was in the rear of the building and the only inhabited back apartment on all six floors.
The living room was basically uninhabitable in the winter months, the wind would come right in through spaces in the window frame, which I had stuffed with newspaper trying to prevent it from entering. I heated the apartment with the stove and slept on the floor in a little back bedroom, the farthest from the windows. I had a sleeping mat like those in India and posters of Hindu deities that Allen had brought back from India. I still have one of those posters in my 2022 studio. The kitchen had a bathtub in the middle, and the practically antique water closet (toilet) was actually in the hall by the staircase.
Other than Allen, Peter and a young women named Ann, who lived in the other front apartment, nobody had yet visited me. I was kind of excited to be able to be a gracious host. I managed to drag a really high Huncke, at two in the morning, all the way back to my place, stumbling all the way and then getting him up six flights of stairs. I put him on my bed mat and stretched out next to him on the floor and we both quickly fell asleep.
Early the next morning Huncke wakes up moaning, telling me he’s dying. My own father had died in front of me only eight years earlier at the age of 51. Here is Huncke, now 50, telling me he’s dying. You can imagine that I took it very seriously.
I ran down the hall to Allen’s apartment. He was not there, but Peter Orlofsky was. I frantically tried to communicate the urgency to him telling him that Huncke is in my apartment and dying. He laughs and scuffs it off. He tells me Huncke told him the same thing 20 years ago, not to worry and don’t let it get to me. Needless to say, I felt only mildly comforted. What If he was wrong, would I have to go through another traumatic death alone?
I returned to the apartment , hoping he was right. I made some hot tea and Huncke started to feel a little better. It wouldn’t be until late afternoon that he would feel well enough to try to venture back to his apartment.
His lovely, newly acquired home ended up being completely taken over by George, so Huncke decided to move somewhere else, rather than risk confrontation with him. Within a few days, George had started a fire and there was nothing left of the apartment but a burnt out hulk.
Huncke and I would cross paths many times in the next 30 years. We actually lived together for a couple of months on Allen Ginsberg’s farm in Cherry Valley upstate New York. It’s very well chronicled in Gordon Ball‘s engrossing book, "East Hill Farm".
I last visited with Huncke shortly before his death in June of 1996. He was living in a really small room in the Chelsea hotel. He had been living there for a few years. He gave me a printed broadside with one of his stories. He was practically bedridden. He was 81 years old. He didn’t have one gray hair but he was the same person that I knew as a 16 year old.
In
2020, while exploring YouTube, I discovered a video of Huncke. It’s an
interview he gave at the Nico Cafe, in March of 1994, interviewed by
what I believe were a team of Italian videographers.
What's so amazing to me is that of all the amazing stories of a lifetime he chose to tell, it was the one story that was so meaningful to me.
What's so amazing to me is that of all the amazing stories of a lifetime he chose to tell, it was the one story that was so meaningful to me.
Here is the same story in Huncke’s own words.
Nico Cafe 1994.
From young boy to young man.
High School Years
1962-1965
In
order to place this memorable event in its proper context, we need to
go back a couple of years. Within this time period a series of cascading
events occurred in my life that changed the course for the rest of my
future.
10th grade, 1962-1963
My
sophomore year in high school, had been a difficult transition year for
me. From young boy to young man. I self identified early that year with
the beatnik kids who hung out together on the church steps after
school. We would meet also at each other’s homes and all go to
Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village on the weekends and hang
out at the large circular waterless fountain.
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| Erasmus Hall High School, founded in 1786, the first secondary school chartered in NY State, is where I attended high school. I at once self-identified with the "Beatnik" students. |
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| Flatbush Dutch Reformed Church, 1793. This is where the "Beatnick" kids hung out on the steps after class, |
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| 200 year old Cemetery behind church where the beatnik kids congregated to smoke pot. |
We all read
Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse, The Bhagavad Gita and The Tao. However
after reading Howl by Allen Ginsberg, we mutually decided that the
American dream of our parents, a product consuming middle class, was an
empty, meaningless future. Experiences of life, and acquiring
enlightenment were truly noble aspirations worthy of a lifetime pursuit.
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| Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village in NYC is where I spent much of my weekends all during my sophomore year, 1962-63. |
Folk music became the glue that bound us together. It had meaningful lyrics, that fit in with the various protest movements. It had a simple music that a small group of amateur musicians could strut on a guitar and our young hero, Bob Dylan had a voice that even a tone deaf person like my self could emulate.
One Saturday, after spending the afternoon at Washington square I accompanied several friends to one of their homes in the Lower East Side. It was a Long walk, to a neighborhood I’ve never been. We sat around listening to Joan Baez and Peter Paul and Mary into the early morning. It was long way to the subway through an unfamiliar slum neighborhood. I felt it would be best to wait till morning. When I finally got home, my mother hit the roof. I don’t think I ever saw her that angry. However, for me it was a very empowering experience. One which I would repeat on the weekends for the next few months. Finally, my mother, at wits end, called the police. She tearfully explained she’s a widow and asked for help supervising her son.
Early one weekday
morning, two plain clothes police detectives pick me up at home and take
me to a jail in the Bronx reserved for juvenile offenders. After ten
weeks of incarceration the authorities released me under the supervision
of a well meaning psychiatrist I met there and who grew fond of me.
The whole experience left me somewhat traumatized and served as both a wake up call and a reality check.
I was in real trouble now. I became painfully aware that adulthood is a serious proposition. It was soon clear that I was was going to have to toughen up real quick and leave what up to now had been the frivolity of childhood behind. I needed to quickly catch up in school to pass the yearly regent tests so I could move on to the eleventh grade. I was determined to stay out of jail. I even reconciled with my mother. I returned home to a very delicate situation. However, we now had a professional interceding between me and my mother.
I managed to pass all my tests except for German. I felt overconfident and I hadn’t studied much. The teacher, Frau Marley, refused to accept less than a stellar performance of me in class.
So that meant I had to stay in the city, my first summer that I can remember. The only school in the New York system that had a summer course in german was Washington Irving High School, just a block off Madison Square Park, a short walking distance from Washington Square. I was now able to spend every day there after an hour’s class. After the summer course, there was still a couple weeks before my junior year began. I went for a two week bicycle trip to Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket with the American Youth Hostels.
The whole experience left me somewhat traumatized and served as both a wake up call and a reality check.
I was in real trouble now. I became painfully aware that adulthood is a serious proposition. It was soon clear that I was was going to have to toughen up real quick and leave what up to now had been the frivolity of childhood behind. I needed to quickly catch up in school to pass the yearly regent tests so I could move on to the eleventh grade. I was determined to stay out of jail. I even reconciled with my mother. I returned home to a very delicate situation. However, we now had a professional interceding between me and my mother.
I managed to pass all my tests except for German. I felt overconfident and I hadn’t studied much. The teacher, Frau Marley, refused to accept less than a stellar performance of me in class.
So that meant I had to stay in the city, my first summer that I can remember. The only school in the New York system that had a summer course in german was Washington Irving High School, just a block off Madison Square Park, a short walking distance from Washington Square. I was now able to spend every day there after an hour’s class. After the summer course, there was still a couple weeks before my junior year began. I went for a two week bicycle trip to Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket with the American Youth Hostels.
11th grade 1963-1964
Back
in New York City, I was now ready for my junior year. Erasmus had so
many students it operated on shifts. Juniors started at 7:45 AM, and
finished at 12:45. That gave me the free time to get a job after school.
