Sixties

It’s a lazy day at home. I live in my parents’ house. But that doesn’t mean anything here in the Philippines.

I have nothing too spectacular in mind now. Plans or whatever, I’ve nothing. All I care about now is how comfortable my bed is.

To describe my here-and-now, I am lying on one side as usual. Bentilador on 1, my glass door that leads to my terrace is slightly open allowing some air to make my curtains dance a bit. Joni Mitchell on very low volume, lots of birds chirping (the other end of my room is facing a forest), a few barks from dogs every now and then. About the very low volume, I love doing that all the time. To anything that I’m listening to. Amy Winehouse gives a different, brilliant effect too when I put her on very low volume. Cinematic and respectful of space. You know that feeling? The lack of intrusion but it is there. Right? Like indistinct chatter while seated alone in a café or a musician playing on stage when you just got in the bar. It’s just there.

I am currently reading The White Album by Joan Didion. She mostly wrote about the troubled times of the sixties. I love learning about the sixties. The glamour, the grime, the just-figuring-things-out. Coincidentally, the Joni that I am listening to right now is the 1969 record. I also just watched Chris Mccandless’ (ALEXANDER SUPERTRAMP) story and Slab City just gave me an impression of the era as if giving me a flashback of a memory that I did not personally witness, a second hand memory.

Maybe my affinity for the sixties is a second hand memory. I like the sound of that. I am amused by the fact that in the attempt of making sense of my here-and-now, I took myself to a time that my heart simply knows it loves. The human mind, how expansive and transcendent. The heart, too.

As I’ve said, I have nothing too spectacular in mind now. I guess I do have something spectacular in mind now. And in my heart, too.

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