I catch myself in the most far out moments, that I would take the risk to live my life stuck in the sixties. There’s no “big” or “unexplained” reason for doing this, I simply like the mood, the people, the words, the music and everything which embraces the era.
But furthermore, whenever I ask to my dad or mom something about that time, they somehow turn their heads and start to talk about something else and there I am again, sitting all alone with Jim Morrison, trying to catch a few words from him. The inner mystery lays in this taboo I think, that “Yeah we did a lot of mess, but now let’s move on to our lives and see how it works,” And I’m quite sure they catch themselves as well as me, that those times were somehow different.
The difference of the sixties arises from a dull and depressive period of the fifties. Yes, there was Elvis, Chuck and those unique movies. But think as a metaphor, they all were black and white and people were suffering from a lack of color. And of course, the fact that the generation who “ruled on his own bureaucracy” in the sixties were the children of the parents who went and witnessed the Second World War. The sixties generation corresponded in the most slightest time of the post-war generation, and in a sense, being a part of the post-war period is something dangerous and dreadful to old generations.
Suddenly, the drugs appeared and the usage was countless and increased till’ the mid 70’s. A snowball had started its progress with taking the drugs and music. Martin Luther King was shot, Dylan went to electric in 65’, two years later The Monterey Pop Festival and Woodstock in 69’. All this specific years took its energy and confidence with a huge of attendants who would do anything to experience something new and simply, to be happy in the most available opportunity.
In this sense, I’m not a “fan” of this sixties era, but I’m a fan of this curiosity and generation who believed they could live their lives smiling and waving to their parents’ generation as saying “fuck off” and create a new sense of saying “fuck me” to be happy.
As Jenny Diski states in her book: “Older people of all classes were horrified at the waste and lack of quality, but that was part of the pleasure for us: to see the shock and disapproval and bafflement in the eyes of the generation who had scraped by and lost all kinds of treasures during the war, and discovered when it was over that they still had to make do and mend: a generation who genuinely valued the patina o age.”
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