I started working as a foot messenger on West 47th St. right off 5th Avenue
in the middle of the Diamond district. There were dealers standing all
over the street looking at diamonds in these little manila envelopes,
the same kind that they sold marijuana in. I found it kind of
hysterical.
I loved the job. You got to go to a lot of different offices. A lot of the clients were advertising agencies. Sometimes they would ask me to help them assemble their latest point-of-purchase displays to make sure their printed instructions could be understood by a 15-year-old. I looked forward to possibly working in that field as an adult.
I loved the job. You got to go to a lot of different offices. A lot of the clients were advertising agencies. Sometimes they would ask me to help them assemble their latest point-of-purchase displays to make sure their printed instructions could be understood by a 15-year-old. I looked forward to possibly working in that field as an adult.
One of the things about being a foot messenger allowed, was
smoking pot on the job. I carried a regular tabacco pipe with a foreign
coin that fit perfectly on top. I could slip into a staircase visiting a 50 story
building, lite up a bowl, exhale, and reenter the elevator lobby. One
day, I accidentally let the door close behind me and had to walk down 50
floors to get out of the building. I would carry a little wooden block with me
from then on.
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| 120 Ocean Parkway, my childhood home. In Brooklyn, your apartment building became an extension of your own family. |
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| Our apartment was on the first floor facing the street. my bedroom was the window on the right. When my father was alive, his medical practice were the two windows on the left. |
I continue living at home even though the
relationship with my mother was very difficult. My psychiatrist
described it more like a bad marriage then a mother and son.
It kind of came to a head in the early spring of 1964 when I got arrested as an adult in my high school for possessing two cigarettes of marijuana. Someone had given me up to the dean of students in order to save his own ass. I spent a awful night in the Flatbush precinct jail and was then allowed out on pledge from my psychiatrist.
This arrest complicated the existing issues completely. The bottom line found me remanded to a boys’ residence home in the middle of the Lower East Side. It was literally going from the proverbial “frying pan into the fire”
It kind of came to a head in the early spring of 1964 when I got arrested as an adult in my high school for possessing two cigarettes of marijuana. Someone had given me up to the dean of students in order to save his own ass. I spent a awful night in the Flatbush precinct jail and was then allowed out on pledge from my psychiatrist.
This arrest complicated the existing issues completely. The bottom line found me remanded to a boys’ residence home in the middle of the Lower East Side. It was literally going from the proverbial “frying pan into the fire”
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| Being remanded to The Stuyvesant Residence for Boys, on St Marks Pl. in the Lower East Side was like going from the “frying pan into the fire”. |
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| The Lower East Side in 1964 was a very unforgiving place. Compared to the West Village it was a true "Ghetto" neighborhood. |
By summer of 1964, I
must’ve been viewed as being responsible enough to send me on a
partially supervised bicycle tour of Europe. I was both excited and
apprehensive. I would be on my own for six weeks, completely alone on a
different continent without any supervision. My supportive psychiatrist
felt it would be the best thing to help me develop better cognitive
thinking. He reasoned, that once on my own, far from any support system,
I would be forced to become a more responsible adult.
Summer European trip.
July-August 1964
After
convincing my psychiatrist and probation officer that I was able to
travel partially unaccompanied to Europe for the summer of 1964 I
started planning my trip. It was initially an American youth hostel
sponsored trip. This turned into an eight week Life altering adventure.
Originally, it was to be supervised for two weeks and then the rest of the six weeks were for “independent travel”. However, upon arrival in rainy, dreary England, and after a unique six day, constant party crossing of the Atlantic, I was excited to hit the continent. The ocean voyage was on the SS Auorela, a weather worn student ship, where we slept in bunk beds, six to a windowless cabin. Most people stayed high most of the time on the cheap beers. Sexual energy between the coed passengers was rampant. After that crossing, it’s understandable why our group of 12 decided to split up and go it alone.
Originally, it was to be supervised for two weeks and then the rest of the six weeks were for “independent travel”. However, upon arrival in rainy, dreary England, and after a unique six day, constant party crossing of the Atlantic, I was excited to hit the continent. The ocean voyage was on the SS Auorela, a weather worn student ship, where we slept in bunk beds, six to a windowless cabin. Most people stayed high most of the time on the cheap beers. Sexual energy between the coed passengers was rampant. After that crossing, it’s understandable why our group of 12 decided to split up and go it alone.
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| Photo from 1964 passport for trip to Europe. |
After two
days in rainy London, I made a beeline for the continent. I spoke
conversational German from growing up and speaking it with my parents
and taking it for two years in high school. My accent is what usually
gave my Jewishness away. I had a German accent of somebody who had
spoken It from birth. With My dark hair and dark eyes and non-German
features, it was pretty obvious I was the young son of German Jewish
refugees. I was eager to put my situation to a test and take full
advantage of playing a young, insolent American and the ghost of many a
dead returning German Jew. I hitch hiked easily across the entire
continent, where students regularly traveled that way. A small flag of
your origin would sometimes help, depending on each country. I
crisscrossed Europe from Berlin to Amsterdam, Stockholm to Rome, staying
mostly at youth hostels and inexpensive hotels and on occasion crashing
with “bohemians” (that’s how they called them in Europe) that I met in
the various cities.
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| Passport page with 1964 visa entries to East Germany. |
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| Sketches from a 1964 European journal. Brandenburg Gate with view towards west from East Berlin. |
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| Bombed out Reichstag building in 1964. Where I was hanging about when I was pulled over by military police on a green motorcycle. I told him I was an artist, showed this sketch and he grudgingly let me go. |
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| A piece of art I created for a German friend. Entitled “life in the fourth “. Meaning life in the fourth Reich. It shows my sketch of the Reichstag and my passport photo visa entries into East Berlin. |
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| Reichstag today with distinctive glass dome. |
In those days it was unusual for a 16 year
old to be traveling alone and I received a lot of curious attention. I
spent a week in East Berlin traveling back-and-forth to the west on a
daily basis. I even camped out in the old bombed out Reichstag. I did a
memorable pen & ink drawing, and when I was caught later that day by
an angry policeman for hanging out in ruins, I told him I was an
artist, showed him the drawings and he grudgingly let me go. I finally
ended up in Paris just a few hours from La Herve and fully prepared for
the return voyage with small amount of prized Moroccan hash.
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| European 1964 journal, The Roman Senate ruins. |
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| Sketches from a 1964 European journal. Paris River bank of seines |
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| Sketches from a 1964 European journal. Chair and Stove in Amsterdam. |
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| Sketch in Sweden. |
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| From a 1964 European journal. Actual hitchhiking sign used to expedite a ride when leaving Berlin. |
While
in Paris I made friends with Fernando Vega, a Peruvian, Jewish artist
who was married to Janine Pommer Vega, who coincidentally was Peter
Orlofsky’s ex-girlfriend. Traveling with Fernando was a young American
girl named Stellar Levy, who I would run into again a year later in San
Francisco on the steps of City Lights bookstore. By that time she had
become Peter‘s girlfriend.
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| M/S Aurelia, the student ship that I traveled to and back from Europe in the summer of 1964. An ex-German WWII submarine tender, the trip was one wild trip both ways. |
The return voyage was on the same
rowdy, party time student ship. The voyage back was an experience to
remember, sleeping six people to a room and going through extremely
rough seas on a relatively small ship.
