The truth makes you “hip.”
Back in Berkeley the weather was nice, and a nice time began. Berkeley was coming up, slowly and cautiously, from two serious downers: Altamont and Manson. In both cases, a subterranean criminal class, inextricably involved in the Movement, had made it’s move. It would no longer settle for a position behind the photographers. This was one revolution that was not going to betray it. But by midsummer, acute anxiety had become a mild uneasiness, and people were telling cheerful stories. A Berkeley psychiatrist had been kicked out of the army when they discovered he’d been discharging the troops at the rate of one every five minutes. (The part that Berkeley liked was that the shrink was suing for an honorable discharge.) The Bay area was leading the nation in draft resistance—34%, someone said. But the issue kept coming up, like a toothache. The Tribe printed a letter from a girl named HN drumming Manson out of the hip community. And devoted its center page to Manson’s answer. Tom Hayden called Weatherman the Id of its generation, because it supported Manson (there is violence and there is Violence). The ever-deepening spiral of politics. Just before I left, Smithson had given me a Xerox of his lease on Rozel Point, for a souvenir.
ą “Revolution” was the most often-used word I ran into this summer. Nobody used it to mean the transfer of political power from one class to another. Most of the time it seemed to refer to those activities which would most expeditiously bring America to her senses and force her to stop the war, end racism and begin to the lead among nations in rescuing the planet from the certain destruction toward which it was headed.
˛ Causing me some doubt as to whether I properly understood the women was the prominent reproduction given to Magritte’s The Lovers in Notes from the Second Year, a blood-curdling collection of tactical and theoretical essays from within the Women’s Movement. Ti-Grace Atkinson had put in some time in the art biz, and may have had a hand in that. Anyway, I still felt that the women in front of the Phoenix knew that there wasn’t too much for women Surrealism, Wunderlich’s, or Magritte’s.