Your life will be yours to lead, with music, games, a lifelong partner, and the “mindless psychosis of work” (Peter Fleming) to occupy your epic travels and travails. Without the 60s, there would be no culture worthy of its name in our pedestrian lives, but without the 70s, there would not be a corrective to the drugcosis and ashram lecternists that bedeviled the hipsters then and now.
Whatever the individual contours of culture and consciousness and cognition, there will be forever mysteries from our recent past. In the often incoherent lyrics of that time, a fully undefined dark matter was alluded to as “lovelight.” Resident in the eyes of a beautiful woman, it could be discerned by the young besmitten boy. What was its chemical composition, this “lovelight”? Was there a special spectral property, and how could it be disassociated from the more animalistic eye-lights of lust or nerd longing? Can a man also possess that “lovelight,” and can it be turned off and on, like a halogen light on a Porsche? If I can be said to indeed to possess such a charming laser-ray of full enrapturement, why weren’t those nubile, low-jeans-wearing beauties of my high school years not throwing themselves upon my Converse’d feet?
Carole King, Robbie Williams, Bobby “Blue” Bland, the odious Grateful Dead, and stoner islands full of sensitive singer-songwriters have transfixed legions of yearning fans with allegations of this mesmerizing, sensual property of humankind, yet science has yet to establish its essential nature. In the sweet anonymity of blogspace, here is your chance – go ahead, try to make this legendary stream of photons dubbed “lovelight” come out of your liquid orbs.