MS. JOCK JOCK PART II

Contributed by Debbie Ullman

This is Part II of a three-part story tracing some of Debbie's experiences and observations as a female rock jock. Wher: we left Debbie last month, she was just commenting on how "coming isn't everything after you've come, but when you're working up to it, it sure as hell is..."

I organized an Earth Day, first day of spring celebration, over the air in Hartford. Two days before the vernal equinox, we (WHCN) issued an invitation to our listeners to come join is on the hill where our transmitter was located for a spring party gather. ing. The sales manager at the radio station didn't like the idea. It was too last-minute, hippy-dippy, flower-child, pedal steely for him. He was afraid it would be a flop...a limp dick. So he said he'd give me 50 cents for every person who showed up (more than twenty.) It was a beautiful sunny day and Connecticut came out of hibernation for the celebra tion en masse. But it wasn't until the tv news cameras started rolling on an "Earth Day Hippy Happening" that people joined hands and listened while Country Paul read the A.P. wire statement from Margaret Mead. I asked Country Paul to read it because I was too scared to. Even the tremendous turnout left me ashamed of my cunty plan. I never did get the sales manager to pay off on the 400 people who swarmed that hill that day to show off for the tv cameras in the sunshine. I wish now I could collect in Kalkan (cat-dog food, the sexless pet food)-cats of course being the pedal steel guitars of petdom; I feed my cat, Star, liberated food, when I feed her at all-and that's really the issue at hand. I need the

long, thick, hard dick of Rolling Stone deep inside me to get me off and feed my cat." Or maybe the warm wet tongue of Ms magazine.

So sit in the sun and drink the Boone's Farm apple wine my outlaw left me. And I pretend that it's Emmy Lou Harris's "Blue bird Wine'. (from Pieces of the Sky Warner. Reprise) instead of the fermented blood of the United Farm Workers. Humanitarian causes and collective consciousness are the luxury play things of the monied elite and have no place among the desperate, hungry pedal steel guitars of the world.

My teachers so far have mostly been menSwami Satchidananda, Ram Dass, and Stephen Gaskin.... Now Stephen is a San Francisco veteran and the directing power of a 700person farming community in Tennessee where woman are invited to come and give birth to unwanted babies, rather than getting abortions. The people at the farm say they will raise the child and if at some future date you decide you want your kid after all, that's okay too, you can have him or her back. But I hear tell on the farm the women wash the clothes and cook the food and raise the babies and the men plough the fields and fix the ploughs. I'll have to make a pilgrimage to the farm myself before I convict Stephen of psychedelic chauvinism.

George Murray, a San Francisco and Kent storyteller and underground hero, who is also my good friend tells me I need a woman lover to unclog my third chakra (solar plexus, where people get ulcers.) It makes sense. But coming isn't everything, and when I'm with the ladies I love, orgasm is the furthest thing from our minds, Our energy is most often spent walking in the woods or on the

beach, exchanging pretty things we've made or old things we've found at barn sales, dis cussing Saturn cycles or turning each other onto a new food philosophy or meditation technique. Often we share music.

It's

Why haven't any new age "imperfect mistresses'. (gurus) surfaced yet? Or if they have, why have I missed them? Is it because I've been too busy hiding the pedal steel between my legs to investigate the female literature? The spiritual literature for the most part appears to be part of the inter national Les Paul cock conspiracy. subtle. East/West, cunt/jock, yin yang, recep tive/creative. How can you publish receptivity? How do you go about living a question? I've only recently become aware of my ner vous habit of asking questions whenever I hear "dead air" in group situations. Maybe it comes from having conducted a great many radio interviews, where "dead air" is illegal. I ask-not always out of curiosity and I don't always listen to the answer. It's my way of keeping control with my yoni (sanscrit for genitals). Maria Muldaur wears a flower in her hair. I ask questions.

My teacher, Madeline Teagle, who is a Cuy ahoga Valley mother of four and grandmother of one and a ufologist, holds free color medi tation sessions in her home on Friday nights. She says the next world savior will be a wo man, a young woman who will not make use of technological mass media, but will walk around quietly opening people's crown chakras and leading us all into the promised land just in time.

(Next month: adolescents, clarinets, pandora's box and Star's dinner.)

POETRY

Beauty

She laughed at me

that Black Woman did,

I had a silly mane

that made my heritage

Go into knots

every time the wind blew.

I must have been hilarious

my bland face

spotted with red pimples

my nose dotted with blackheads

The iris of my eyes,more white than blue.

So they call this beauty? She mused.

I saw the joke

Together

we laughed

at the myth

that had kept us apart.

Now it is the time for shovelling bones

in separate heaps,

and bushel baskets full of acorns

for the fire out in the street

A time to come.

und twine our bodies 'round

white bowls,

with egg-yolk centers.

Pressed firm together, hands fixed upon each others shoulders, And eyes attentively attuned around the weather

It is a time

to be absorbed, consumed, with no regrets

To dip our heads, as one, beneath a vellow skin.

and lift them out in separate petals.

Then Yodelling our songs of mirth.

In Crooked streaks that col and bend about the earth,

A time to hlend our hardened hopes of wire

Into a nest-like weave of intersecting fettles

Patricia Hilliard

Riisene 43

V Denby

What She Wants/July, 1975