Oh, the world goes mad. Mad, mad, mad. It has been almost two years since the devastating terrorist attacks in London, but two days after the introduction of a new prime minister, two car bombs were difused in the city. For some reason dear old London bothers me more than other international reports. I suppose it's because I've stood in or around those very places. I love London, and one of my fears is that it will slowly be swallowed by something indescribably dark. I don't often stop to consider the latest headlines. My world rarely extends the boundaries of my own front door, and whenever I tune in to the outside, it leaves me with a cold dread. It's easier to ignore that four Islamic extremists were recently indicted for plotting to blow up JFK in New York. Since I was sixteen, I've battled on and off with a loss of security and occasional periods of fear. It's a fear that reaches outside the realm of city, state, or nation. I suppose it's a struggle everyone in my generation can relate to. We're the 9/11 generation that has been forced to re-evaluate what it means to be safe...what it means to be American. Mad, mad, mad.
In other news, it is the fortieth anniversary of the "Summer of Love," and of course I'm reveling in the articles and interviews pertaining to the people, places, and music fueling the movement. It makes me happy. If I were to specialize in an area of history, I would definitely have to consider the counterculture. The recent love-fest has me digging out my Forrest Gump soundtrack and reading yet another John Lennon biography (this time by his wife, Cynthia). It finds me gazing seriously at my guitar and thinking longingly of vintage shops. Yawn. Okay. That did it. I'm sufficiently perked up in time for bed.
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