12th Grade, Senior Year, September, 1964
I
returned to NYC in the early Fall, all ready to start my senior year in
high school, and go back to living at The Stuyvesant Residence Home for
Boys on Saint Marks Place on the lower East Side.
About a week
after I get back a close friend Raymond invites me over to a friend of
his’ house in Brooklyn. The friend’s name is Nick Sand, who went on to
become one of the leading producers of LSD in the United States and
perhaps the world. But in the fall of 1964, Nick, who had been studying
chemistry at Brooklyn College, had just been able to synthesize DMT
(dimethyltryptamine), a powerful but very short acting psychedelic. The
entire experience lasted less than half an hour. At this early stage of
his ability, the DMT needed to be injected intramuscular, it would be
several months before he would develop a smokeable form.
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| Nick Sand as he appeared when I met him in 1964 as a young chemiistry student in Brooklyn College. He went on to become one of the major LSD producer prehaps in the entire world. |
Trailer of full length film about Nick Sand.
Taking
DMT was a life-changing experience. I still remember it clearly to this
day more then 50 years later. Not only was I one of the first people in
the United States to try it, but I also had access to it through another
close friend that Nick had delegated to be his outlet. These were my
Brooklyn friends, and nobody in Manhattan knew about it yet. This put me
in quite a unique position among the drug taking denizens of the Lower
East Side. Everyone I told about it listened with amazement and
their eyes literally wide open. Even people 30 years older than me all
of a sudden thought I had some special knowledge.
Shortly afterwards I was introduced to a free love commune called Kerista. Interestingly, it was my association with this group that in 2020, brought me to the attention of Hamilton College, which had been keeping a record of Kerista as part of their studies into New York State communes.
Shortly afterwards I was introduced to a free love commune called Kerista. Interestingly, it was my association with this group that in 2020, brought me to the attention of Hamilton College, which had been keeping a record of Kerista as part of their studies into New York State communes.
The leader
of Kerista was a fellow named Judd, (John Presmont/Bro Jud) approximately 40 years old, a large
6 foot +, 300 pound bearded self-proclaimed founder of a new
religion. It had the feeling of a cult. The youth counterculture that I
felt a member of, had been preaching for years distrust of our elders. I
eagerly listened, but from the beginning also felt an unease. When he
asked me to get undressed and join them sitting on the bed, at first I
was apprehensive, but his nonjudgmental answer made me change my mind.
The group lived spread out in three different apartments located throughout the Lower East side. One of the residences included a storefront on Attorney Street from where they disseminated their group’s message. I had my first true sexual experience while hanging out at Kerista. It was with what became a lifelong friend named Rosebud.
The group lived spread out in three different apartments located throughout the Lower East side. One of the residences included a storefront on Attorney Street from where they disseminated their group’s message. I had my first true sexual experience while hanging out at Kerista. It was with what became a lifelong friend named Rosebud.
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| Dearest Rosebud, may she rest in peace, Discussing the late Barbara Rubin at a screening of Barbara's film in 2013, shortly before her own death. Full video below. |
When I first
met Judd, he was naked, next to his wife, named Joy, a thirtyish black women with very short cropped hair, and at least 2
others, all naked on a large mattress. I was impressed and graciously
offered to share some rare Moroccan hashish that I had just brought back
from Europe. Judd invited me to take off my clothes and join them while
we all smoked. Needless to say, I became immediately very interested in
their group.
When I subsequently told members of the group about the DMT experience, several of them decided on the spot to travel all the way to Brooklyn (something very unusual for anyone “Beat”
was to leave the confines of the Lower East Side) with me to pick up the newly created psychedelic. Amazingly, they even had access to an old four door Volvo!! I was really impressed. No one I knew had a car.
My Brooklyn DMT connection was a slightly older classmate from Erasmus High School. He was close friends with Nicky Sands and served as his retail representative. This friend was the most authentic “beatnik” in our group. He had his own groovy place and was married to a very quiet, and pensive, authentically “beatnik” chick.
He himself, was a very interesting character, the nephew of a notorious mafia enforcer for the main Brooklyn crime family. Needless to say, it made him a rather ultra suspicious individual.
So there, I show up with five, much older freaks from the city and a three year old child. The Kerista influenced toddler picks up a microphone and proudly announces that “This is to fuck with”. I tried unsuccessfully to laugh and make it seem funny. The whole scene was rather uncomfortable to say the least. However, although costly, we did get the coveted, and at that time, probably only DMT in America and were soon on our way back to Manhattan. My classmate although, remained angry with me for a year.
DMT had a profound effect on anybody who took it. I would run into it again in California a year later, when large amounts were supposedly stolen from the California National Guard Armory, where it had reportedly been weaponized for crowd control. I now doubt this was really true, but it made an intriguing and fascinating story at the time.
We all five traveled back to Manhattan to one of the apartments referred to as the “Temple”. Two couples lived there. One fellow named Brian from California was a very competent painter of Egyptian hieroglyphics. He had painted almost all the walls of the apartment to look like an Egyptian tomb. It was very impressive. The other very dark haired couple were very serious practitioners of various magical theories. One, named Steve, called himself a warlock, while the other, Deidre, called herself a witch. They both frightened me a little.
One bedroom had no hieroglyphs at all and was painted all red with a black floor and ceiling. The only furniture were two mattresses and the bare lightbulb above, that's where we all took the DMT. Some of them even injected it intravenously. After we all tripped together, it was only logical that I was immediately accepted as a potential future member of Kerista.
When I subsequently told members of the group about the DMT experience, several of them decided on the spot to travel all the way to Brooklyn (something very unusual for anyone “Beat”
was to leave the confines of the Lower East Side) with me to pick up the newly created psychedelic. Amazingly, they even had access to an old four door Volvo!! I was really impressed. No one I knew had a car.
My Brooklyn DMT connection was a slightly older classmate from Erasmus High School. He was close friends with Nicky Sands and served as his retail representative. This friend was the most authentic “beatnik” in our group. He had his own groovy place and was married to a very quiet, and pensive, authentically “beatnik” chick.
He himself, was a very interesting character, the nephew of a notorious mafia enforcer for the main Brooklyn crime family. Needless to say, it made him a rather ultra suspicious individual.
So there, I show up with five, much older freaks from the city and a three year old child. The Kerista influenced toddler picks up a microphone and proudly announces that “This is to fuck with”. I tried unsuccessfully to laugh and make it seem funny. The whole scene was rather uncomfortable to say the least. However, although costly, we did get the coveted, and at that time, probably only DMT in America and were soon on our way back to Manhattan. My classmate although, remained angry with me for a year.
DMT had a profound effect on anybody who took it. I would run into it again in California a year later, when large amounts were supposedly stolen from the California National Guard Armory, where it had reportedly been weaponized for crowd control. I now doubt this was really true, but it made an intriguing and fascinating story at the time.
We all five traveled back to Manhattan to one of the apartments referred to as the “Temple”. Two couples lived there. One fellow named Brian from California was a very competent painter of Egyptian hieroglyphics. He had painted almost all the walls of the apartment to look like an Egyptian tomb. It was very impressive. The other very dark haired couple were very serious practitioners of various magical theories. One, named Steve, called himself a warlock, while the other, Deidre, called herself a witch. They both frightened me a little.
