The New York Commune or Purple Haze (part 1 of 2)

During the mid-to-late ’60s, I read a string of Hermann Hesse novels. There was Journey to the East, Siddhartha, Damien, The Glass Bead Game, Steppenwolf, and my personal favorite, Narcissus and Goldman. They struck sympathetic notes in me and affirmed my desire for a full and adventurous life. I would try almost anything once, provided I was reasonably sure of at least an even chance of survival.

During this period, a friend and I, a fellow would-be musician, hitchhiked to New York City, where we resided for several weeks in late October / early November of ’68. When we arrived, the first day and most of the night was spent looking for a “crash pad,” a place where transients and runaways could sleep and get out of the weather.

The first “pad” we found was an abandoned apartment building that was crumbling down around us. I had just started to doze, using my guitar case for a pillow while keeping a tight grip on it. You couldn’t really trust anyone.

Suddenly, I heard sirens and people running. The “city’s finest” were rousting everyone out of the building.  I barely escaped detention that night and was beginning to doubt the wisdom of my new adventurous life.

By then I was so tired that events were passing before me like in a dream. I’m not even sure how we found the next “pad,” which became our permanent home for the duration of our stay. It was another condemned building, but many of the apartments were occupied.  One of the apartments housed a commune, which took us in.  This commune was made up of a real “motley crew.” The leader was a tall, gaunt character with a full beard and longish dark hair, who called himself Abdul. He proclaimed himself the “Christ figure” for the commune and provided most of the food, usually stale bagels that he collected from delis in the neighborhood.

Continued…