The spirits of Jack Kerouac, Dean Moriarty, Lee Mellon plus an odd assortment of fictional characters, fade in and out of the foggy mist that floats over the peninsula daily. Bohemian archetypes mingle with my personal memories of the early seventies. My mind tends to blend the factual with the fictional when I look back 45 years. Did I really meet Price Dunn the "Confederate General of Big Sur" over a bowl of hash in his kitchen in Pacific Grove?
Few of my acquaintances from that time stand out clear in my minds eye other than very close friends (girlfriends and close male friends). I see those friends as 20 somethings, If I saw them today on the street I would not recognize them, they are also the ghosts of Monterey.