MARC OLMSTED
BEAT
MEMOIR #9: THE PUNK & THE LAMA
gaps in suffering
sometimes
big as Mt. Fuji
chatting with
the Buddhist nuns
over tea
Now I was a punk writer, age 35, living
with a Tibetan lama, recovering from Hollywood
and alcoholism in
a San Francisco late 80’s landscape of rock clubs, tattoos, piercings,
12-step
meetings and personal ads.
I came back to my room after a visit to
the nearby Haight. Christiane
had shoved a note
under the door,
another resident of the Center who was French, into Burroughs – really
sharp Buddhist
student. Allen Ginsberg, was coming to town for a book
signing! This
seemed incredibly
auspicious, it was just two weeks since I was back in town and three
years since Allen
had been in San Francisco. Made me feel confident in my move out of
Hollywood and my efforts to restore
myself as poet, for Allen had helped get me
published in a few
prestigious journals and had been a longtime champion and teacher. I
had nearly stopped
writing poetry at all age 20 when I met him, frustrated with a college
scene that wasn’t
particularly supportive of the shaggy aesthetic I was offering, directly
out of the
tradition of writers like Jack Kerouac, but without the refinement that would
come with Allen
Ginsberg’s tutelage.
And now Allen was coming into town, our
sexual relationship over for 8 years, our
friendship intact. I had
broken off sex when I moved in with Gretchen and never
resumed it in the
horror of AIDS.
Above all, he had taught me Buddhist
meditation, awareness of the outbreath dissolving
into space. We had
sat together naked in his San Francisco room. It began my interest –
I was at the Meditation Center because of
him. Bill Voigt was in 3 year retreat because
of him, though
never slept with him, but studied poetry at Naropa,
the Buddhist writing
college Ginsberg
helped found in Boulder.
Ginsberg would be reading at the Jewish
Community Center and I got Christiane the
French writer
to accompany me. First thing I saw was author Michael McClure,
who
looked remarkably fit
after his last boozy appearance. Turned out he’d quit coke and had
either stopped the
drinking or cut back considerably. McClure was amazingly handsome
– even James
Dean might not have made such a stately appearance in his 50s if he’d
survived. “You look great,”
I said, having met him a number of times. “So do you,”
meaning he liked my
ninja flattop. I briefly talked to Ginsberg beforehand and he saw
that I got into the
event free. As usually, people swarmed him. What a good feeling to
see his bald pate
again, like an emanation of the writing muse come to reassure me – it’s
o.k. to be a
poet – fuck Hollywood – we’ll work something out.
The reading was a strong one. I can
remember my own tears rather than actual poems.
Much of the material I had heard – some I
was familiar with as early as age 17 – all of it
resonating with
association, with a guidance I had chosen to this very moment – with a
sense of the
preciousness that I knew this man – great bard, teacher, social activist,
mystic, lion of
dharma, peace heart…
Afterwards I hung out and met another
young fellow poet, Andy Clausen, gravel-throated
construction worker and
number one in Ginsberg’s up-and-coming, someone else
Ginsberg never even had sex with. As
Clausen was rather paunchy and slightly ravaged
from drink, he was
not precisely Allen’s type anyway. Above all, Clausen did deserve
the spot as lead
on the list. There were a couple of others Allen promoted in interviews.
I tended to be on the B-list, getting a
mention and a helping hand now and then. Of
course I yearned to
be on that A list, but I really didn’t have the confidence in my work.
It wasn’t deserving
of the A list and I knew it. I also met Chris Funkhouser,
a young
mover-and-shaker
poet from Santa Cruz. We had pictures taken with Ginsberg.
Amazingly, there was also an old high
school poet friend, Jerome, hanging around by
coincidence – someone I
knew from L.A. and who disappeared in a couple of mental
wards. His head was
still not quite screwed on, which I could detect from a brief
conversation. I went off
with Allen after the reading to a franchise coffee shop. I asked
Christiane to come with
me but she was too shy. Jerome wanted to come, and I would’ve
welcomed him except he
was just too crazy. I remember hanging out at a big table at the
coffee shop and
Clausen drunkenly dominating the evening, though he was quite
amusing. McClure had
brought his young girlfriend and seemed a little annoyed.
