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  It had been snowing heavily and we were totally hypnotised by the beauty of it all as we walked across untrodden expanses of pure, glistening whiteness. Then we heard a voice shout, ‘Hey! Get off the lake!’

  We had no idea we’d wandered from the grass on to the frozen water. We carefully inched our way to the safety of the bank. My ankle-length purple velvet coat was sodden and I was numb with cold, but it didn’t bother me much. We forged on to the Floyd gig, where I sat crossed-legged throughout, lost in the music and hallucinations, and only momentarily distracted by Nick Mason’s cymbal mallet landing in pieces in my lap.

  I continued to drop acid for a while and through that scene had met Steve’s uncle, Graham. He was quite a few years older than me and looked like a tall, willowy Viking, but with a Geordie accent. I loved the way he said ‘knickers’, but can’t remember in what situation he would have said it to me. Graham slept in the very large communal hallway in a flat down Spring Bank. It was bigger than the rooms that ran off it and he’d pitched an Arabian tent arrangement, using diaphanous fabric to cordon off his sleeping area. He’d also painted the ceiling like a night sky, with clusters of stars that were mirrored by painted stars on the floor, which in turn had loose paper stars scattered amongst them.

  Me and Ez had gone there to drop acid together and were sitting on the bed, totally lost in the trip until I got up to go to the loo and happened to kick some of the paper stars and knock over a glass of water on to Ez. He completely lost it. He thought he’d pissed himself and that the stars were not only falling from the sky but also moving around on the floor. He shot out the door and ran off up the street.

  People having bad trips was becoming a little worrisome. I’d already given up dope, having seen how everyone just got smashed and did nothing. It seemed like a waste of time. At least acid was challenging my view of things.

  Early November 1969

  Cosmosis he named me after seeing me just once.

  I’d gone to an acid test at the Union at Hull University. I walked into the room, paid my entrance fee and received my tab of acid, but didn’t stay in the room long. It was a sensory overload, but not a good one if you were on acid – well, for me, anyway. People were already tripping when I arrived: they were laid on the floor, groping one another or playing with a bathtub of coloured jelly, slopping it about to create patterns. But the last straw for me was a guy playing a saxophone, free-jazz-style. The notes were so jarring, fast and scatty, it drove me crazy. As I went to leave, I saw what I thought was a hallucination – a small, beautiful guy dressed in a black graduation gown, complete with mortarboard and a wispy, pale-lilac goatee beard.

  About a week later, I was out with Rick and another friend, Wilsh. We were at a gig-cum-disco event, laughing and dancing to ‘Sugar, Sugar’ by the Archies, when a guy came over to me and said, ‘Cosmosis, Genesis would like to see you.’

  ‘What?’

  It was explained to me that a guy called Genesis had seen me and named me Cosmosis, and wanted us to get together. I didn’t know what to think of it.

  ‘Oh. OK, then,’ I said, meaning to deal with it later.

  11 November 1969

  There is only one boy I have seen who made me forget Steve and that was a musician called Genesis. He was so beautiful. His eyes were a clear blue, his hair dark brown and his skin a clear, golden colour. He smiled so beautifully. As I’m writing this I remember my reaction when I first met Steve, and this seems not to compare to it at all …

  I had begun to fall for Gen. My attraction was partly influenced by my crush on Phil ‘Shiva’ Jones, of the band Quintessence. Gen had a similar pretty ‘Indian Prince’ look. But I recognised my feelings for Gen were different to, and didn’t equal the intensity of, those I’d felt for Steve. I wasn’t ready for another relationship but Gen had a beguiling way about him, and he seemed to care. I started seeing him but didn’t commit myself.

  I’d meet up with Gen at John Krivine’s flat down Alexandra Road. (John later opened the BOY punk shop in London.) Gen knew John from his time at Hull University, and his other university friend John Shapeero had a room at John Krivine’s flat, where Gen stayed rent-free. On one of my visits, John Krivine took a portrait of us together, me with a smile on my lips, my arms around Gen’s neck, leaning adoringly on his shoulder, and Gen straight-faced, arms folded, staring down the camera. John took me to one side afterwards and with what seemed genuine concern advised me to think seriously about having a relationship with Gen. He said Gen was the most selfish person he’d met, had the biggest ego that he’d ever come across, and that I would always come second to that. I really didn’t know what to think, especially when many of my friends also started voicing their concerns.

