Threadspinners. Weavers. Jigsaw puzzle makers.
Archaeologists. Geologists.
There must be a story. Otherwise, only solipsism. Collecting the shards, the little pieces of experience that have alchemized into memory (true or not) -- how can we live without that? Without the story, there is only madness. A random set of pictures with no “I.”
Why even look back? Turned Lot’s wife into a salt tablet. (Will have to look into that story a bit more.)
And, to look back, on -- of all things -- the 60s?
Lame.
Who cares?
I found a site today with several photographs from the late 60s, epicenter photographs from Berkeley and other Bay Area sites. Black and white. First thought: creative explosion after pent-up 50s. Perhaps even World War II. Something needed to be released -- life itself perhaps. A wild garden, weeds and flowers. Crazy.
Now, to someone looking today, these pictures would look like Depression-era breadline pictures looked to me. Something that was real, but had absolutely no applicability to my own life. I remember looking at Depression-era pictures and thinking: “So. That happened.”
There was no resonance. It could have happened in alternate universe for all I cared.