Ginsberg propositioned me in the bathroom
when we both took a piss. “I thought I was
too old for you
now, Allen.” “You’re still cute.” I would’ve slept with him but the fear
of AIDS was too
great, more the fear of not being able to be honest with women I went
out with (“sure, I
sleep with men – let’s fuck!”) – the question did come up – I had tested
HIV negative and just wanted to stay out
of homosexual activity at least until this horrid
plague had come under
some sort of control – “the Red Death held illimitable dominion
over all” – Allen
shrugged it off – he still liked me sex or no – I wound up getting a
ridehome with a couple
of women – one a cute artist/ Tibetan Buddhist practitioner in the
Nyingma
tradition, Susan Rashkis, but still not a rail-thin
punk vampira, to my folly. A
great evening
though. I made arrangements to have breakfast with Allen in North Beach
next morning.
I remember one last thing Clausen said as
we were heading from the coffee shop. “Marc
Olmsted. You were such a promising poet
10 years ago. What happened?” What
happened was trying to
write for Hollywood and never sending my poetry out anymore.
What happened was trying to be a rock’n’roll star. What happened was an alcoholic
habit that had bit
to the bone. What happened was I didn’t know what happened.
I met Allen for breakfast in North Beach.
My work assignment had come to an end and I
had the day free.
It was Friday. Sitting in earnest brooding conversation with Allen was
Kush – someone who videotaped a lot of
readings and had quite an archive – though
much of it was
unwatchable. Kush had met me a number of times and ignored me. I was
apparently regarded as
one of Allen’s boys and not worth acknowledging. Kush left.
Allen was going to get a ride from a
journalist down to San Jose: “Why don’t you come
along?” I told him
I’d have to get back that evening – “We’ll get a ride back for you.”
The journalist would be driving back.
So along comes Steve Silberman
the journalist who strikingly resembled a young pudgy
Allen. With him was
a photographer, Marc Geller, and another male friend. Everyone
turned out to be gay.
I felt a little uncomfortable, a pretender. We all piled into the
photographer’s Citron station
wagon and headed down the freeway to San Jose. Allen
put his hand on my
thigh. Strange, it didn’t seem possessive or even have to lead to
anything. It felt good.
I thought back to our sexual days. Some of them had been as
good as any
heterosexual times. Others – I woke up and looked at the bald old man –
he’d shaved his
famous beard at one point and then it was really a shocker to wake up
next him – he
looked like an urologist. Funny, those days when I had trouble scoring
with women because
I was so young – yet sought after hawk-like in the gay world – a lot
of pain in those
memories.
The road spun on in front of us. We
talked about Jesse Jackson. Allen felt he couldn’t
support his
Presidential nomination because of Jackson’s heavy drug war stance. Allen
confided even the top
aides within the White House were coming to him and saying
“What can we do? This is not working.” We
discussed the possibility of total
legalization. I imagined
the freeway if everyone had access to coke. Not a pretty picture
– a definite Death Race 2000. We talked about
Allen’s long-time lover Peter Orlovsky
who was in and out
of the loony bin from drink and shooting up street drugs in New
York. Sad, since he was a remarkably
gentle poet himself when not blasted. We
discussed 12 Step
programs, Allen himself had been going to Al-Anon. He had quite a
history of attracting
drunks and drug addicts into his emotional arena and at 63, was
beginning to check out
why. Marc the photographer held up his camera over his shoulder
and snapped photos
into the back.
We arrived at Ginsberg’s motel, Best
Western, decent enough but also utterly generic.