  Gen knew I was in a vulnerable position and his affectionate kisses and promises of ‘I’ll never leave you’ gave me a feeling of much-needed security. He felt like an ally in my struggle to make sense of my life. Still, after being disowned by my dad and thrown aside by Steve and Jo, the fear of further rejection made me worry about fully surrendering myself to anyone. I felt a need to protect myself, and Gen gave me the impression that he would act as my protector.

  Gen went to his parents’ home for Christmas and I continued to party with my friends. As Christmas drew near, Mum caught sight of me as I passed the house on my way to catch the bus and begged me to come home. She’d persuaded Dad to let me back. I said I would, but when I returned Dad told me in no uncertain terms that nothing had changed – the same rules applied. I was happy to be with Mum again, though, and she did all she could for me, and I love her so much for trying to make it work.

  29 December 1969

  Genesis got back tonight. Very strange because I never went with him at all, I just ran off home.

  I’d been eagerly awaiting Gen’s return after Christmas, more so after receiving a declaration of his love for me in the form of the most beautiful, colourful letter I’d ever seen. It was a veritable rainbow of words, interwoven and flowing into various shapes across the page. But when we met he was moody and there was no reunion kiss, which I thought odd. I left him to it and went home. He was in a better mood when I saw him the next day and we arranged to see each other on New Year’s Eve.

  31 December 1969

  Went round to Gen’s, he wasn’t in. Went again an hour later, he still wasn’t in. So got a taxi to Cottingham Civic. Had a really good time … Even got a kiss from Steve. John Bentley too … Didn’t get in until 4.30–5.00. All in all I thank the acid test at the Union for Genesis x.

  New Year’s Eve with Gen wasn’t to be, and I didn’t intend to spend it sitting around waiting. I took off for a party with the usual crowd, dancing, singing and kissing hello to 1970.

  We all met up the next day at the Gondola coffee bar, hung over, laughing and happily reliving the fun of the previous night. I needed some light relief and could always rely on my friends to lift my spirits. They knew what I was going through. My life after returning home hadn’t been easy; there was a tense atmosphere.

  3 January 1970

  I was going to stay in but Dad was so nasty to me I went out and met up with Panch, Oddle, Chas and Dennis for a meal.

  I gradually started seeing Gen more often, and my friends less. I’d never met anyone like him before. He was very well read, had dropped out of Hull University, was quite the archetypical revolutionary-cum-bohemian artist, prepared to buck systems, and appeared committed to an alternative lifestyle which seemed in keeping with my own aspirations. He’d moved into a flat down Spring Bank where my friend Graham (Steve’s uncle) also lived. Gen slept under the kitchen table, curled up in a sleeping bag inside a polythene tunnel he called his rainshell, a remnant from his time in a London commune. It was a strange and unromantic place to conduct our liaisons but it made some sense sleeping in the kitchen: it was free and always warm from the cooker.

  John Krivine had leased an old fruit warehouse at 17 Wellington Street, opposite the pier from which the ferry crossed to Gri
msby. He and a group of friends were remodelling it as a commune. Gen and John Shapeero had joined the project and were helping with the work in preparation for moving into a shared room together. My visits weren’t the hot, lusty love affair I’d come to expect from previous relationships, and there were arguments, which were very unexpected at such an early stage of us being together. I put it down to Gen being very sensitive, and also his liberal view of relationships – that ‘no ties’ posturing, and reinforcing the boundaries of personal ‘possession’ … again.

  4 January 1970

  Genesis rang up and I went to see him at Spring Bank … Was very sad about Gen going to Nottingham for 2 days. We hardly spoke then suddenly he got up and took me out. Apparently the fact that I’d have nothing to do with him freaked him out completely. He said both him and John are expecting me to live with them soon. He knows I love him and knows he loves me. But I am uncertain.

