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I was to meet my photographer, Lee Marshall, in the lobby of the Park Lane Hotel. My interview was to begin promptly at 3 P.M. because Marc had a very tight interview schedule and I was only being permitted a half hour. At 3, Lee still had not arrived – very odd, since Lee was always prompt. Fleetingly I thought, "I hope he wasn’t hit by a truck," and I left messages with all the lobby employees to send him right up to room 3904. Three-thirty found me munching on an extremely expensive club sandwich bought for me by Gary Stromberg and having a lovely chat with Gary, but Marc had not shown up. "Three strikes – you’re out, honey!" I thought, and just then the door opened and in flew Marc. Before I knew it, we were in an adjoining back bedroom, away from the inevitable entourage. I threw my notebook on the bed, and a flyer from the school where I teach, the New York School of Occult Arts and Sciences, shot out and settled near Marc. [Note: A letter sent by Natalie McDonald to the author circa 1972 in care of the school’s address as published elsewhere in the book – 217 West 14th Street, New York, New York – was returned to sender, address unknown.] I had turned to the mirror to run my fingers through my hair, and I saw Marc pick up the flyer and read it. And that was the beginning. Marc Bolan is all that I thought – and so much more! "There are just some people you don’t talk to about certain things; they just aren’t ready," he said. Marc studied magic for two years. Magic, however, is only one small part of whatever this thing is that’s happening. "I don’t really know what I am, or where I’m from," says Marc. "I just know that I’m not from here," indicating this planet. As with all of us who "know," Jimi touched upon Marc long ago. His message to Marc was, "You will become a star, but not until you go electric" – and so it was. There is no such thing as coincidence. There was so much to say, so much to learn, someone I could truly talk to, and then, cruelly, Carol Strauss (from his promotion firm) was in the room talking to Marc and telling him he had to do a telephone interview. It made me feel good that mine was not the only crestfallen face. "Can’t you stay around?" Marc asked. You better believe it! Sadly, although I spent another hour there, we were never to exchange more than five more sentences directly. Two more interviewers arrived, and Marc was whisked back to the outer room. Once there, I was told that my photographer was in the lobby and had been there since 3 P.M. We must have just missed each other, and not one of the people in the lobby delivered the message. But everything happens for a reason. Had Lee been with me earlier, Marc and I never would have had a chance to "really talk." I sat on the floor next to Marc and listened to him try to explain to a large woman, who looked like a chipmunk, that none of us ever really die (naturally, we believe in reincarnation). He spoke of cosmic awareness, mind power, the fact that he spends a lot of time with gypsies "because while they’re not into formal schooling, they KNOW!" Chipmunk smiled nicely and nodded in all the right places. Our last five sentences came about when my photographer interrupted long enough to catch the last few leap-year day rays of light for pictures. "I wish I could go insane or die at times," I said. "But I’m not allowed." "Of course you’re not. You’re one of the children, you know that. We know we are all lonely, we must be, we live in a different place, but there is nothing to be done for it." "Marc, there’s a song on your album. It’s the shortest song in there, but it gives me such strength. The words came at me like cryptic messages, a few days ago when I really needed help to go on. I needed a sign that all we know is true, for at times we all wonder if we’re just not totally mad[e]. The song’s ‘Life’s a Gas.’ I had just thrown a whole group of people out of my life. They hadn’t learned, and they were draining me. I hated to get rid of them, but I knew I had to, and it would be all right but I was very down. One hour later I put on your record and heard, ‘It doesn’t really matter at all, no it really doesn’t matter at all, life’s a gas,’ and I felt my strength returning. Was I right?" Marc’s eyes lit up and the magic poured through with its blinding brilliance. "But of course! That’s what the whole song’s about! It doesn’t matter at all. You must not let things matter. Things happen for a reason, and we can make them happen." "There is nothing about my career that is an accident." We looked at each other and the understanding was total. My photographer kept saying, "Look into the camera, Marc, Walli, please, look into the camera." It was difficult. We are big on eyes. That is where the spirit, soul and heart come through. So much can be said and no word can be spoken. When we left, it was almost like a physical loss – there had been so little time, yet at the same time, I felt a tremendous gain. We had been together as if we were two people making love. There will be another time. My photographer looked at me and said, "I was really worried about you. I kept hoping you weren’t hit by a truck or something." . . . . "Strange, I said, "I was thinking exactly the same thing about you." But of course it really wasn’t strange!