Perhaps this one is to kid me for not having done much for the body of Christ this year in the way of sexual favors actually bestowed, but to have instead applied myself to stating lines. Meanwhile the gal crowned in something like a papal headdress is really doing something affectionate for pilgrims on their way to the end.

This photo seems to show me in my Halloween Christiaan Huygens wig over Wichita, Kansas looking back at Green Valley, Arizona, where my mother is hospitalized. I sent her a Get Well card with a big colorful Sunflower on the front of it, the Kansas State flower. Inside I included a picture of myself, because Mom's right cerebral hemisphere is supposed to be OK, so that she recognizes faces. Then I sent a postcard showing the route I take downtown past the old Wichita city building and the coffee shop when I visit the bank. Meanwhile, a ghostly hand seems to seize me from above to join three magi marching east to Washington D.C.. I am trying to hold back the eggnog in order to join them sporting a three-star waistline, but this afternoon I had a quart of the stuff for lunch.
Flashback
In 1969 I looked like the fellow that the hand is coming down for on a day I felt I was taken over from above by Timothy Leary, long hair and all, as described in my recollections of my Psychedelic 60s period. As a visor came down over my eyes, I remember thinking "Oh, no!", like a little fish being swallowed by a big one. But when the visor went up, Tim had come from above in to steady me like a manifestation of the Great White Father spirit, which seemed to be connected through ghostly spokes to some great wheel up above. He had an aura like the pilot of a jet plane. When I objected that at 19 I was too young to close my eyes and be taken up into the sky, Tim chuckled and let go of me. The scene reminds me of the tendrils that seemed to rise from my body like spirit plumes into the sky then. Since I quit taking LSD in 1973 I did not experience this kind of a flashback until the Spring of 2002, when I seemed to see Ram Dass, one of my early psychedelic teachers, coming to me through the clouds about the time I was computing all the details of stellar structure in the Sun. I think of a line from Michael McClure's book of poems Star, published by Evergreen Press, and featuring a cover with a silkscreen print of long-haired Michael roaring in on a motorcycle: "The plumes of love are black! The plumes of love are black!" In Michael's work I see echoes of my own experience:

I did send them many a free clause. In my family I count the Grandfather Zone inside the years 49 to 83, the ages of Grandfather Harold Mayfield and Grandfather James A. Green Sr. at the times they passed away. I used to play Santa at Christmas Eve parties, too. I am still going around in my former collegiate style, however.
The Mayfield-Green Grandfather Zone
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