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A Nation in Turmoil and the Birth of Decadence What will be your legacy? How will people remember you? This is a story of hope, and a fight for freedom. Abbie Hoffman was the voice of freedom, and one of the most prolific voices of the hippie generation. The first time I heard him speak was in the early 70’s, I had heard of his reputation as a hard hitting over the top activist who made the establishment cringe. The newspapers of America labeled him (the man the right loves to hate). Abbie Hoffman’s views on politics, equality for minorities and women were light years ahead of his time. My brother Ricky helped organize the rally, I tagged along for a chance to meet Abbie. People from all over the country had been hiking in all week, peace and love guiding each soul from points unknown. Grungy faded jeans, cannabis stained fingers, wild and outlandish hippies– a melting pot of social reform. I was much too young and inexperienced to realize the power that would be unleashed that day. Youthful tender kisses, subdued by the tranquil peace of dancing hippies, we kiss again. Yielding to emotions passing through the crowd, lustful desires seasoned with innocents, gives way to flames of burning passion. Grass beneath us scorches our flesh, as sweet juices flowing from folds of flesh pulls me deeper. A mighty beast within me franticly claws at its cage, a violent shudder takes my breath as my loins explode, and the beast is free; free to gorge on the fruits of innocents. Oblivious to our clapping fans, we melt into ambers of smoldering pleasure. A single daisy in a sea of green, bright yellow petals gleaming in the sun. Indulgently, I place it amongst her tussled curls to complete a master piece, we kiss again. With a mournful sound a tortured soul releases pain as his fingers glide across the strings. As scars of wretched love, and tears of maimed heart bleed a melody. With a gentle slow groove, like a willow in a summer’s breeze, dancers sway. I lay upon her nakedness, lost in a sea of indulgence, young tender, luscious breast nourishing my boyish hunger. Forcing myself from the sweet salts of her sultry skin, I intently watch her dress, taking in the last rays of her beauty. In a moment of clarity, I ask her name as she moves through the crowd, with a backward glance, she smiles. A nameless portrait etched within me, the memories of a master piece.
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