A lot of history took place around my 28th birthday 40 years ago, in 1969. In fact, it was bracketed by two events that are carved in history at this point and both have been mentioned frequently the past couple of days.
On the day before, July 18, 1969, Senator Ted Kennedy lost control of his Oldsmobile on a bridge at Chappaquiddic and drowned his presidential aspirations, along with a young lady named Mary Jo Kopechne. Two days later, Neil Armstrong stepped out of the lunar module and became the first human to set foot on the moon.
This morning I had the bright idea to dig through my old spiral notebook "Journals" and find the entries I made for those dates. I found the "Jan. 20, 1969 - July 20, 1969" notebook but, alas, the July 20 entry consisted of one brief paragraph about the moon landing followed by a note "see typed text." Where that typed text might be I don't have a clue, and the nearest earlier entry was in late June. In fact, that brief July 20, '69 entry was the last I ever made in a spiral notebook, as they were all typed afterward.
I have a box here in the big drawer, a ream of 500 sheets of single-spaced typed journal (that's about a quarter million words, folks), but that covers about a year in the late seventies, a period when I was separated from my wife and living in a singles complex in El Centro, California. It was full on party time 24/7 -- dope, women, booze, you name it. And I did do it and name it, though I changed some of the names to protect the innocent. Well, less guilty maybe.
Where all the other typed entries are exactly I don't have a clue, other than a vague certainty that they exist in one of the boxes, footlockers, cooler chests or other places of storage where I have crammed years of babbling and unpublished masterpieces. I will say that I would rather be beaten with wet green lumber than to begin a search of that scale. No, that will not happen now and possibly ever, unless I slip further into the arms of senility than I presently am.
So hell, that means my observations of Woodstock, another major event of that immediate era, are also among those "lost" papers. And a short time after that, my first--and last--run in with LSD. I still recall that so vividly that it pains me to think of it, frankly. So far as I can recall, my determination never to take another hit of that substance was probably the epitome of prudence and good judgment I have ever exercised. I was never well known for using either.
The history of the world, or of any age, can be laid out in linear fashion as the major events occur, a huge overview of what has transpired. But within the bounds of our lives, history as we know it revolves around where we were at specific times, what we were doing, thinking, being.
Just think about the complexities of your own history, how your days were woven in and around these historical markers, and then multiply that by billions. It's just a small reminder of how complicated life really is.
It's a damned wonder it works out at all.
On the day before, July 18, 1969, Senator Ted Kennedy lost control of his Oldsmobile on a bridge at Chappaquiddic and drowned his presidential aspirations, along with a young lady named Mary Jo Kopechne. Two days later, Neil Armstrong stepped out of the lunar module and became the first human to set foot on the moon.
This morning I had the bright idea to dig through my old spiral notebook "Journals" and find the entries I made for those dates. I found the "Jan. 20, 1969 - July 20, 1969" notebook but, alas, the July 20 entry consisted of one brief paragraph about the moon landing followed by a note "see typed text." Where that typed text might be I don't have a clue, and the nearest earlier entry was in late June. In fact, that brief July 20, '69 entry was the last I ever made in a spiral notebook, as they were all typed afterward.
I have a box here in the big drawer, a ream of 500 sheets of single-spaced typed journal (that's about a quarter million words, folks), but that covers about a year in the late seventies, a period when I was separated from my wife and living in a singles complex in El Centro, California. It was full on party time 24/7 -- dope, women, booze, you name it. And I did do it and name it, though I changed some of the names to protect the innocent. Well, less guilty maybe.
Where all the other typed entries are exactly I don't have a clue, other than a vague certainty that they exist in one of the boxes, footlockers, cooler chests or other places of storage where I have crammed years of babbling and unpublished masterpieces. I will say that I would rather be beaten with wet green lumber than to begin a search of that scale. No, that will not happen now and possibly ever, unless I slip further into the arms of senility than I presently am.
So hell, that means my observations of Woodstock, another major event of that immediate era, are also among those "lost" papers. And a short time after that, my first--and last--run in with LSD. I still recall that so vividly that it pains me to think of it, frankly. So far as I can recall, my determination never to take another hit of that substance was probably the epitome of prudence and good judgment I have ever exercised. I was never well known for using either.
The history of the world, or of any age, can be laid out in linear fashion as the major events occur, a huge overview of what has transpired. But within the bounds of our lives, history as we know it revolves around where we were at specific times, what we were doing, thinking, being.
Just think about the complexities of your own history, how your days were woven in and around these historical markers, and then multiply that by billions. It's just a small reminder of how complicated life really is.
It's a damned wonder it works out at all.
2 comments:
I've recently been moving my old poems and stories and letters from the disks, where I had stored them after I shut down the last computer, to my new computer.
It's amazing how much I've written-- and it's amazing how much of it is utter crap. Sometimes I read my old stuff and wonder where I got the idea I have any talent at all.
Anyway, reading through all that muck is really too depressing. But at least it's gotten me to here, where I only minorly suck. So there is that...
And also, there's the pleasant surprise of coming across a poem or story that I didn't think much of at the time, but now think is pretty good.
--Jim V
Oh yeah, I can read the old stuff and wonder why I bothered to continue. Hell, I can read some of my NEW stuff and wonder the same thing. heh
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