Monday, 24 May 2010

When I wore beads

When I wore beads and a bell in the Sixties, it was on holiday and only briefly. The objective was to raise a laugh from my companions. But perhaps there is something buried in my soul that still owes something to genuine hippies of the time.
Walking across Primrose Hill yesterday - the park in north-west London (see my 20th May post) – on the hottest day of the year, the sun-basking crowds were having such a good time it seemed that the age of Aquarius might have arrived for a few hours, at least. Certainly there was a desire by the young to bare their flesh, as they let the sunshine in.
With picnicking family groups, healthy looking young men frisbeeing and pretty girls chatting, Primrose Hill did seem to be transmitting, yes, Good Vibrations. No drugs, not even any booze I could see, no loud music; people were enjoying each others company on a hot Sunday afternoon in a London park.
But there was something else; some distant chord had been struck which I just couldn’t put a name to. There was an energy for peaceful purposes, which asked to tapped into that would have value beyond the sun’s setting.
It was then that an almost forgotten expression, a phrase, a T-shirt slogan, little heeded, derided but none the less true, called out across decades – Make Love, Not War.

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