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Where have all the flowers gone?(A REQUIEM IN REMEMBERANCE OF HAIGHT ASHBURY)
It would evolve into The Dionysian Festival of the sixties, the grand illusion while searching for individual identities. These were the cherubic faces of the counter culture, the vanguard that would inevitably define an entire generation of youthful malcontents. War and political turmoil raged throughout the nation, and causes of the day became as common and ominous as Hoffa was to Teamsters. As the reigning dissidents of the era, we perused our options in an effort to establish a dichotomy and subsequent separation from the shackles of the mainstream and the urban myth from parental guidance. The thought process was for us to avoid the ritual of antiquated guidelines that had been passed on by our predecessors. This would maturate and become the embryonic stages of our introduction to recreational involvement, i.e., sex, drugs, rock n' roll, political and radical organizations and the juxtaposing image of a Bohemian culture that would forever be synonymous with the decade. The Americana aspect that our parents had embraced would be lost in the proverbial shuffle, a defining moment augmented by mind altering Image By Don Aters
Image By Don Aters
Image By Don Aters
Our world was envisioned as a more serene existence, a clandestine gathering inclusive of cultural diversity, pattering lives to the musical pearls of selected bands and the human tapestry painted by the icons of the day that we most emulated and admired. These would prove to be provocative thoughts attained from those we most adored and they still occasionally resurface from the recesses of our minds. The quandary is, "Where have all the flowers gone?" The caveat of the Bush administration resonates loudly as we digress to the more surreal yet explosive era in the annals of American history. The nefarious involvement and burgeoning war with Iraq has equated to more casualties after the announced conclusion than while actually involved with internal combat and seems to conjure vivid memories of and the lesson in futility ascertained from the sixteen year dilemma in Vietnam. Image By Don Aters
Image By Don Aters
Image By Don Aters
Image By Don Aters
The legacies of the past and the artists now live vicariously through those who know the power of the music, the opulence of the Avalon Ballroom, The Fillmores and other noted venues. The memories of Janis Joplin, Pigpen, Jerry Garcia, John Cippolina, John Kahn, Dave Tolbert, Skip Spence, Mimi farina, Bill Graham and other are The Ghosts of Avalon, the storied entertainers of 35 years ago. The survivors have long since vacated the abodes in the Victorian area of the bay around Golden Gate Park for the more lavish confines of Marin County but, their legacies live on. As we ruminate about the days of old, and the ambiance that remains, thanks to survivors like Paul Kantner, Sam Andrew, Peter S. Albin, Barry Melton, Santana, Merl Saunders, David Nelson, Pete Sears, Terry Haggerty, Phil Lesh, Bob Weir, and Chet Helms seems to be in order. The mass migration drifted into folklore many years ago but the aura of this suburban district continues to grow as a cultural phenomenon. Image By Don Aters Image By Don Aters
fondly recollected as the trend setters of the era. The wafts of fragrances that once lingered over this beloved area has been somewhat tainted by the influx of street urchins but some semblance of the embryonic days of the beat poets and artists who once dominated the district is still alive and well. It was the cradle for personal identity, a brief stay where a standard for universal growth and acceptance will never be replicated. It is an epiphany where we subconsciously still see the legends of our youth. As they gradually fade into their next existence, any death or demise is as painful as if it were our own family. We are a universal composite, a family of brothers and sisters from different parents joined together by a unilateral cause with the backdrop that arose from great music.
Image By Don Aters
Long live the legacy of The Haight Long live the legacy of The Avalon Ballroom and The Fillmores Long live the affable and charming Chet Helms Long live the memories Long may we run
Image By Don Aters
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experimentation and a mass migration to the west coast. While in
search for our illusive identity, the sensationalism of sex, drugs and rock
n' roll was not the addiction so blatantly exploited by the press. If the
actual origin had been pursued, some basic knowledge of our commonality and
acceptance of cultural diversity and the "hippiedom" lifestyle would have
been revealed. It was our chosen path in an effort to defray the
astronomical loss of life in a political and pointless war magnified by
other sociological debacles that solidified our separation from the accepted
norm. The entire generation would be scrutinized by the media and
prejudged by drug related deaths that were more noted as the trappings of
the musical genre and other artistic souls than a mirrored image of the
youthful, nomadic hordes that were westward bound.
San Francisco and The Haight Ashbury district, the Valhalla of The
Woodstock Generation, would soon become the epicenter. An august,
generational pilgrimage would reach epic proportions and the apex of this
popularity would culminate during the latter days of the late sixties and
signal the demise soon afterward. The influx of dangerous two narcotics, and
various laboratory intoxicants would surpass the typical indulgence of
marijuana and the glory of this Bohemian neighborhood and the denizens who
survived would be replaced with the decadence and perpetual crime factor
that had once been relegated to the larger cities of the country. The
choices that arose from "flower power" and the pundits of flower children
would be arcane to the post WW11 adults but their inability to cope would
not impede the unveiling of The Age Of Aquarius a culmination of fact and
The Peter Pan Syndrome. It was somewhat of a mixed metaphor that would
evolve into defiance yet contiguous to prior generations. 
The days of
being bridled by tradition and the restriction of rough hewn bi-laws of
yesteryear would be severed by our affirmation and belief that we could
collectively change the aggressive demeanor of international discord with a
more demure and ambiguous approach through "peace and love".
San Francisco, the chosen destination for nomadic
sojourns during the sixties and Haight Ashbury as the Utopian capitol for
the burgeoning throng of free spirits was the intrinsic peacemaker. At times
it seems to be nothing more than a distant memory, fodder for music trivia,
but the ideology of commonality and peace through music remains a beacon in
a mire of political and social banality of 2003-2004. We are now the
vanishing tribe, the voices of reason now ensconced in nostalgia and virtual
obscurity. The mystical formula, the mantras of harmonious existence are now
shards of the aspects that were once so ominous on our horizons. Perhaps the
illusion of the flower children was not as daring and inconceivable as once
believed by those who frowned on the anarchy of troubled youth. It was
to have been the universal bonding solution, a trumpeting plot that seemed
more feasible than the senseless killing of our peers and the appalling
fabrication from our government as the harbingers of
good
will and a pillar of unification. The desire for a more laconic method
could arise. It becomes a thought to ponder over as the idea of rising
from the ashes becomes more of a reality. The beat of the counter
culture rings loudly in the once deaf ears of the purveyors of doom. We now
represent 64% of the population. A need for us to finally be heard seems to
be urgent. The rancor has been rekindled and the desultory attitude
and cajoling lexicon of those in office is in need of revision. The once
regal icons seem to be fading glory but we gather occasionally to celebrate
events and performers with a litany of old friends. The power of positive
thinking seems to permeate the air and replace the temporal disorientation
with communal logic and the antiquated but valued thoughts of long ago.
The
mystique of various raiment trends is another media hyperbole, 
Perhaps a chance to restore credibility to these
heralded venues and the canon of the counter culture is now more feasible.
Long ago we searched for a better way, an effort that would forever make us
the most engaging and mysterious generation known to man. We
continue our search as best we can, relegated to diminishing numbers but
still admired by those who envied the efforts. We cling closer to the
survivors, the living treasures of teenage years, and a reminder of the
sacred vestige of Haight Ashbury. These were the days of our discontent
but we also reveled in our participation as we strolled along undaunted in
our search. It was magical yet mercurial, the brief life of the flower
children. Such a waste, those were the days..