One bedroom had no hieroglyphs at all and was painted all red with a black floor and ceiling. The only furniture were two mattresses and the bare lightbulb above, that's where we all took the DMT. Some of them even injected it intravenously. After we all tripped together, it was only logical that I was immediately accepted as a potential future member of Kerista.
They had an elaborately planned scheme financed by a young
heiress who was also one of the members. Their plan was to move
to Dominique, the most isolated island in the Caribbean and there found a
new religion and a new society based on one of Judd’s auditory
hallucination. I wasn’t so sure about the whole story, but there was a
very pretty girl named Rosebud who was an off and on part of the
entourage. I was very attracted to her, a dark haired, light skinned
Dominican beauty. I tried to make sure I was there whenever she was. At
the time, I was living at the Stuyvesant Residence for Boys only a few
blocks away, so Kerista became a convenient place to hang out and I even
did my homework there.
After a week hanging out at Kerista, I was finally able to get Rosebud in bed one afternoon and consummated my first sexual experience. My virginity, by then had become an unwelcome burden.
After a week hanging out at Kerista, I was finally able to get Rosebud in bed one afternoon and consummated my first sexual experience. My virginity, by then had become an unwelcome burden.
I was living at the boys residence home, traveling by subway every morning to Erasmus, a 6,000 student high school in Brooklyn. The day began for seniors at 7:45am. School was over at 12:45pm, which gave me a cance to hop on the train and go to work in Manhattan for three hours a day.
When I returned from Europe, I got a new after school job through my my mother actually, from a friend of the family. It was a much coveted job, moving clothing racks between the factories and the showrooms through the crowded streets of the then always busy New York City fashion manufacturing district.
The two years before I had worked as a foot messenger in Midtown Manhattan, but this job paid a little more. However, the physical exertion tired me out, and by quitting time I was beat.
Kerista was taking more and more of my time so I decided that the coming Friday would be my last day. I collected my paycheck and decided to take Rosebud and another Kerista friend, Keith Jamison to a movie at the Waverly Theater in the West Village on sixth Avenue. I even remember the movie, Romeo and Juliet, the ballet version. After the movie we may have gotten some fast food and then walked all the way back to Kerista’s large, 3 bedroom “living” apartment on E. 4th St. between Avenues C and D. At least 12 people slept slept there nightly.
The rest would stay at either the elaborately painted apartment called “The Temple”’ on E. 10th St. or the storefront on Attorney Street south of Houston. The apartment was entered by walking down a long hallway past the center staircase to a door in the very back that would enter into the kitchen. We were laughing and joking walking down the hall and then knocking on the door. All of a sudden we were pulled into the apartment by these burly men dressed in suits and carrying guns. It was the New York police narcotics squad.
 |
| Actual Article of arrest in morning newspapers |
They
had set up a “buy” for a pound of marijuana which was considered a
large amount in those days. The whole thing was contrived by the police.
The seller was a fella we knew very well. He had been coerced into
setting the whole thing up. We had gotten there after he arrived with the pot.
The chief of the NYC narcotics department was Ira Bluth. Coincidentally, I was friends with his nephew, Jeffrey Bluth. He lived on Ocean Parkway and often bragged about his uncle.
Well, a detective takes each of us, separately, into a bathroom to search us.
They asked me what I was doing there?
To which I responded, “they were tutoring me with my schoolwork and I came by to pick up my books which were here in a backpack”. They proceed to search me and found a 35 mm film canister in my pocket. They assumed it was filled with drugs. Without opening, it they called in their boss. "Inspector, there’s something here that you’d want to see”. He comes in and they open the canister to find a blank ivory colored, Mahjong cube. They look at it, even smell it. The two puzzled detectives turn to me. “What the fuck is this? “.
I respond, “It’s a telepathic communicator. If you want to communicate with someone else in the group, you just hold it in your hand and send them telepathic messages”. To which Ira Bluth responded, “Who told you that shit, Judd?”
The chief of the NYC narcotics department was Ira Bluth. Coincidentally, I was friends with his nephew, Jeffrey Bluth. He lived on Ocean Parkway and often bragged about his uncle.
Well, a detective takes each of us, separately, into a bathroom to search us.
They asked me what I was doing there?
To which I responded, “they were tutoring me with my schoolwork and I came by to pick up my books which were here in a backpack”. They proceed to search me and found a 35 mm film canister in my pocket. They assumed it was filled with drugs. Without opening, it they called in their boss. "Inspector, there’s something here that you’d want to see”. He comes in and they open the canister to find a blank ivory colored, Mahjong cube. They look at it, even smell it. The two puzzled detectives turn to me. “What the fuck is this? “.
I respond, “It’s a telepathic communicator. If you want to communicate with someone else in the group, you just hold it in your hand and send them telepathic messages”. To which Ira Bluth responded, “Who told you that shit, Judd?”
 |
| Obituary of Ira Bluth, Chief of Narcotics, NYPD. He questioned me at Kerista arrest, never told him I was friends with his nephew. |
The detectives help me get my books in the
backpack as they start searching it. They asked me where I go to school
to which I answered Erasmus in Brooklyn. Immediately, Ira Bluth starts
asking me if I buy my drugs at Park Lane Bowling Alley? Obviously, it
must have been a local place that sold drugs. I made a mental note of
it. I didn’t mention I knew his nephew, least he would think I’m
actively demoralizing Jeffrey, and get angry at me.
In the end he let me, Rosebud and even Keith go without arresting us. Good thing, Keith tells me as soon as we get out. Turns out, he had an active warrant for his arrest in California.
We all couldn’t believe our luck. It’s now about midnight and all three of us are standing there on the completely empty, quiet street. You wouldn’t know there were dozens of cops inside the building. It certainly didn’t look like a well publicized crime scene. However, I do believe when we were in there, the Chief of Police, a short balding Irish guy came in as well. Their main “amazement” was that people were sitting around naked, in front of children, and smoking pot.
It was cold, and Keith decided to go on his own. Rosebud decides that this is important event and takes me to meet her friend Barbara Rubin.
Barbara was this beautiful, vibrant young lady, probably twenty. She had very short cropped auburn colored hair. It made her look angelic and pixie-like. She quickly explained, she had just cut it off, in protest, for a court appearance against her recent film being confiscated as pornographic during a public showing. Rosebud thought if anybody knew what to do it would be Barbara. Barbara immediately thought of her good friend, Allen Ginsberg.
In the end he let me, Rosebud and even Keith go without arresting us. Good thing, Keith tells me as soon as we get out. Turns out, he had an active warrant for his arrest in California.
We all couldn’t believe our luck. It’s now about midnight and all three of us are standing there on the completely empty, quiet street. You wouldn’t know there were dozens of cops inside the building. It certainly didn’t look like a well publicized crime scene. However, I do believe when we were in there, the Chief of Police, a short balding Irish guy came in as well. Their main “amazement” was that people were sitting around naked, in front of children, and smoking pot.
It was cold, and Keith decided to go on his own. Rosebud decides that this is important event and takes me to meet her friend Barbara Rubin.