Ginsberg moved his room to get a better
view, of what I’m not certain, maybe the tree in
the front yard,
wasn’t much else to see. The place was also virtually deserted. The man
behind the counter
checked in Allen cordially, also gay, and eyeing this entourage of
young men Allen had
accumulated around him. I felt a fundamental pressure – glad to be
close to Allen but
remembering something I’d said to him the first night we made it 14
years earlier:
“Would you have me even if we didn’t sleep together?” What was that
feeling, as now the TV
station host arrived to take us off for a taped interview. I got to
ride in the car
with Allen – I had special treatment and it made me nervous – what was
that about? Of not
being a colleague, of being a whore of some sort, even though this
didn’t seem to lead
to sex – agh, hard to describe let me try again – the
feeling I’m
getting as I write is
a profound tension – a tightening in the face and neck – I wanted to
be accepted like
Andy Clausen – remove the physical thing altogether – I want to
convince you Allen had
me along as a friend and not as someone who might give in
sexually even though it
had been 8 years – Jesus, I wasn’t that desirable and it wasn’t that
hard to get someone
new – funny how Allen specialized in straight boys, they really
wanted it from him.
So what did Allen think? I had an
opportunity to make amends to him privately, a 12
Step thing, I thought I’d caused him a
lot of grief in my early years with a possessive
girlfriend and a
conflicted brain – a real hot-and-cold kid like I was later paid back with
some of the women I
dated. He smiled. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. You
were a gem, a real
find.” Still, was that the answer I sought? I leave it to you – he
seemed to like me and
enjoy my company, especially the Buddhist and poetic thoughts –
and I didn’t have
to sleep with him anymore for it. Wow. What I just wrote.
O.K., we’re in the studio, and Steve Silberman is talking to me now, obviously
wondering about my
connection with Allen – and we watch the talk show unfold, it’s
pretty funny, the TV
host is goofy – Allen says what he wants. The thing wraps up and
Allen gets ready for the next item –
arrival at a book store for a signing and impromptu
conversation with the
populace.
There’s a chair and microphone on top of
a stage – it throws Allen a little – he thought he
was just signing
books, but shrugs, gives up – he’s famous – met all the Beatles, Jagger,
Dylan, Joe Strummer of the Clash, who’s
new? People start to filter in, including some
blond kid, cute bookwormish boy who asks me how long I’ve known Allen.
“14 years,”
I say. Is it possible? And of
course the kid’s me, I’ve never grown up and yet I have –
blessings and rain of
sorrow – ancient, even, I watch the event unfold – the room gets
packed – finally it
gets started with the book store owner giving a little pitch – always
rather embarrassing
“Allen Ginsberg meant this and that to me when I was blah blah
blah…” it gets old
very fast – but what else are they going to say?
When asked as to what kind of Buddhism he
practices, Allen teaches everyone how to sit
and breathe.
One older guy tries to get a private conversation going with Allen and he
gets cranky:
“Overcome your shyness instead of engaging in a solipsistic dialogue!” The
place gets too
crowded people can’t get in, he berates those sitting in the aisles “Part of
being aware of the
space around you is consideration of the other sentient beings in the
room!” He’s pretty cranky, aw, it’s o.k. –
so was the Lama I lived with.
Time for signing books – there’s a big
line, Allen is autographing but there are also
sunflower drawings,
skulls, buddhas, flying saucers, big third eyes in
triangles.
Everyone’s excited. I note a posturing
James Dean type over in the corner, looks like he
wants to take his
shirt off for attention. What does any of it mean, I want attention, too.
Allen had been asked who
he reads: “…Clausen. Marc Olmsted, who’s with us today.”
Was it possible to ever get enough?
As I’ve repeatedly mentioned, the
acceptance of Allen really eased my basic discomfort
of being a fucked
up character, or a lousy Buddhist practitioner with easy irritability,
emotionally overwrought,
although when we had briefly had a moment together walking
in San Jose. He
was in therapy now.
Now it’s time to go on this big honorary
dinner that is private and sort of yuppie art
community. Everyone’s
dressed up. I have only a sleeveless t-shirt – Allen makes room
for me, adds a
chair at the table, joking with those present: “This is my manager”. The
meal was kind of
boring, I couldn’t drink the wine anyway.
Off to the
reading on San Jose campus. How can one describe a poetry reading – I can’t
give you his books
through this page – but you’ll recognize them if you’re familiar with
his work – he read
that one about sleeping between a bride and bride-groom, giving them
kisses as he heads
off in the dawn – & a poem on LSD written in 1959(!) when Ginsberg
was given the drug
as part of a CIA research project – & the famous poem to America
asking for tenderness
and nudity of physical meat and heart – finally a poem about a
Blakean sunflower
found in the junkyard with Jack Kerouac – alas, if I could give up my
own shame as
requested.
