Love & Happiness

When these two hippies went to Woodstock in 1969, they had no idea their embrace would be the iconic symbol of the peace movement. They were probably cold and hungry. And surrounded by acid trippers. At the time Nick and Bobbi Ercoline had only been together three months. They didn’t even know their photo was being taken until they saw it on the cover of the 1970 Woodstock album. There was no stupid “scripted reality”. Real love, Baby. It’s over 40 years later, by the way, and they’re still together.

Swans mate for life. So do black vultures and termites, believe it or not. So when did everyone get so fucking jaded? I don’t believe in psychics, aliens or any other hooey, but I believe in one thing: L-O-V-E. Even John Lennon, who didn’t believe in shit, not even God or The Beatles, believed in his woman. And peace. I’d like to have a bed-in. I’d like to join the Lennons and the Hefners of the world. Hef doesn’t even take his jammies off. I’d like that job. (I wonder how many chicks would rather be Hef than be a playmate? The outfits are cute, though, I have to say. It’s all about the puff tail.)

You don’t have to stand in the mud with a dirty blanket to be happy with the person you love. But music helps. We have speakers in every single room in our house (and they’re all connected to Spotify). If I were at Woodstock with my man, we’d be the ones swimming naked in the pond, because the real truth is music and love make you feel like a free spirit. Like you’ve won the lottery. Or just got your first tattoo.

From the movie Captain Corelli’s Mandolin: (Iannis to Pelagia)

When you fall in love, it is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake, and then it subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots are become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the desire to mate every second of the day. It is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every part of your body. No… don’t blush. I am telling you some truths. For that is just being in love; which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over, when being in love has burned away…

It’s rare, but it happens. Real love lasts. Just like your first (and every) tattoo. My very first one was a flower on my ass. Such a hippie. ♥ ♥♥

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Anne Clendening ♥

Anne Clendening is an L.A. chick, born and raised. She is a writer of creative nonfiction and other sordid tales of life, love and other L.A. adventures.

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