  Gen mistook my quiet, contemplative demeanour for my ignoring him. I was just trying to figure out why he wasn’t as bothered as I was about being apart, but also I was wary about him and John talking about my ‘expected’ future home being with them. It would answer my problem of finding somewhere to live, for sure, but it all seemed to be happening too fast and decisions were being made for me – one of the overriding reasons why I’d wanted to leave home.

  Our rocky start came on top of the ongoing saga at home. I didn’t know whether I was coming or going with either Gen or Dad. The deciding factor was when I was officially declared unemployed on 5 January. I’d left my job and dropped out. Dad told me he wouldn’t have anyone unemployed living in his house. I had a week to find the rent, get a job, or get out.

  I hid my head in the sand for a while, visiting Gen or, when he was busy decorating the warehouse, going out with my friends, and using my last wages to pay rent to Dad to buy time while I sorted out somewhere to live. I knew the monetary transaction was fundamental to the relationship between father and daughter. As soon as I was unable to give him his money, I would have to leave his home. His notion of ‘support’ was pretty black and white. It all came to a head over the space of a week.

  19 January 1970

  What the fuck can I do? I’ve got to get a job by the end of the week or I’m thrown out. It’s not that I’m thrown out it’s the fact that I don’t know whether to live with Genesis or not.

  I still had lingering doubts about Gen. I was about to be homeless and I was broke, and yet to receive any dole money seeing as I’d made myself unemployed by leaving my job. I was in a desperate situation.

  22 January 1970: FULL MOON

  What an utterly terrible day. I went to S. Security, I got no money. My ring snapped, the film theatre was full at the Union, then we got locked out of the building and had an argument.

  23 January 1970

  From my unemployment file: ‘Miss Newby called re vacs. States if she doesn’t get a job quickly her father is throwing her out.’

  Les went with me to social security to get the rent. I explained my situation but they gave me short shrift and dismissed my claim with a brusque ‘No money’, and shut the hatch in my face. They’d wanted to make a home visit. I knew that was impossible. My dad wouldn’t have them in the house. The shame of it. I knew from that moment that I was to be homeless. Much to Mum’s distress, I was told to leave home for the second and final time.

  Ironically it was the prevalent ‘free love, no ties’ philosophy that Gen espoused, and which had proved fatal to me and Steve, that provided a ‘no commitment’ cushion, allowing me to enter a relationship with Gen – one that I wasn’t sure would last and wasn’t sure where it would take me. Les helped me move my belongings. I wasn’t given enough time to move them all, so while Mum and Dad were at work I broke into my bedroom by shimmying up the porch pole and unlatching the window to climb in and retrieve the rest.

  It was the end of January 1970 and I was in the first home of my own, living in the commune at 17 Wellington Street, now named the Ho Ho Funhouse. But I rented my own room opposite Gen and John. I needed that separation: it gave me a feeling of my new-found independence and the choice to be with Gen or not.

  2

  My relationship with Gen was, to say the least, an adventure. After my experience with Dad and having to cope with the associated emotional baggage it had heaped on me, I was understandably inclined to tread cautiously and to try to maintain control of my life. This turned out to be a wise decision, as, over the coming years, and to my disappointment, I began to recognise signs of assumed positions of power in my relationship with Gen, and an expectation of deference on my part – not the best foundation for our life together.

  Like others who find themselves in those circumstances, I worked out a way of managing challenging situations. I’d learned from a young age that power and control work by making disobedience and questioning a punishable sin, and deferential obedience of the ‘word’ a virtue. Gen introduced me to the life and works of Aleister Crowley, and his mantras became ‘Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law’ and ‘Love is the law, love under will’. I bought into that; I believed we all had our own spiritual core self, that everyone should have the freedom to find and be themselves, and to live their lives accordingly. I came to realise, though, that the freedom this implied applied to Gen but not to me and other close friends – their actions to discover their True Will were more often than not ‘guided’ by Gen and subject to his approval and judgement. It was an unexpected twist on my father’s house rule of ‘Do as I say, not do as I do’.