It is coming to an end – once more the
book signing, cupid boys with shirts off address
the poet shaking
their charms – one asks for his stomach to be autographed – was I so
bold? Naw. The photographer Mark will give me a ride back into
the city. It’s over,
greatest day in a long
time – I plan to see Allen Sunday in the city when he’ll be back –
now the streets
are dark, it’s a 45 minute drive – I feel the fatigue hit me – the
photographer asks intimate
questions and I answer – I confess I don’t make it with men
anymore and why – he
doesn’t seem to think much of my answer and I’m embarrassed –
still, that’s what I
do – too timid, perhaps now without drugs and booze to fortify my
courage – but also, I
just like women more – it’s not worth sacrificing them, and I
doubted even the most
sympathetic hearts would be able to stifle their own sex horror –
here’s the vampire
boy of sodomy, look out! Forlorn, back to the Buddhist
Center. Just
gimme a girl and
I’ll keep quiet.
I went down to see Allen sign books at
City Lights next day, early evening. It made me
remember 3 years
earlier, when I’d done the same – set up a sort of test while I was at it.
I’d arranged a note to get to him through
the bookstore when he had arrived those 3 years
ago – giving my
new number – would he call me or would I have to look him up? – a
very indirect
“adult child of an alcoholic” thing to do – he didn’t call – so I showed to the
signing and confronted
him in a low key way – “You didn’t call,” the hurt look on my
own face too
practiced, I’m sure. “Didn’t have time yet.” Would he have called?
Maybe, maybe not – the wasted
speculations of a drunk, sober or otherwise. Too many
tests…but it
established the way I would handle Allen from then on, I’d seek him out
when he got into
town and not wait for that call, afraid he might not make it. Who would
he call? Old, old
friends, new boyfriend – that’s it? – again I felt on
the B-list, fearful I
might be a pest – but
he never treated me that way. Later, when he visited San Francisco,
his call often
came before mine.
So with this whirlpool of thoughts I
approach City Lights and find it an absolute
nightmare, completely
packed with people, an impossible scene.
I’d see Allen in a week and a half after
he returned from Northern California. I rode the
bus home admiring
the boots of an aging punk.
Ginsberg was now back into town – a
benefit to “Save the Coral Reef” – I talked with
Steve Silberman
on the phone and we made arrangements to go – friend Mitch Loch
would also come –
and here I had a car and could collect my share of bodies – how often
I had been chauffeured in my drinking
days, 11 years in San Francisco – now I was Dad.
Poet Kenward Elmslie was also reading in town, and Allen had been
invited to the
reading. We went with Shig’s nephew, who was studying to be a doctor. – I drove
the
leased Honda I had
from L.A. Elmslie’s poetry was fun, surreal, I
decided I wanted to
get a copy of his
book Moving Right Along but hesitated,
money tight. Shig’s nephew
picked up on this and
bought it for me graciously.
The “Coral Reef” benefit included Allen,
eco-poet legend Gary Snyder, Japanese wild
man Nanao Sakaki, McClure and
Snyder’s old lover Joanne Kyger – a huge event with a
huge turnout at the
Palace of Fine Arts. Steve was writing an article for the Sunday
paper, he asked me
if I minded if I got included – no problem, said the ambition-hungry
poet – I saw the
photos taken that fun day down to San Jose – one in particular showed
Ginsberg with his hand on my thigh though
it was almost cropped out – Mitch caught it
immediately. I remember
there being some attractive women in front of us – here I was
with all gay men –
I could see the women trying to figure out our preference as so often
happened in this town.
I yearned to be with those women – they listened with that
eavesdropping straight ahead
stare to our stories of obvious interactions with Allen and
the other poets –
I’d also met Gary a number of times though never with any real
connection – Steve and I
slipped backstage and talked with Allen before the show –
McClure was friendly, I looked up and saw
his girlfriend who was amazed that I
remembered her name,
which obviously pleased her. There was to be a party afterwards
in the Aquarium
at the park – that sounded like fun.
