Woodstock 17: Festival



Westlake Village, California

March 19,2011

10:50 PM

Laying front to back, spoon fashion, Marsha’s head resting on Mitchell’s shoulder, she had been telling Sharon’s story that had been told to Marsha in the strictest, old woman to old woman confidence.

Of course after six glasses of wine and one-half of a maharajah laced cookie.

11:01 PM

“Yeah. But when Sherrie was telling it… Even though it’s been forty-two years, she’d actually gagged.

“Could maybe be those six glasses of wine, also.”

“Yeah. True.” Marsha said. “If she was knee deep in shit on the boat this afternoon.”

“So they figured they had about sixty yards to get out of

the parking lot, did they?”

“Yeah.”

“So how’d they get out?”

“Sharon told me her and Franklin took very slow, very long steps.”

Woodstock Festival of Music and Love
Bethel, New York

August 12, 1969

4:08 PM

Thoroughly disgusted at the thought of having to do it, but having no choice but to do it.

The stink clogging their throats.

Pinching her nostrils. “Think we can do it on tip toes?” Sharon asked in her closed nasally tone.

Apparently the flow of water from the fields higher plane slowing, what passed for the Woodstock parking lot no longer a huge throbbing pond of urine infused human feces, but now— the sun unmercifully heating the muck with it’s ninety-five degree heat. The stink attracting, so it seemed, every mosquito, so it seemed in God’s vengeance up0n the evil created by mankind.

Hating the thought of having to do it.

“Think we can do it on tip toes?”

Gagging, turning his head to the side, vomiting.

Not wanting to breathe, but having but to breathe, “Maybe…” Franklin said “...if we hold on to each other.”

Waving her hand before her face, to brush the mosquitoes away. “For balance?”

His hand waving before his face as though waving goodbye. “Yeah.”

“Clyde!” Looking towards the Ford wagon, her throat struggling with each long held breath. “I’ve got to get out of here!”

The windows shut, the pent up heat in the Ford hitting a foul smelling hundred-five. Feeling on the verge of passing out…Hating the thought, but opening the door, taking one step. His sandal sinking into the muck; then, vomiting, a second step.

His left arm about Sharon’s waist. Sharon’s right arm about Franklin’s waist.

4:13 PM

On tip toe; the pointed pressure forcing muck over the thin sole of her sandal, covering Sharon’s toes, and above the sole, soaking the white canvas of Franklin’s deck shoe.

One… two… on the third step — “Fuck it!” Releasing Sharon’s waist, splattering muck as he ran, then, reaching the field, dropping to his knees Franklin, for the third time vomited.

4:16 PM

Standing on the tips of her toes, knowing she had to, but unwilling to make her way the additional distance…

“Queer left you, huh!”

Startling her, 5’5” Sharon Murphy easily lifted — losing one sandal in the muck, and thrown over the shoulder of — as one would a sack of potatoes — 6’2” Clyde Murphy, as, both sandals making sickening suction sounds, he carried his wife the remaining distance to the field where, dropping his wife to the ground, Clyde fell to his knees vomiting as were at least a dozen others.

Rubbing her one bare foot onto the grass in an effort to wipe the human waste residue from it.

4:18 PM

Taking his wife’s hand, “Come on!” helping her to her feet. “If it hasn’t been too fucked up already, I think I know where we can glean up.”

“Where?”

“A little stream I found in the woods.”

Kicking her one fouled sandal away. “I’m barefoot.”

“So walk carefully.”

“Mind if I come along?”

“Sure…” looking at Franklin “...why not.”

“And just to let you know, I’m not queer.”

Looking at his wife.

Nodding her head affirmatively. “He’s not queer.” Sharon said knowingly.

4:30 PM

Apparently the fifty portable toilets that had been blown over during the storm, realigned and replaced in position by whatever maintenance people that had been hired by the production company.

Pulling Sharon along, with Franklin alongside, cutting across the upper southern perimeter of the field…

“Where we going?”

Glancing at Franklin. “Those, uh, suction trucks…”

“ ‘Suction trucks’?”

Glancing at Sharon. “Don’t know what else to call, ‘em...The trucks that came to suck the shit out of the Andy Gumps last night had to come from somewhere, and they sure as hell couldn’t have come by the road! So figured there’s got to be a way through the woods.”

“You found a way through the woods?”

“Yeah…”

Feeling hatred for this…? Boy? Young man? Because he’d fucked his wife. But the hatred tampered because, after all, he’d fucked the boy’s…? Young man’s mother.

This whole adventure—misadventure to Woodstock had been one hundred percent the husband’s idea with, also the husband’s provision that whatever he did — never figuring his little, demure wife would want to do what he had every intention of doing, and then receiving complete forgiveness for whatever he did because; as they’d both agreed: ‘what happens at Woodstock stays at Woodstock’.

Including whatever his little, demure wife wanted to do.

“You found a way through the woods?”

“Yeah... Looked like an old deer path that they’d
widened enough for those trucks to get through and back to wherever they came.”

Hoping her husband was taking them someplace to, at the very least, clean their feet. “You found a stream or something?”

“Yeah. About a quarter mile up, the trucks cut through a pond shallow enough for them to make it across.

