Simon is back in London. He's living in a house near Primrose Hill, what would later come to be known as a squat. The house is one in a row of terraced houses across from Regent’s Park it had been purchased by a real estate speculator called Harry and scheduled for renovation. In the meantime a motley group of people were living in the empty rooms, fucking, writing poetry and doing their best to avoid Harry when he showed up for the rent. Lots of interesting people came through….Gregory Corso in transit….Private Eye types….Establishment and various embryonic practitioners of social satyr
The front door is never locked…nobody wants the responsibility…so people are free to come and go at will. At first it worked quiet well. A sort of polite anarchy prevailed. There was a communal kitchen which somebody, nobody was sure who, kept reasonably clean, and everybody got along. It could have been London’s version of the Beat Hotel but unlike 9, Git le Coeur there was no Madame Rachou to establish a modicum of order… to Later of course cliques were formed, bathrooms got filthy and strange groups of people could be found shooting up in corners. Harry got called a capitalist pig one time too many and had the place boarded up.
When he first got back from India Simon noticed a lot of ch, ch, changes. Hair was longer for one thing. Especially men’s hair. Girls wore short skirts and kinky boots….trousers were flared. Trendy boutiques were popping up all over the King’s Road. One day he was watching TV and somebody like Rod Stewart came on. Shit! It was Rod Stewart! Looking every inch the pop star and singing a song called Maggie May.
What, he wondered, is going on here?!? There are freaks everywhere…head paraphernalia sold openly on Portobello Road…. comics and magazines, OZ, International Times….Allen Ginsberg reading poetry at the Albert Hall , yes, yes, we met him in India. Is this some kind of revolution?
The front door is never locked…nobody wants the responsibility…so people are free to come and go at will. At first it worked quiet well. A sort of polite anarchy prevailed. There was a communal kitchen which somebody, nobody was sure who, kept reasonably clean, and everybody got along. It could have been London’s version of the Beat Hotel but unlike 9, Git le Coeur there was no Madame Rachou to establish a modicum of order… to Later of course cliques were formed, bathrooms got filthy and strange groups of people could be found shooting up in corners. Harry got called a capitalist pig one time too many and had the place boarded up.
When he first got back from India Simon noticed a lot of ch, ch, changes. Hair was longer for one thing. Especially men’s hair. Girls wore short skirts and kinky boots….trousers were flared. Trendy boutiques were popping up all over the King’s Road. One day he was watching TV and somebody like Rod Stewart came on. Shit! It was Rod Stewart! Looking every inch the pop star and singing a song called Maggie May.
What, he wondered, is going on here?!? There are freaks everywhere…head paraphernalia sold openly on Portobello Road…. comics and magazines, OZ, International Times….Allen Ginsberg reading poetry at the Albert Hall , yes, yes, we met him in India. Is this some kind of revolution?
Where do I fit in?
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