I will not attempt to describe yet
another poetry reading – except for the energy of
inspiration that coursed
through me – the sense that maybe this really was my lineage – I
beheld my teachers
and knew.
On to the
party.
We arrived early. Well-wishers had
restrained the great writers back at the reading site.
The idea of a party in the Aquarium was
certainly bizarre. I remembered, stoned in
bygone days, how I’d
think mantras at the dolphins. Always felt badly for the dolphins in
particular. Eventually
others drifted in. We wandered the corridors of the Aquarium in a
lonely dream, waiting
for the “Event” to start.
Then they were here, and food was served,
bottles of booze emptied by those who could
drink. Dinner was sushi, so positively ghoulish you’d think it a cannibal joke
worthy of
novelist William
Burroughs. Alas, it was just upscale insensitivity. Everyone ate
ravenously in front of
the docile fish. The dolphins were at least downstairs. I glanced up
at a fairly
attractive woman in a tux who poured me a Calistoga water. “Are you a poet?”
she asked. I
nodded with some embarrassment. “You look like one. You look like you
have a lot on your
mind.” Ah, the melancholy Dane, consuming sushi as the fish wiggled
in their blue-lit
oblivion.
Allen talked to me for a while,
attentive. We discussed the recent sheath of poems I’d
given. “They’re
good. You still seem preoccupied with the same issues, though.
Somewhat more transparent from meditation
practice, I think. Have you considered
therapy?” As you can
imagine, that penetrated very deeply, the kind of remark that makes
you hold your
breath to filter it. Seems the same stuff I was attached to 14 years ago was
still there on the page,
if “more transparent” as Allen put it, meaning less solid iron habit.
It got me thinking. 12 Steps, it seemed,
were going to keep me sober. Period. Tibetan
Buddhism was a way of stepping beyond
personality, but didn’t particularly address the
problems of personality
itself.
“Now’s the time to publish,” he went on,
which meant put out my own book, or bombard
the magazines, but
just get it out there. My poetry practice had become quite solitary,
masturbatory in fact – I
had trouble justifying a lot of time sending to magazines because
rarely was there
money in it – but it led to funny friendships with editors and poets I’d yet
to even met, like
David Cope of Big Scream, or Jim Cohn
of Napalm Health Spa, or Eliot
Katz who had a
brief involvement with Long Shot. [Like Andy
Clausen and a
homosexual mountain man
who called himself Antler, these guys were all neo-Beats, the
real heartsons of Allen.]
I chatted with Amy, McClure’s girlfriend,
but he came up from behind and grabbed her,
whispering into her ear, paranoid
it seemed – not that I felt like any particular threat – but
the conversation
abruptly ended. There was actor Peter Coyote, who’d graduated from
local plays to film
– his girlfriend flirted with McClure rather openly in front of Amy –
there was Gary
Snyder with his new Japanese wife – I didn’t go up to him because it
would’ve been the same
interaction we’d had before – “You’re a great poet” “Thank
you.” “You’re
really a great poet, a…a visionary.” “Thank you.” Next. The evening
wound down – I eyed various
women – feeling like I was in one of those big water tanks
myself – behind glass
– foolish, even – but for what, my desire? Yes, I felt foolish for
that.
Time to go, I packed my rag-tag entourage
and headed for the Honda in the final taxi
night, driving off
in anti-climax.
Steve Silberman
the journalist had told me that I was going to be included in the article
he was writing
about Ginsberg. I was thrilled. He hurriedly brought it over to me when
he picked up an
early edition of the Sunday paper. I was dumbfounded – he referred to
me once by name
and then for the remainder of the article as Mr. Biceps – my sleeveless
shirt had made an
impression obviously – but the article had a strange bite to it, a
jealousy it seemed –
since I was getting preferential treatment from Ginsberg – I felt with
a creeping
horror that I was coming off as some sort of poetry bimbo – a hanger-on like a
gangster’s moll. Steve
seemed oblivious – I was even on the cover of the Sunday
supplement – ON TOUR WITH
ALLEN GINSBERG – there the photo with Ginsberg’s
hand on my thigh,
though not particularly obvious – just an unconscious hint – a further
damnation that I was not
really a colleague but a kind of whore – or so I thought – I
thanked Silberman in a kind of numb horror – I was doing what I had
done all the way
back to childhood –
I didn’t say what I felt – I’d go away and figure it out later.