Barbara was this beautiful, vibrant young lady, probably twenty. She had very short cropped auburn colored hair. It made her look angelic and pixie-like. She quickly explained, she had just cut it off, in protest, for a court appearance against her recent film being confiscated as pornographic during a public showing. Rosebud thought if anybody knew what to do it would be Barbara. Barbara immediately thought of her good friend, Allen Ginsberg.
 |
| Barbara Rubin as she appeared in 1964 when I first met her. |
She knew he had been interested in Kerista because of it’s free
love philosophy. However, he came way turned off by Judd’s pro-Vietnam
stance.
Barbara decided we should go visit him, right then and there at midnight on a Friday evening. It was only a few blocks away on the sixth floor of a very rundown tenement on E. 5th St. between C and D.
We show up unannounced and very graciously are invited in to sit with Allen on his large mattress, on the floor, covered by a sort of shaggy brown yak hide blanket.
I had actually met Allen about six months earlier while walking on the Lower East Side. I saw him and Peter and went up and introduced myself. I told him I was a big fan of his poetry and that I had read them all. In those days everybody carried paperback books to be able to read when they had spare time, like riding the subway. I was carrying a couple of books by Jean- Paul Sartre and Albert Camus. Allen asked if I was reading them. He seemed, after a few minutes of conversation, impressed. We spoke and went on our ways. He later said he remembered me and my young age..
Barbara, Rosebud and I quickly tell Allen what happened. We were trying to figure out what to do next. We had no money for a lawyer, and the heiress’ family (who was also arrested), would, we assumed, call a lawyer that next day.
Barbara immediately calls for some sort of demonstration in the morning on the sidewalk, in front of the “Tombs”. The massive NYC jail, in downtown Manhattan, was located right next to the iconic Municipal Building. She figured that would get attention and counteract the bad publicity that would be appearing in the morning tabloids. We could quickly make cardboard signs to carry. When the police got too obnoxious, we could just move on.
Barbara decided we should go visit him, right then and there at midnight on a Friday evening. It was only a few blocks away on the sixth floor of a very rundown tenement on E. 5th St. between C and D.
We show up unannounced and very graciously are invited in to sit with Allen on his large mattress, on the floor, covered by a sort of shaggy brown yak hide blanket.
I had actually met Allen about six months earlier while walking on the Lower East Side. I saw him and Peter and went up and introduced myself. I told him I was a big fan of his poetry and that I had read them all. In those days everybody carried paperback books to be able to read when they had spare time, like riding the subway. I was carrying a couple of books by Jean- Paul Sartre and Albert Camus. Allen asked if I was reading them. He seemed, after a few minutes of conversation, impressed. We spoke and went on our ways. He later said he remembered me and my young age..
Barbara, Rosebud and I quickly tell Allen what happened. We were trying to figure out what to do next. We had no money for a lawyer, and the heiress’ family (who was also arrested), would, we assumed, call a lawyer that next day.
Barbara immediately calls for some sort of demonstration in the morning on the sidewalk, in front of the “Tombs”. The massive NYC jail, in downtown Manhattan, was located right next to the iconic Municipal Building. She figured that would get attention and counteract the bad publicity that would be appearing in the morning tabloids. We could quickly make cardboard signs to carry. When the police got too obnoxious, we could just move on.
 |
| Allen as he appeared at the farm, 1968 |
Allen agrees,
he can use it as an opportunity to further protest against the USA’s
corrupt marijuana narcotics laws. Together with Peter Orlofsky and his
brother Julius, that made six of us. Allen would try to get together
another five people to protest with us. We didn’t need or want a lot of
people. At this point I was just tagging along, it was well above my
head. We all decided to camp out in Allen’s living room until the
morning. I couldn’t believe my luck. From one of the worst experiences
of my life, I’m now living one of the best.
Early in the morning Allen made a lot of phone calls. One call to the Village Voice, a very influential weekly newspaper, hoping for some exposure. We put together some hastily made signs, protesting everything from free love to smoking marijuana, and off we go by subway heading downtown.
Early in the morning Allen made a lot of phone calls. One call to the Village Voice, a very influential weekly newspaper, hoping for some exposure. We put together some hastily made signs, protesting everything from free love to smoking marijuana, and off we go by subway heading downtown.
 |
| Allen Ginsberg in 1964 at the demonstration outside of the NYC "Tombs" on morning after the "Kerista bust". |
We found a
good spot, down the street in front of the jail, and not blocking the
entrance. After about 45 minutes marching in a large circle on the
sidewalk and shouting various slogans, with snow in our shoes, now wet
and cold, we called it quits and went back to Allen’s Apartment.
By this time I had managed to charm Allen with my stories of European travel and DMT. It was pretty clear to both of us that he felt there was a chemistry there. My age, I was still only sixteen, made any friendship an obvious issue. I would be seventeen soon, at the end of January 1965, and that would make a big difference in NYC’s laws governing minors.
I was particularly drawn to Peter, his sing song voice, very long flowing hair, and a propensity for skimpy women’s underwear. He graciously invited me back to visit, anytime. I certainly took him up on it and soon was spending a lot of my free time at Allen’s place.
By this time I had managed to charm Allen with my stories of European travel and DMT. It was pretty clear to both of us that he felt there was a chemistry there. My age, I was still only sixteen, made any friendship an obvious issue. I would be seventeen soon, at the end of January 1965, and that would make a big difference in NYC’s laws governing minors.
I was particularly drawn to Peter, his sing song voice, very long flowing hair, and a propensity for skimpy women’s underwear. He graciously invited me back to visit, anytime. I certainly took him up on it and soon was spending a lot of my free time at Allen’s place.
 |
| Allen and Peter as they appeared when I met them in 1964. |
 |
| Allen and Peter in the famous Richard Avedon photograph shot in 1964. Alan and PETER were the first males in modern history to declare themselves married. This first appeared in the “Who’s Who in America” 1960 edition. |
It was just as busy as Grand
Central Station. People coming and going from literally all over the
world. There was a constant stream of very creative and interesting
people.
I was fully aware I was playing the role of a precocious young man trying to enter the inner sanctum of the “Beat” scene at an usually early age. It really hadn’t been done before. Entry into that group normally required years of formal education and then material sacrifice in the name of creative achievement. I was definitely by far the youngest person in the room, about the same age as Kerouac’s (who actually showed up drunk) own daughter.
I had exhibited artistic talent throughout my childhood. However, other than a few small oil paintings, I had never done any work of substance. I was now hanging out in the company of accomplished authors, poets, musicians and artists. I was acutely aware of who these older people were. The year before, Allen had appeared in an extensive photo spread from India in Esquire Magazine. My Brooklyn friends and I scrutinized every word and photo.
Allen, from the very beginning made no secret that he thought I could enlighten him in the thinking of today’s youth. The early 1960’s youth counter-culture had been characterized by various protest movements, experimentation with drugs, and folk music. It was beginning to coalesce around protests against the War in Vietnam. It still had a nebulous image and no single identity. It would be another year before even the beginnings of the “Hippie sub-culture” would begin to emerge, and four years before 600,000 acid tripping youths would gather at Woodstock. In retrospect, I’m lucky that they took any thing I said seriously, listening to a highly opinionated 16 year old.
I was definitely no longer hanging out with my group of Brooklyn high school Beatnik friends. Since I was still in my senior year, going back and forth daily, I was staying in contact with all of them. I didn’t tell them too much of what was going on, least they not believe me or think me a braggart.
Of everybody congregating at Allen’s place, beautiful Barbara Rubin was the closest person to my age, with about four years between us. She also made herself a fixture in Allen’s entourage. She would come and go as she pleased and spend many nights there.