  The Ho Ho Funhouse was my first home away from home and a far cry from Bilton Grange housing estate. It was part of Wellington House, a Victorian building designed by Hull-born architect Cuthbert Brodrick, and stood very close to the thriving fruit market on the corner of Queen Street and Wellington Street. My room, which was quite small and dark, faced on to the dank alley at the back of the building and was on the top floor, up three flights of stairs. John Shapeero (or Moses, as we often called him, due to the way he looked) and Gen’s shared room was opposite mine and had a clear view of the River Humber. The other floors were occupied by Baz and his then girlfriend, Dee; the beautiful red-headed Copper and her boyfriend, Paul Frew (who, with Gen, had named the Ho Ho Funhouse); Bronwyn, whose room was the largest and opposite the communal sitting room that led off to a small galley kitchen; and Roger. The only toilet was in the basement, four flights down from my room and not quite close enough for Roger on occasions. He’d escaped prison, taking the ‘Midnight Express’ from Turkey, and had arrived back at the Funhouse having been severely beaten on the soles of his feet and suffering from terrible dysentery. He was often seen with a bucket as he couldn’t always make it down the basement stairs in time.

  At first I’d felt a little out of my depth in the Funhouse, being the youngest and the only person who hadn’t gone to university, but mainly due to there being a kind of hierarchy within the hippies of Hull. I seemed to have migrated seamlessly from the lower-ranking weekend hippies with day jobs to the higher echelons as a member of the Ho Ho Funhouse commune. Gen and John were very welcoming and helped me settle in, and I got into the rhythm of a new routine, cooking and eating together – very different food from what I was used to – and getting to know the others as we all sat around chatting in the communal room.

  I also got to know more about Gen. I was slightly in awe of his exceptional life. He’d done so much in such a small space of time. I learned that he’d won a poetry prize while studying English at Hull University, that he and radical student friends had started Worm, a student magazine that was free from editorial control but short-lived because of obscene and ‘dangerous’ content, and that, after he’d dropped out of university, he’d joined a multimedia artists’ commune in London.

  It’s been said that Gen was in the Exploding Galaxy – but not according to original member Jill Drower, who has said, ‘The performance artist Genesis P-Orridge … was never part of the original Exploding
Galaxy.’ The Exploding Galaxy had disbanded and their house (99 Balls Pond Road) sold by the time Gen arrived in London, but he joined the offshoot, Transmedia Explorations, headed by Fitz (Gerald Fitzgerald), a kinetic artist and one of the two leading original Galaxy members. The Exploding Galaxy was founded in 1967 by David Medalla, an incredible artist who I was to meet some years later, along with other former Galaxy members including Mark Boyle and Joan Hills. Its activities had connections to the UFO Club and the International Times, and it was at the centre of London’s countercultural hippy scene.

  Gen learned a lot from his short time with Transmedia Explorations, was particularly influenced by and enamoured of Fitz, and would talk a lot about him, and of how, at times, he found life there very difficult. But he never mentioned to me that much of what he presented as ‘his’ concept and the whole ethos of his new project, COUM Transmissions, came from that of the Exploding Galaxy and Transmedia Explorations: ‘Life Is Art’, communal creativity, everyone is an artist, costumes, rituals, play, artworks, scavenging for art materials, street theatre, rejection of conventions, and the advocation of sexual liberation. Even the idiosyncratic form of merging capital letters that Gen presented to me as his new COUM alphabet was actually devised by Fitz in 1967 and called ‘quaquascript’. It features a lot in COUM writings and artworks, and I (unwittingly) based my ‘Cosey’ signature on Fitz’s unique script – for which I now give him due credit. Influences are a given, appropriation has its place too, and a symbolic, written or verbal credit to the original source is usual, honest and expected – but Gen led me to believe the ethos on which he based COUM was original to him. Being two hundred miles from London, I wouldn’t have known otherwise, nor did I have any reason not to believe him.