Woodstock
I finally made it to Woodstock, New York. I say finally, but I mean eventually. Carrying suitcases packed full of designer clothes, thinking more about advertisers and my grandmothers 80th birthday than nakedness and love, I packed and unpacked cars. I dressed and undressed models. I talked to a cross-eyed man who was 16 years old when Jimi Hendrix played 70 miles down the road in the rain. His father kept him busy.
In the grass we laid our model down. We brushed her hair and we painted her body, covered it in black leather, beige make-up. She told me of how she had grown up in France, northern France, with her brother and he loved fashion more.
The tree came down so low it touched her shoulder and we all stared down. The glare of the sun became shade, then shadows, and then the same flesh that we were all hoping could prove our point, pay our bills.
