Satty died on opening night at a show he was never meant to give in an accident that everyone who ever went to Sattys studio worried might happen to themselves, namely falling down the precarious ladder one had to make ones descent on to reach the bunker cave.
Now its 1998 I am sitting writing this story far away from San Francisco. American students rank lower in academics than any industrial country on earth. American citizens celebrate the American dream by eating out of garbage cans in every city of every state of the union. American homeless are a new class, along with American homeowners. The President of the United States, Clinton, who our deluded Psychedelic minds believed might be the first president with an expanded consciousness, has just sold American nuclear secrets to China for some cheap election money. Condemning us all to a new future of thermonuclear duck and cover neurosis. Something is very wrong in America the land of the free and the home of the brave.
The Monsters do rule America now
Satty was right. But nobody listened.
Satty was a noble man.
He fell down a hole and died
Satty was amongst a large group of artists/bohemians in the San Francisco area in the 1960s. When I saw collages at that time, there was a very good chance that they were Satty’s.