Barbara had achieved her membership in the group, even at her young age and being a woman, by arguably creating one of the most unique films in the history of cinema. Called “ Christmas on Earth”, it was like no film made before. The film itself was confiscated during it’s premiere public showing. Years later, long after her death, the film would be recognized as a milestone in Avant-Garde cinema. However, in 1964, Barbara’s main concern was wrapped around her romantic fantasies involving Allen. Although it was obvious to most people, Allen, the consummate gentleman, never really confronted her or dashed her hopes. She harbored her Allen fantasy for several years and then in 1968 it would become a crisis when Allen bought an extremely isolated 60 acre derelict farm in upstate New York, which was mainly on Barbara’s urging. She and Allen would soon part ways forever. However, back in 1964, Barbara and I found ourselves quite comfortable enough to both be accepted members of Allen’s inner circle.
I was fully aware I was playing the role of a precocious young man trying to enter the inner sanctum of the “Beat” scene at an usually early age. It really hadn’t been done before. Entry into that group normally required years of formal education and then material sacrifice in the name of creative achievement. I was definitely by far the youngest person in the room, about the same age as Kerouac’s (who actually showed up drunk) own daughter.
I had exhibited artistic talent throughout my childhood. However, other than a few small oil paintings, I had never done any work of substance. I was now hanging out in the company of accomplished authors, poets, musicians and artists. I was acutely aware of who these older people were. The year before, Allen had appeared in an extensive photo spread from India in Esquire Magazine. My Brooklyn friends and I scrutinized every word and photo.
Allen, from the very beginning made no secret that he thought I could enlighten him in the thinking of today’s youth. The early 1960’s youth counter-culture had been characterized by various protest movements, experimentation with drugs, and folk music. It was beginning to coalesce around protests against the War in Vietnam. It still had a nebulous image and no single identity. It would be another year before even the beginnings of the “Hippie sub-culture” would begin to emerge, and four years before 600,000 acid tripping youths would gather at Woodstock. In retrospect, I’m lucky that they took any thing I said seriously, listening to a highly opinionated 16 year old.
I was definitely no longer hanging out with my group of Brooklyn high school Beatnik friends. Since I was still in my senior year, going back and forth daily, I was staying in contact with all of them. I didn’t tell them too much of what was going on, least they not believe me or think me a braggart.
Of everybody congregating at Allen’s place, beautiful Barbara Rubin was the closest person to my age, with about four years between us. She also made herself a fixture in Allen’s entourage. She would come and go as she pleased and spend many nights there.
Barbara had achieved her membership in the group, even at her young age and being a woman, by arguably creating one of the most unique films in the history of cinema. Called “ Christmas on Earth”, it was like no film made before. The film itself was confiscated during it’s premiere public showing. Years later, long after her death, the film would be recognized as a milestone in Avant-Garde cinema. However, in 1964, Barbara’s main concern was wrapped around her romantic fantasies involving Allen. Although it was obvious to most people, Allen, the consummate gentleman, never really confronted her or dashed her hopes. She harbored her Allen fantasy for several years and then in 1968 it would become a crisis when Allen bought an extremely isolated 60 acre derelict farm in upstate New York, which was mainly on Barbara’s urging. She and Allen would soon part ways forever. However, back in 1964, Barbara and I found ourselves quite comfortable enough to both be accepted members of Allen’s inner circle.
 |
| Scene from Barbara Rubin's 1964 underground classic "Christmas on Earth". Clip of documentary below. |
At this time I was
still living at the Stuyvesant Residence for Boys, (it's still there on Saint
Mark’s Pl.) in addition to Allen’s place, I was also frequenting Debbie
Black’s apartment on E.5th Street, where the avant-garde filmmaker, Jerry
Jofen and wife Ellen were staying.
 |
| Jerry,Zalmen Jofen as he appeared when I met him in 1964. At that time he was a filmmaker and artist musician. Later I discovered that he was from a distinguished rabbinical dynasty. |
Jerry had a lot of projecting and film editing equipment, as well as expensive movie cameras strewn around the small apartment. He had just moved there after living several years in a large industrial loft on West 26th Street. He had assembled an informal entourage of very diverse people who had been working with him on several epic film projects, which never really seemed to end. There was work for set and costume design, actors and musicians, lighting and sound specialists and of course film editing. There was always creative things to do. I was fascinated by the way he used film. Most of the music videos made today are derivative of the style he pioneered utilizing the camera in ways which the head can’t swivel, rewinding and reshooting on top of previously exposed film, creating multi-levels of visual consciousness. He and friends were constantly creating multilevel soundtracks to be shown along with the 16 mm color and black & white films.
 |
| Scene from Jerry Zalman Jofen's film "voyages" 1964. |
Since the whole Lower East Side
scene was being fueled by easily available amphetamine (today’s
Adderall) powder, it literally operated on a 24 hour basis. There was
always something going on day and night. I would go on to form a close
bond with Jerry (Zalmen) and his wife Ellen, whose friendship continues
to this day. I will spend much of the next few years working with him
and studying Jewish mysticism. He had been a rabbi as a young man and
descended from a dynasty of learned scholars. He had left the religious
life, for creativity and was a fountain of mystical information.
This was a very difficult time in American politics. President Lyndon Johnson was running for his first fully elected term against Barry Goldwater, an avowed militant and war monger. A very famous election commercial showing a little girl counting down to World War III mesmerized a lot of Americans and Goldwater lost by a landslide. I remember accompanying Allen and Peter to the polling place in the Lower East Sside to vote. The minimum voting age then was 21, an absurdity, which changed during the Vietnam war.
This was a very difficult time in American politics. President Lyndon Johnson was running for his first fully elected term against Barry Goldwater, an avowed militant and war monger. A very famous election commercial showing a little girl counting down to World War III mesmerized a lot of Americans and Goldwater lost by a landslide. I remember accompanying Allen and Peter to the polling place in the Lower East Sside to vote. The minimum voting age then was 21, an absurdity, which changed during the Vietnam war.
Must See! 1964 Presidential Campaign Commercial explains political climate Nov.1964
 |
| New York City World’s Fair 1964 poster. |
Fascinating Video of General motors pavilion at the fair. The ride was called Futurama. And now 60 years in the future, they got Nothing right. They totally missed the information mobile technology development.
It
was also the time of the 1964 New York World’s Fair. Going to
the Fair with Allen and Peter was an experience to remember. It was filled with mediocrity, nothing
really artistic or even architecturally significance. Most of the
exhibits were paid for by giant American corporations. It was an
entirely decadent, destructive capitalist planet presented by automated
displays. I felt strangely aloof being there with Allen, as if we were
some superior intelligence reviewing the best that earth could offer.
It
took about two weeks for everybody from the Kerista bust to get out of
jail. All the girls got out in four days. It took longer for the men. It
was quite a traumatic experience for everybody and the threat of longer
incarceration hung over us all like a dark cloud. Judd decided that we
all needed a group LSD trip cleansing. The location was to be someone’s
(I was never sure who’s) first floor apartment in Luna Park, Coney
Island. You can’t imagine a more surreal environment. The enormous
development consists of at least a dozen indistinguishable twenty story
featureless apartment buildings. The development is located only three
blocks from Coney Island Beach and Boardwalk. In the summer it’s a
nice place to be. However, by December, it’s a forlorn windswept stretch
of the western most tip of the Long Island coast. We all arrived in
different cars and by the time I get there in early evening some people
are already tripping. The whole group had not been together since the
arrest. Some people were already hugging and crying.
 |
| Site of the Kerista mass LSD session. Luna Park Coney Island. |
 |
| Coney Island in winter can be a forlorn and windswept stretch of beach. |
This was to be my first
LSD experience and I was a little worried about how it would go down
with so many people and so much noise. Nevertheless, I popped an
innocent looking sugar cube with at least 1200 micrograms of LSD. It
came on really fast and within a short period of time I wasn’t sure who I
was. I went into the bathroom and took out a small billfold which I
carried in my back pocket. I was 16 and the only identification I had
was a library card, a bus pass and a membership card for an Erasmus Hall
student organization. I couldn’t find my identity there. Next, I took
out my small address book to see if there were any clues in there. Nope!
Just some strange people that I wasn’t sure I even knew. I ended up
watching everything burn in the small bathroom sink. As I leave the
bathroom the sound of sirens becomes overwhelming. The Coney Island
Hospital is less than a mile away and the incessant sound of ambulances
is almost continuous.
I became very paranoid and stormed out of the first floor apartment. Instantly I’m in this science fiction world. The spaces between the buildings have an elaborate grid of concrete pathways almost maze like. The only people outside were this elderly couple, slowly walking arm in arm. I go up to them and ask if I can go with them. I still remember the gentleman answering me, "Well, we weren’t really expecting company”. He and his wife started to laugh. I was very confused. To this day, I still have trouble recognizing sarcasm. They turned and walked off still laughing. I then realized I had no idea where the apartment was, not even which building I came out of. I knew then and there I would never find my way back to the apartment high on LSD. I was able to reason with myself enough to decided the prudent thing would be to head over to the beach until morning and I came down.
The beach and boardwalk was cold and completely deserted, not a soul in sight. For someone who grew up in New York, this was an unusual sight. I remember drawing large Buddha heads in the wet sand until morning, which came an hour and a half later. By that time I was down enough to figure out which apartment building I had gone into the night before. I retraced my steps and was soon back in the apartment with the other sobering members. It kind of became clear that a lot of the chemistry between us had disappeared, and with it, the experiment. This would be the last time I would ever see any of the members of Kerista again. I find out in 2021 that the commune would continue operating (without Judd) until the first years of the 21st-century.
Meanwhile, the scene at Allen’s apartment was becoming very interesting. I developed a romantic attachment to Allen’s neighbor, a young girl named Anne who was about 22 or 23 years old with long thick black hair and a cute little body about my size. We went on to become lovers for a short period of time. She gave me her key and I would visit her in bed in the early morning before I went to school in Brooklyn at very first light. I actually had a teacher question me, “How could I be so cheerful so early in the morning”. After a few weeks, the affair ended when her former boyfriend from out of town showed up and she nicely asked me for the key back to give to him.
I became very paranoid and stormed out of the first floor apartment. Instantly I’m in this science fiction world. The spaces between the buildings have an elaborate grid of concrete pathways almost maze like. The only people outside were this elderly couple, slowly walking arm in arm. I go up to them and ask if I can go with them. I still remember the gentleman answering me, "Well, we weren’t really expecting company”. He and his wife started to laugh. I was very confused. To this day, I still have trouble recognizing sarcasm. They turned and walked off still laughing. I then realized I had no idea where the apartment was, not even which building I came out of. I knew then and there I would never find my way back to the apartment high on LSD. I was able to reason with myself enough to decided the prudent thing would be to head over to the beach until morning and I came down.
The beach and boardwalk was cold and completely deserted, not a soul in sight. For someone who grew up in New York, this was an unusual sight. I remember drawing large Buddha heads in the wet sand until morning, which came an hour and a half later. By that time I was down enough to figure out which apartment building I had gone into the night before. I retraced my steps and was soon back in the apartment with the other sobering members. It kind of became clear that a lot of the chemistry between us had disappeared, and with it, the experiment. This would be the last time I would ever see any of the members of Kerista again. I find out in 2021 that the commune would continue operating (without Judd) until the first years of the 21st-century.
Meanwhile, the scene at Allen’s apartment was becoming very interesting. I developed a romantic attachment to Allen’s neighbor, a young girl named Anne who was about 22 or 23 years old with long thick black hair and a cute little body about my size. We went on to become lovers for a short period of time. She gave me her key and I would visit her in bed in the early morning before I went to school in Brooklyn at very first light. I actually had a teacher question me, “How could I be so cheerful so early in the morning”. After a few weeks, the affair ended when her former boyfriend from out of town showed up and she nicely asked me for the key back to give to him.
 |
| My first apartment on E.5th Street between avenues C and D looked like this. |
No problem, I was about to win the lottery. A young midwest woman named Roberta lived in the rear apartment and also befriended me. The building was abandoned by the landlord. Her apartment was so derelict, her rent was a dollar a month from the city.
She was the only tenant living in a rear apartment in the whole building. There was no heat. But there was gas, so you could heat the place and make hot water. The sink in the kitchen next to the tub emptied into a metal pail which you could empty in the water closet in the hall. That was good, because in the winter ice would form in the toilet. However, to me it looked like a palace in St. Petersburg. She had made a small fortune growing low quality marijuana on a farm while attending the University of Kansas. She and a boyfriend drove to New York with a trunk full of it and sold it for rock-bottom prices. She was about to leave for Rio de Janeiro, so she handed me the keys to her apartment. At first I couldn’t believe it. My own apartment down the hall from one of my heroes? After this, how could my life ever be the same? Allen gave me two posters of Hindu deities he brought from in India. I still have them to this day in my studio. He gave me a small sleeping mat and wooden milk crate which served as a night table. Roberta left a complete pound of this junkie marijuana in a kitchen cabinet. Could a 16-year-old kid living in a boys residence home ask for more?
It was one cold but beautiful autumn afternoon, I don’t know what drew me to visit the roof. To my surprise I find this guy named Zen camping out up there. He explained he came to visit Anne in the front apartment; however, she was out of town, so he was camping there until she came home. I invited him down to my bare apartment for some hot tea. He walks in and turns to me, “What a nice place you have here". I look around at this slum apartment and smiling answer him, “ Thanks, I think so, also”.
Sadly, it wouldn’t last for long without heat, it was only a matter of time. Finally, during an early February cold spell, some pipes on the third floor froze and burst. The gushing water cascading down the staircase eventually froze. It looked like a scene out of the Dr. Zhivago movie, with glistening icicles hanging from the ceiling. Some quick thinking tenant had strung a thick rope down the stairs so you that you could pull yourself up the frozen steps. The city decided they had to cut off the water. We still had electricity and gas, but without water the derelict building was pretty much uninhabitable. It was like rats leaving a sinking ship. With a heavy heart we all left that great building behind. Rubbish filled cardboard boxes and torn mattresses littered the sidewalk with the melting snow.
I really never had
left the boy’s residence home. I would show up every day to check in and
then leave through the back door or down the fire escape. I still had
my bed in a small room with one other boy on the fourth floor. I
wasn’t feeling well and was finally diagnosed with mononucleosis. Not a good
thing when you’re going to high school and facing graduation. I started
taking amphetamines orally on a daily basis. It helped me get up and
down the stairs and all the way to school. After a month I felt better.