4:38 PM

As they were heading in the direction of the tent and Franklin’s lean-to. Once there, Sharon dug through her pack until finding another pair flats and expecting mosquitoes in the woods, a light weight jacket, as all three did their best to wipe away the now dried parking lot residue from their feet and ankles.

4:46 PM

Finding the track of tires coming from the brush leading to the outer fringe of the cow field. “Watch where you step...” Clyde warned “...because this is…” motioning about “...all outdoor toilet area now.”

Dodging clumps of excrement. “Couldn’t they, at least…” Franklin asked, stepping over a rain flattened pile. “... find bushes or trees?”

“Guess they’d been warned about bears and want to be able to see what’s around them.”

“Bears! There’s bears here?” Sharon asked her
husband.

4:48 PM

Following the tire tracks through the outer brush and into the woods.

The loud mummer from the thousands in the cow field still loudly apparent.

“Yeah. I suppose there’s bears around,” Clyde answered. “But hopefully they’d been scared away by all that noise.”

“And maybe because all this shit.” Franklin added.

The ground still sodden from the recent storm, dispersing much of the human waste.

Dodging one rain softened pile than quickly another.“Think all this shit will become fertiliser?”

“Yeah. Maybe you’d like to come back next year and pick some flowers.”

“More like stink weed.” Franklin said.

Hundreds clumps of sodden toilet paper clinging to and entwined about bushes and tree limbs reminiscent of the deceive teen-age prank of throwing rolls of toilet paper over residential tree limbs.

Stepping about a wide, brown puddle. “This is awful!”

“It’ll get better in a few minutes, Sherry.”

5:04 PM

Following the truck tracks further into the woods, the remains of human wast diminishing until there were none, but yet— as though an airliner high in the stratosphere invisible to human sight, but yet the sound addable far below, so then the mummer of the thousands near a quarter mile back still heard coming from behind… but now the noise of people coming from ahead.

5:07 PM

Seemingly others having the same brainstorm as Clyde Murphy had searched out the tire tracks leading past the land mines of shit and toilet paper embellished trees and bushes as there must have been a hundred people wading and splashing in the clear upper-thigh depth water.

Increments of the parking lot waste still inbedded between their toes, their feet near swiped clean by the brushing of weeds and high grass, though their bodies had been well showered in the rain storm, the voyage through the woods in ninety-five degree heat raising renewed perspiration…

Most of the women in the pond topless and, as the water was but thigh deep, easily seen, most of the men were bottomless…

Stepping out of her sandals, pulling the bathing suit bra over her head and pushing the bottom down and off. “I’m going in!”

Beautiful, large busted, middle-aged Sharon Murphy causing immediate interest to a number of the older men.

“Might as well.” Toeing his sandals off, then his shorts. 6’2” Clyde followed his wife, creating immediate interest to a number of the older women.

Having not the slightest compunction, his long, partially erected, dangling penis causing instant interest to many of both the older and younger hippie women, Franklin Binkowski waded into the clear — in his case, penis high water.

5:15 PM

Clyde Murphy enjoying the close bodily attention of one younger and one older, obviously hippie women.

Sharon Murphy more than slightly annoyed by the — holding him at arms length— closely pressing attention of, one in particular, long haired, older hippie man.

Taking one last deep knee bend to recleanse her body and one, leaning forward submergence of her head to rinse her hair. “Clyde…” she called, taking his attention from the older and younger hippie women “...I’m going home!”

Received no response, shoving the old, long haired hippie from her, causing him to lose balance and fall backwards in the water.

Wading to shore, slipping into the sandals and putting her bathing suit on, she started back to the cow field as a leaf rustling northerly breeze came up causing her to drape the light weight jacket over her shoulders.

Noting his wife actually leaving, thinking if he left her to walk back to the tent alone, this very possibly might reignite the tension between them once again. “Sharon, hold on!”

Clyde caught up to his wife within seconds.

Franklin, though, figuring he’d be, 'properly', fucking one or more of the hippie women crowding his body. “I’m staying!”

5:40 PM

“Where’s my son?”

“We’re not your son’s keepers, Dawn.” Sharon said.

“You getting something to eat soon?”

Their deal: maharajah for food. Still having enough weed for two thin joints.

“Not going back there till that shit dries up or washes away.”

“Might starve by then!”

“Tough shit!” Clyde called back.

6:10 PM

Rain starting again. Not the downpour of this afternoon, but enough to clear enough of the human waste away for Clyde to bring food for his wife, himself, Autumn Dawn and Franklin; AKA, Morning Lust, whom, obviously finding someplace and something else to eat, did not return until late that night.

August, 13, 1969

Awakening at 6:48 AM, noting Franklin sleeping alongside his mother.

Venturing to the Ford Station Wagon, Sharon returned with enough provisions for all four, for both breakfast and lunch.

Having more than enough of this Woodstock experience.

Not all that much into Rock and Roll any way.

Two days remaining.

As it turned out, the two days prior the start of the festival were pleasant summer days.

Other than watching the lower cow field expand further and further from east to west, from north to south.

From where Sharon watched, the ever expanding gelatinous mass of humanity appeared to merge onto and into each other.

Sharon Murphy watched and read and slept, until…

August 15,1963

5:00 PM

Richie Havens took the stage, played a forty-five minute set and was followed by…


Woodstock 18: So It Began