These Dreams of You

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It was a time of compounded half-lives, when history shed its cocoon every three months and out emerged a new history, and if you were alive then — Zan never has dared tell his children because they would find it so insufferable and he could hardly blame them — you knew it was special even at the moment you were living it. To be sure they were silly times, trite before they would seem to have been true enough long enough for anything to be trite. They were indulgent and childish when not utterly confused, imposing their own conformity especially among those who fashioned themselves non-conformists. Zan can’t watch a video of the era, even if it’s only the scratchy little mental video of his memory, without wincing a little. Years afterward, the Sixties became a preposterous and unreasonable burden to everyone who followed.