However, the head of the boys residence home was now at his limit with
my independence. We mutually decided that it was best that I should
leave.
My mother graciously offered to give me $50 a month to find a place. I found a studio apartment, with a charming large bay window. It was facing the street, in a small wooden building right next to the elevated subway on McDonald Avenue in Brooklyn. A twenty minute bus ride from my high school.
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| Photo of apartment on McDonald Avenue, directly under the Ditmas Avenue station. |
I moved right in. Someone
had given me a large area rug made from stitched together Japanese
Tatami rice mats. I found some reasonably clean carpet that had been
recently thrown away. I took the carpet and put the rice mats on top.
The entire floor of the studio apartment was one giant soft and very
comfortable sitting and sleeping surface.
 |
| Exterior sketch of apartment on McDonald Avenue. Noticed charming bay window. It gave the whole apartment surreal feeling. As if you were in a theatrical set. |
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| Sketch of inside studio apartment under elevated subway station. Note charming bay window that occupants panoramic views of the street below. The entire floor of the apartment was covered with Japanese rice mats on top of soft carpet. The result was the entire area was one comfortable sleeping mat. |
I was expecting to be
there only until the end of my senior year, four months away. However, I
had big plans for that apartment. Almost immediately, I invited Jerry
and his wife Ellen and their friend Joyce to come and stay with me. Most
people never left the confines of the Lower East Side, even more so the
island of Manhattan. Jerry had lived in Brooklyn while he was still a
religious Jew. However, it did come as a surprise one day on a walk when
I learnt how close it actually was to my apartment. They arrived with a
16mm projector, cans of shot film clips and their editing machine. I
set up a little projection area in an alcove off the main room.
 |
| Jerry Zalman Jofen’s created collage works of art and finished editing his films while he and his wife Ellen stayed with me in Brooklyn. |
The New York City subway system runs on a 24 hour basis. Jerry would have members of their entourage show up at all times of the day or night. They would stay a few nervous hours and then head back to the security of the city. Everybody would shake when the elevated train came into the station. We, who lived there, didn’t even notice it. It was considered a long trip from Manhattan; however, it was like a day in the country for most visitors.
It
was during this time that I decided to apply for college in India. I
wanted to study the Bhagavad-Gita in its native Sanskrit. I wrote
several letters to different colleges in India. I still have a copy of
those application letters. It would’ve been impossible for a 17 year old
to have written that letter on his own. I’m sure someone helped me, but
I can’t remember who. I received a reply, but it wasn’t very
encouraging. I decided to put it off for at least a year and go to
California instead.
It was a very creative period of my life. I did a lot of water color painting, focusing on using conveniently available cloth from bedsheets as canvases. I managed to finish high school while Jerry and friends shared my apartment in Brooklyn. Jerry’s wife Ellen and I, in 2022, still fondly speak of that time. They moved back to the city just as I was finishing school. It was time to leave this great apartment behind and head to California.
It was a very creative period of my life. I did a lot of water color painting, focusing on using conveniently available cloth from bedsheets as canvases. I managed to finish high school while Jerry and friends shared my apartment in Brooklyn. Jerry’s wife Ellen and I, in 2022, still fondly speak of that time. They moved back to the city just as I was finishing school. It was time to leave this great apartment behind and head to California.
High School Finished,
June 1965
California Here I Come!
It
wasn’t going to be
easy hitchhiking. On my first try I managed to get to Toledo Ohio before
a
state trooper picked me up and called my Mother. She told him "He's has
my permission, but not my consent". That was enough for him to send me
back. I asked to use the bathroom to throw out the 20 Bezedrine
Amphetamine tablets I had brought with me. In the bathroom stall I
couldn't throw them all away, so I took about ten. He knew if he sent me
back by bus I would get off the next stop. So after a long and
sleepless night in a Toledo youth jail, they took all my money for a
ticket and put me on a plane back to New York. Upon
my arrival I felt a little weak and my eyes suddenly turned bright
yellow. I had
developed hepatitis and stayed in the hospital for almost six arduous
weeks
recuperating. On my second attempt at hitchhiking to California, I
brought an older friend, Howard Allouf. This proved successful, but it
took a lot more time, almost a very long week, because there were two of
us.
Upon arrival in San Francisco, I started to look for Allen. The first place I went to inquire was at City Lights Bookstore. Who do I meet in the doorway? Stella Levy, the friend of Fernando Vega who I met in Paris a year earlier. Not only did she know where Allen was, she was now Peter‘s girlfriend. Allen was staying with Shig, the Japanese American manager of City Lights Bookstore who had been arrested in the famous “Howl” obscenity bust. I moved right in, but soon we all moved to Stella’s cottage in Berkeley.
We found ourselves right in the middle of a boiling Berkeley and University campus caldron. At that time Americas’ universities served as a main recruiting office for the Armed Forces. The draft was firmly in place; however, there were deferments for college students. Once you finished you were eligible to be called up immediately and because of this the universities were directly connected to the military.
A vocal protest movement led by the SDS, “Students for a Democratic Society” had created an uproar during the summer of 1964. It is now known as “the Student Free Speech Movement”. They soon decided to join with non-student protesters to more effectively stop the war in Vietnam.
The time is now September 1965 but in March of that year the US, in a highly staged amphibious Marine landing, invaded Vietnam. That summer The University of California outlawed any anti-war demonstrations on campus. Jerry Rubin, a well known activist and all around trouble maker, decided to run for mayor of Berkeley. There was no place to take the demonstrations but to the streets. The Oakland Naval Station, the West Coast main induction center, was only a few miles away. The Oakland Police vowed to break up any demonstration. You could cut the tension with a knife. Some people were screaming for revolution. The whole situation was literally explosive.
Upon arrival in San Francisco, I started to look for Allen. The first place I went to inquire was at City Lights Bookstore. Who do I meet in the doorway? Stella Levy, the friend of Fernando Vega who I met in Paris a year earlier. Not only did she know where Allen was, she was now Peter‘s girlfriend. Allen was staying with Shig, the Japanese American manager of City Lights Bookstore who had been arrested in the famous “Howl” obscenity bust. I moved right in, but soon we all moved to Stella’s cottage in Berkeley.
We found ourselves right in the middle of a boiling Berkeley and University campus caldron. At that time Americas’ universities served as a main recruiting office for the Armed Forces. The draft was firmly in place; however, there were deferments for college students. Once you finished you were eligible to be called up immediately and because of this the universities were directly connected to the military.
A vocal protest movement led by the SDS, “Students for a Democratic Society” had created an uproar during the summer of 1964. It is now known as “the Student Free Speech Movement”. They soon decided to join with non-student protesters to more effectively stop the war in Vietnam.
The time is now September 1965 but in March of that year the US, in a highly staged amphibious Marine landing, invaded Vietnam. That summer The University of California outlawed any anti-war demonstrations on campus. Jerry Rubin, a well known activist and all around trouble maker, decided to run for mayor of Berkeley. There was no place to take the demonstrations but to the streets. The Oakland Naval Station, the West Coast main induction center, was only a few miles away. The Oakland Police vowed to break up any demonstration. You could cut the tension with a knife. Some people were screaming for revolution. The whole situation was literally explosive.
And so we come to the time of my life discussed in another blog:
"The Scroll and it’s Zeitgeist ".
