Asia Rain

 

Sweet and gentle falling from blue skies

without a breath of wind . . .

 

Awakening a parched world,

painting foreign landscapes in endless shades of green,

while playing reveille for the sleepless ghost of the young dead

as the procession begins and they march in perfect unison

down a well worn path.

 

Oh! Asia Rain, your living drops are a small piece of torture

that my thirsty tongue laps from the sky

while my body feels each drop as exquisite pain

hammering tears from my staring dry eyes,

as I watch the procession pass by once again.

 

Sweet and gentle falling from blue skies

without a breath of wind . . .

KEH 4/98

Chapter One

 

In my memory, that summer in the 60's lasted a whole year long, beginning in January when I first arrived in San Francisco. Flying free from restraints, I was sky-high on drugs, and sex and rock and roll-a runaway with a mission to soar like a bird, to run my soul naked in the park, kiss bums on the cheek, and hand out flowers on street corners, in the only city that mattered to an eighteen year old with wide eyes and long blonde hair and psychedelic granny dresses flowing in the breeze.

There were no nightmarish acid trips or bummed out lovers, or regrets. My life was one long string of moments strung together like Christmas lights, merrily twinkling their way to infinity. Cruiser (Joel Staposki a former boyfriend-black curly hair, slight sexy build, and way too much intensity for me) drove us out of Bakersfield in his old Jalopy. Dropping me in Haight Ashbury, I didn't see him again for a week. But then, I didn't want to be found by him or anyone else. I suppose he shared the sentiment since he didn't try very hard to find out where I landed.

There was a poetry reading in the park that afternoon, and I was mesmerized by J.T. (that is Jack Thomas) Greenway, who, like a strolling troubadour, read with his eyes and hands and a look of lust and outrage on his face. He had subtly, and force, and keen blue eyes that, for just one brief moment, caught mine. I thought he would strip me naked-and I wouldn't have cared. I'd have laid my life down for that man.

The poem was Asia Rain, and that became my name. For a girl from the wilted plains of Bakersfield, Asia and rain were both fine things to dream on. They were like stars in a never ending array of fantasies to take me beyond myself.

When the reading was over, J.T. Greenway stuffed his backpack with his poetry and strolled away with a wave of his hand dismissing his minions.

"Mr. Greenway!" I called after him with the enthusiasm of a ten year old, rising out of a crowd of twenty hippies sitting crossed-legged on the lawn.

He turned to me looking cocky and gruff.

Such embarrassment swept me, my face red, all I could think to say was "thank-you." Then he left as I watched his lanky form move off with a determined and earthy grace.

What to do about my first night in San Francisco-that was solved in seconds when Corey Ellison Roberts tapped me on the shoulder.

I had a feeling I'd say yes to anything this inconstant Hippie asked once his effusive bubble of energy moved through mine. He towered over me, his long hair in curls the color of straw, catching the afternoon sun so it gleamed like a halo. My eyes dove into his-his hot and sharp, greedy, passionate and charismatic eyes that would circle around me in one glance, his body seizing everything his eyes left behind.

"You have a place to stay?" he asked.

"No. A friend came with me but he hasn't showed." I looked around as if expecting the missing Cruiser to appear any second.

"My flat's a block away. Wanna come? Good grass and a pot of soup."

"Sure."

"I'm Corey. There's Bird and me and Nan and Blossom in the flat, but there's lots of room for more."

"I'm Asia Rain," I said.

He nodded, noting the reference to Greenway's poem. "Far-out." Taking one of my pigtails in his hand, he fingered my hair as though he had electricity in his hands. I jumped. "You dig J.T., huh?"

"Yeah, he was magic, wasn't he?"

"You a poet too?"

"Aren't we all?" I smiled.

Corey, with broad shoulders and a mind-boggling ass in his cut-off jeans, slipped an arm around me like he owned me, and I nestled inside him, knowing this was my world now. I was Asia Rain and would be making love tonight in a San Francisco flat, under strobe lights, with the aroma of world's best grass tickling my nostrils. My dreams were made for this kind of moment.