Highway 61 Re-Revisited

prima lectie de desen

O sa imi aduc aminte de dupa-amiaza asta toata viata.

M-am trezit tarziu si am plecat sa imi beau cafeaua in bodega chiulurilor si prietenilor de liceu, alaturi de Lulu, care a fost acolo. Am vorbit despre prietena noastra care nu ne mai surprinde de mult, despre cum ne schimbam si vara asta inseamna ceva. Pentru ca sunt intoxicata de Hunter S. Thomson totul suna ca the wave speech.

In locul unde sa ne intalnim fara sa mai spunem unde pentru prima data a intarziat el, nu noi. Ne-am strans in numar de 4 si am plecat spre deal. Era suficient de cald cat sa vrei sa te intizi la umbra si sa nu te mai misti de acolo. Pe drum am oferit un cadou neinspirat, ne-am spurcat in gluma si ne-am pus la curent. Am urcat dealul, am traversat valea si ne-am asezat pe prundul Campinitei la umbra unui frasin despre care am speculat ca ar fi dud. Valea, ciulinii, copacii, apa, noroiul de pe prund si noi.

Am stat pe o panta verde si am stricat o multime de foi in timp ce el imi dadea teme: hasureaza asa, acum gradat, acum fa o sinusoida intre marginile astea. Elipsele mele aratau toate ca niste placintele, ajutate de faptul ca el desena crema pe ele. Am invatat cum se deseneaza un cub in spatiu, pentru ca nu stiam ca e altfel decat cubul matematic. Pinurile nu sunt tot una cu conurile de brad si uliile cu ulii. Un uliu zbura deasupra noastra.

Ne-am intors sub un soare de dupa-amiaza tarzie, cu o lene sanatoasa in picioare. Am coborat incet pe langa lac si am vorbit putin. Pe bucata de drum pe care am mers singura pana acasa am ascultat Wonderwall si am avut senzatia minunata ca apartin de ceva tanar, frumos si bun. E siguranta pe care ti-o da o dragoste mare care a rezistat si continua sa dureze nestanjenita, genul de dragoste care iti creeaza un acasa.

Am mers spre casa sub o lumina de august intr-o vara pe care credeam ca nu o sa o mai traiesc. Cu convingerea ca fiecare lucru pe care l-am lasat e bun ramas in urma pentru ca nimic nu ar putea vreodata sa tina loc senzatiei minunate de a fi cu totul aici, prezent, recunoscator si activ in cel mai frumos lucru pe care ai reusit sa-l construiesti.

Si acum Hunter S. Thomson si the words that say it all – the wave speech (via wiki):

Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Five years later? Six? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a Main Era — the kind of peak that never comes again. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run . . . but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. . . .

History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of “history” it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time — and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened.

My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights — or very early mornings — when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L. L. Bean shorts and a Butte sheepherder‘s jacket . . . booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turn-off to take when I got to the other end (always stalling at the toll-gate, too twisted to find neutral while I fumbled for change) . . . but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: No doubt at all about that. . . .

There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . .

And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting — on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . .

So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almostsee the high-water mark — that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.


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One Response

  1. cosmin says:

    e ceva cu oraselul asta dintre dealuri, se mai intampla sa te faca sa zambesti usor in coltul gurii si poate apoi sa razi puternic de bucurie (chiar daca hohotele nu-s auzite decat in gand)

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