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Page Seventeen


Rest day in Lincoln. For my body, yes, but not for my mind. It seethes like a tempest; it boils over with heat and humidity. It staggers with the final breakdown of my tape recorder, all chewed up inside with sand, with seeds, dirt, and debris of all kind. Beatrice and I fight daily now - our war of words a nightmare. Is this whole thing a bad dream from which I can't awake?

The Peace March is one big brawl. Why won't the anarchists listen to reason and go by the rules? Why so many March Potatoes who do not work and will not walk? Is it true only TWELVE marchers shuffled into camp with our flags yesterday? What are we doing out here? Are we having any effect at all?

A rehearsal in the heat tonight, a very frustrating one. I'm impatient, irritated, SICK! I'm going craz...

At this point our author drops his pen. No more entries, no more journals! The writing ends in mid sentence, in mid word!

Shall we ever know the rest of his story - the end of his adventure? Unfortunately, no. So far as his own words go, no, for this is what I found in the closet: a journal prematurely terminated.

But this could not be the end for me. Not only was I caught up in this story for its intrinsic interest, I was still haunted by the thought that this author might be ME! He seems to have suffered a breakdown in Nebraska. A heat stroke, perhaps? Amnesia? Why, I've had amnesia-like symptoms for years!

My feet were seen walking on the Great Peace March; that's beyond a shadow of doubt. Not only Ralph and Guy, but Marc Polonsky and Elizabeth Vanek and Josh Stanley here in the Bay Area swear I was on the March. I attended a GPM reunion down near Santa Barbara. Yes, eighty people were there and all remembered me. BUT NOT ONE COULD SAY WHETHER I KEPT A JOURNAL.

One last hope: I had to speak with this woman our journalist called his Beatrice. A Marcher friend felt sure she knew who this "Beatrice" was and gave me a phone number. This Seattle woman, my friend assured me, was an actress, dancer, performance artist, photographer, and poet. I did call this "Beatrice." Hooray! She told me SHE KNEW ALL and would relate everything in a letter. It was not too long before I received the following: