At the risk of sounding narcissistic, let me just add that it’s not something external that impresses me, but my very own self. Not my present self, mind you, but the self I was half a century ago. I mean, what a cool and curious young fellow that was.
So cool and curious, in fact, that maybe it’s time for me to just quit right now. Sorry folks, I’m kidding. What I’m not kidding about, though, is that, while the music of life often sweetens with age, the cool curiosity of youth does sometimes fade.
I was reminded of that last week by an article about a guy who died. His name was David Horowitz, and though he was older than me, we had lots in common.
Described as “a former 1960s firebrand who moved from the far left to the far right,” Horowitz started his journalistic career as an editor at Ramparts magazine in Berkeley, California, just down the street from where I started mine at the old countercultural newspaper, Berkeley BARB.
Like him, I went through a long political evolution, gradually edging away from the liberal views of my youth towards the more conservative values I now hold. And both of us ended up writing books and essays, though his garnered lots more attention than mine ever will.
All of which took me back to a major turning point both in my life and that of the notorious counterculture Horowitz and I once shared; Berkeley in the early 1970s.
It was a period of transition during which the much-touted political and cultural revolution of that era turned its eyes towards loftier goals. Namely, the search for spiritual relevance—what some might call God—in a rapidly decaying society. Not entirely unlike, I must say, what’s going on today.
In Berkeley that search felt like a weird fantasy novel featuring pagans, satanists, gurus, golden calf worshippers, and reincarnation counselors paid to recount your past lives.
One of the more interesting trends, however, was the widespread belief that a comet then headed towards earth signaled the dawning of a new age.
“I communicate telepathically with beings of the Higher Intelligence,” a famous believer told me in an interview for the BARB. “So could you, if you just opened your mind.”
And so, I did. I listened carefully for any hidden voices whispering in my ear. And peered intently into the myriads of darkened rooms I found waiting to be explored. There were so many that I sometimes had difficulty deciding which doors to open, a dilemma I conveyed in a 1974 essay.
It described a huge expo at the San Francisco Civic Auditorium celebrating the imminent entrance of that allegedly cosmic comet. Arriving early, I sat down in the lobby to peruse a 14-page program outlining the dozens of exhibits. And, yes, each lay sequestered in a room all its own.
Not knowing where to start, I found a junior staff member whose badge identified her as Mary.
“Hi Mary,” I said.
“Hello,” she said, “can I help you?”
“Please,” I said, “I think I’m lost.”
“What are you looking for?” Mary wanted to know.
“That’s just it,” I said, “I don’t know.”
“Do you know anything about it?” she wondered.
“Sometimes I do,” I said. “Sometimes I even think I’ve found it, but then I’m always disappointed.”
Mary gave me a puzzled look, so I asked if she knew what I meant, and she assured me she did. “Are you looking for something, too?” I wondered.
“No,” she said, “just taking it all in.”
“OK,” I said, “well, thanks for your help.”
“My pleasure,” she said, “but where are you going?”
“Wherever it is,” I told her, “I hope I get there soon.”
To be honest, I don’t think I’ve gotten there yet. And maybe that’s not a bad thing.
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David Haldane is an award-winning American journalist and author with homes in Southern California and Northern Mindanao. His latest book, Dark Skies: Tales of Turbulence in Paradise, is available on Amazon. This column appears weekly in The Manila Times.
