A quick word on this extremely hot Monday afternoon, July 21 2008. Already 39 years since Neil A. Armstrong walked on the moon.
What a beautiful way it was for me to be 16 years old. The most radiant moment of that year. Perhaps even the most exciting time of my entire adolescence.
I knew I was making history, watching amazing images. I had opened my ears, my eyes, my memory as deep, as wide as humanly possible to take them all in: The sounds, the voices, the comments, the explanations, the black and white shapes moving on the surface of the moon. I knew I was part of my time. Answering ‘present’ with all my strength to the call of awareness.
These had been tough years for me. I had been kicked out of high-school. Had ran away for home, drifted into a hippy commune mainly populated by American draft-dodgers who had crossed the border to escape the Vietnam war. Had been sent to the loony bin for being a famished minor weaving leather belts on the street and also, maybe, for listening too much to the blues. And had the most striking and gigantic silk-screen poster of Che Guevara above my mattress directly resting on the floor.
A resourceful person, besides making belts, I did also thread most of the chickpeas necklaces sold in psychedelic record stores downtown. At the commune, not much to eat of course, but a huge bowl in the middle of the living room filled with all the pills and drugs one can imagine.
I must say my family tried hard to understand. They were basically good to me. Against a bag of oranges one day, they had made me promise to accept help. I kept the appointment. A woman therapist to whom I spoke 10 minutes before my mother, puffy red with tears, barged into her office, scandalized by the fact my father had referred me to one of his mistresses. As the two women got at each other’s throat, again I ran away. Glad to have gotten fruits out of the rotten deal.
A confusing era. Directionless. Making my way nowhere, but always on the move. Knowing mainly what I didn’t want, but without a clue about my desires. Sad days and nights, on the eve of the death of Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix. We were sinking so fast, willingly, so conscious of doing so. Accelerating the trip downward with all our might. A race to the end. Here and there, people dropping out of sight. Overdoses, suicides, accidents on the insipid tunes of Donovan and of Iron Butterfly.
I wore at all times a long black embroidered Mexican poncho that I could also use as a blanket. I had such a high sense of practicality.
What happened to it? Can’t remember.
It is against that background - the lusterless, depleted red and yellow flowers of my poncho - that Apollo 11 flew out of here.
I was so proud of them: They had made it elsewhere. They had managed to leave and land in a place where none of us existed. I respected these men for that, envied them so much.
I did guess right: The hard work and the science it must have taken them to succeed at their mission. I was impressed. By the rigor. The tenacity. The bravery. These astronauts belonged to a kind I had never met. Their white suits impeccable. Columbia, the command module. The lunar module, Eagle / Tranquility Base. The Kennedy Space Center, which I had visited. Michael Collins and ‘Buzz’ Aldrin, Jr., the pilots. Armstrong of course. James Lovell heading the backup crew. Houston, Mission Control.
See, sweet one, I can remember all the names linked to the spaceflight, but not a single one from the commune, although we also viewed ourselves as flying quite high.
History records (in Wikipedia) that Buzz Aldrin spoke the first words ever pronounced on the lunar surface, saying: "Contact light! Okay, engine stop. ACA - out of detent." Armstrong replied "Out of detent," and Aldrin added, "Mode control - both auto. Descent engine command override off. Engine arm - off. 413 is in."
I like that. Literature to my ears.
For a few hours, my mind had been clear and receptive, July 20 and 21 1969. Thinking I would maybe manage my way out of the poncho.
Laolao
What a beautiful way it was for me to be 16 years old. The most radiant moment of that year. Perhaps even the most exciting time of my entire adolescence.
I knew I was making history, watching amazing images. I had opened my ears, my eyes, my memory as deep, as wide as humanly possible to take them all in: The sounds, the voices, the comments, the explanations, the black and white shapes moving on the surface of the moon. I knew I was part of my time. Answering ‘present’ with all my strength to the call of awareness.
These had been tough years for me. I had been kicked out of high-school. Had ran away for home, drifted into a hippy commune mainly populated by American draft-dodgers who had crossed the border to escape the Vietnam war. Had been sent to the loony bin for being a famished minor weaving leather belts on the street and also, maybe, for listening too much to the blues. And had the most striking and gigantic silk-screen poster of Che Guevara above my mattress directly resting on the floor.
A resourceful person, besides making belts, I did also thread most of the chickpeas necklaces sold in psychedelic record stores downtown. At the commune, not much to eat of course, but a huge bowl in the middle of the living room filled with all the pills and drugs one can imagine.
I must say my family tried hard to understand. They were basically good to me. Against a bag of oranges one day, they had made me promise to accept help. I kept the appointment. A woman therapist to whom I spoke 10 minutes before my mother, puffy red with tears, barged into her office, scandalized by the fact my father had referred me to one of his mistresses. As the two women got at each other’s throat, again I ran away. Glad to have gotten fruits out of the rotten deal.
A confusing era. Directionless. Making my way nowhere, but always on the move. Knowing mainly what I didn’t want, but without a clue about my desires. Sad days and nights, on the eve of the death of Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix. We were sinking so fast, willingly, so conscious of doing so. Accelerating the trip downward with all our might. A race to the end. Here and there, people dropping out of sight. Overdoses, suicides, accidents on the insipid tunes of Donovan and of Iron Butterfly.
I wore at all times a long black embroidered Mexican poncho that I could also use as a blanket. I had such a high sense of practicality.
What happened to it? Can’t remember.
It is against that background - the lusterless, depleted red and yellow flowers of my poncho - that Apollo 11 flew out of here.
I was so proud of them: They had made it elsewhere. They had managed to leave and land in a place where none of us existed. I respected these men for that, envied them so much.
I did guess right: The hard work and the science it must have taken them to succeed at their mission. I was impressed. By the rigor. The tenacity. The bravery. These astronauts belonged to a kind I had never met. Their white suits impeccable. Columbia, the command module. The lunar module, Eagle / Tranquility Base. The Kennedy Space Center, which I had visited. Michael Collins and ‘Buzz’ Aldrin, Jr., the pilots. Armstrong of course. James Lovell heading the backup crew. Houston, Mission Control.
See, sweet one, I can remember all the names linked to the spaceflight, but not a single one from the commune, although we also viewed ourselves as flying quite high.
History records (in Wikipedia) that Buzz Aldrin spoke the first words ever pronounced on the lunar surface, saying: "Contact light! Okay, engine stop. ACA - out of detent." Armstrong replied "Out of detent," and Aldrin added, "Mode control - both auto. Descent engine command override off. Engine arm - off. 413 is in."
I like that. Literature to my ears.
For a few hours, my mind had been clear and receptive, July 20 and 21 1969. Thinking I would maybe manage my way out of the poncho.
Laolao
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