“…and the
entourage splits into two for the trip to a KHTE-TV interview: Ginsberg and
Mr. Biceps in the front car, the press
crew trailing behind” – ON TOUR WITH ALLEN
GINSBERG By
Steve Silberman.
I was pretty upset – remember I’d just
come back from Hollywood where literally the
only artistic
recognition had been getting a copy of an ALLEN GINSBERG tribute I’d
been invited to
write something for – I opened the contents and nearly everyone was
famous but me – other
than that – rejection upon rejection except for being able to
scribble story analysis
on scripts for studios – all these frustrated writers turn into script
readers with poison
pens – much like critics – so here at last some recognition and then it
turns sour with my
worst fear – I had been reading this book full of writing affirmations –
maybe I’d
unconsciously summoned my own back-stabbing publicity with a kicked heart
that felt it was no
good – so I shared about it in an 12 Step meeting – not mentioning
Ginsberg in particular – but enough that
people knew it was in the paper and I actually
get a call from Silberman a day later – “I heard you felt like a poetry
bimbo when you
read my article”
-someone had heard me at the meeting and knew Steve and went and
told him!
Definitely not anonymity my dears but in this case it actually worked to clear
the air – he
himself genuinely sorry – he’d meant no conscious harm – very distraught –
you could almost
see him yanking his hair on the other side of the phone line – we agreed
to have dinner.
Over Chinese food it came gushing out –
he’d apprenticed for Ginsberg at Naropa
College – always wanting to sleep with
him – but he was fat and felt unattractive – finally
having the nerve to
ask Allen: “I get the feeling you don’t like me.” Allen said simply, “I
am not a guru, or
a psychiatrist.” And left it at that. The portrait that developed for me
was one of Steve’s
unconscious jealousy – not even totally acknowledged here in our
greasy spoon Chinese
restaurant on the Haight – but there was something
different in me
since I’d sobered –
I knew he’d meant no conscious harm and I also knew such jealousy
in myself – it
was possible to forget the whole thing – especially since no one else
reading it even gave a
shit – only William Burroughs’s secretary later told me he thought
it was “pissy” – having had his own travails with the press. But I
did admonish Steve
that Allen most
certainly wouldn’t like his portrait of me.
But a letter from Allen came later
congratulating Steve on the article and on my
“amusing”
appearance in it.
Allen came into town and visited me at
the Meditation Center. It caused a stir among
those who recognized
him as I took him through the house – I couldn’t help but enjoy it.
Finally we returned to the shrine room
and did Chenrezig practice with everyone the
household and visitors.
Libby, Lama’s consort, said
“There are obviously things I don’t know about you.” I
kissed her cheek. “I
have many secrets.”
Lama came home from lecturing elsewhere
and Allen hoped to meet him. Libby
followed after Lama and
quickly reported back that he was too tired. She then
disappeared behind the
curtain to Lama’s quarters, where she told me later he said, “But
I’m not too tired for you.”
Two rejection
letters
for my novel
coming
on the
same
day –
important
agent
and
publishing
house
I’d hoped
to
be sympathetic –
The famous old
poet
visits and
is
a comfort –
he
advises giving
up
fame –
“They’re published
in
heaven – prepare
your
manuscripts
for
death”
A weight
on
my shoulders
perhaps
finally
discarded?
“Don’t worry,
secret
vanity
remains”
the
poet
reassures –
we
kissed and
hugged
as his
taxi
cab glowed
impatiently
[This excerpt #9
from Marc Olmsted’s “Beat Memoir” is
reprinted from the online journal Rusty
Truck. See
https://rustytruck.wordpress.com/2012/11/25/beat-memoir-9-the-punk-the-lama-by-marc-olmsted/.
Retrieved 10 May
2019. Olmsted’s “Beat Memoir” was published under the title Don’t Hesitate (Beatdom
Books,
2014). Reprinted by permission of the author.]