A few nights ago I dusted off from the shelf what we used to call a Chap Book. It contained words written by me from an era in my life shared with many, Headz as they were known. In reminiscing with those Headz I’ve often heard it referred to as “magic times“.
Hope. Revolution. Innocence. Change. Premonition. Turntables. Saxophones. Microphones. Basement House Parties.
A few nights ago those words tucked and hidden in my bookshelf for over a decade were discovered by my 10 year old daughter. Children are different this generation. Their aura is Indigo.
She had me read the words from that era. It clicked. I was good. It came back. It rolled. She laughed. She shook her head in the inevitable way alluding to the upcoming teenage bafflement. But her brown eyes communicated an understanding she didn’t realize the extent of those magic times.
So here it is. An aural archiving for her and descendants. My fear is to record these is to appear to be washed up and reliving a time that can’t come back.
Poetry took a backseat to the realities of life. I will try and change that.