Roots

(Continued from Mass Conspiracy, Ambush, Subterfuge, etc)

After a night of fighting in the streets, dispatching emissaries primed with all manner of architectural theory, desperation, and heavy penance, my focus became clear again.

Tested by so many years of undiscouraged belief in environmental possibilism, and maybe a few as an idle boulevadier, I ventured forth, undeterred by the harsh reputations of the wastelands, ranging far.

I located the first house I'd ever known with Craftsman style finishes, belonging to an elementary school chum, dark, unpainted wood, pocket doors, the dimness of the big bare sala.

My first taste of the late 19th century, a mammoth Stick-style hippie haunt, a great emporium of treasures from Pre Columbian burial grounds, pots, tiny silver arms, legs, rosaries, long tapestries wrapped in paper, bursting with pattern, wooden toys, beaded curtains, elaborately carved Newel posts, and lofty rooms of scandalous color, psychedelic posters by Victor Moscoso, carpet slippers, and bootleg recordings pirated at the Fillmore.

The quatre-cuadrado lurked, sometimes contemptuous, sometimes sullen, offering high-sounding sentiments about Baja Alta and our Spanish fathers.
Once or twice a slight faintness came over me, as I aligned the tumblers of influence. The revolutionist forces lay ahead.