ONE SMALL STEP
On July 21, 1969 Neil Armstrong stepped off the LEM of Apollo 11 and onto the surface of the moon; barely 66 years after Orville Wright's first solo flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. Using technology and materials that hadn't existed a decade earlier, and navigating by means of a computer system less powerful than a $12 digital watch, two astronauts landed on the surface of the moon and were returned safely to earth.
A month later, in August of that same year, almost half a million people gathered on Max Yasgur's farm in upstate New York for 3 days of peace, love and music. The two events marked a crossroads in our history. The age of Aquarius and the age of the silicon chip had intersected. The moon landing, occurring a month earlier, was a harbinger of what was to follow, and serves as a metaphor for the eclipsing of the spiritual by the technological; the poet by the scientist.
All those hippies left Yasgur's farm abandoning their notions of free love and getting back to nature -- ditched the bell bottoms and lava lamps and went to work in Silicon Valley -- invented the microchip and the internet; bought Volvos and Mercedes and took up golf. In his book, "Of a Fire on the Moon," Norman Mailer wondered if the moon landing had inflicted some terrible wound upon our collective psyche. Something had changed. I touched on it in the last 2 paragraphs of the chapter in my novel, "Horse Latitudes," titled "Who Shot Kennedy?" . . .
"Bongo helped himself to another marshmallow. It was a warm July night and the moon had risen fully now. Chester watched it shining clearly above the picnic grounds. Soon an astronaut would step down off the LEM of Apollo 11 and plant his foot on what had once been hallowed ground. Science would intrude on what for all known time had been the sole domain of poets and dreamers alone: the moon. After that, well -- one thing was for certain: no matter what they found up there, it would never again be as easy for a father to tell his young son that the mysterious ball of light that appeared in the heavens each night was really just a hunk of old cheese floating in the sky. Nothing would ever be that simple again.
The four boys huddled around the remains of the fire each thinking their own private thoughts. The sound of a cricket could be heard somewhere off in the distance. Then it was quiet."
Happy Anniversary -- Quinn
A month later, in August of that same year, almost half a million people gathered on Max Yasgur's farm in upstate New York for 3 days of peace, love and music. The two events marked a crossroads in our history. The age of Aquarius and the age of the silicon chip had intersected. The moon landing, occurring a month earlier, was a harbinger of what was to follow, and serves as a metaphor for the eclipsing of the spiritual by the technological; the poet by the scientist.
All those hippies left Yasgur's farm abandoning their notions of free love and getting back to nature -- ditched the bell bottoms and lava lamps and went to work in Silicon Valley -- invented the microchip and the internet; bought Volvos and Mercedes and took up golf. In his book, "Of a Fire on the Moon," Norman Mailer wondered if the moon landing had inflicted some terrible wound upon our collective psyche. Something had changed. I touched on it in the last 2 paragraphs of the chapter in my novel, "Horse Latitudes," titled "Who Shot Kennedy?" . . .
"Bongo helped himself to another marshmallow. It was a warm July night and the moon had risen fully now. Chester watched it shining clearly above the picnic grounds. Soon an astronaut would step down off the LEM of Apollo 11 and plant his foot on what had once been hallowed ground. Science would intrude on what for all known time had been the sole domain of poets and dreamers alone: the moon. After that, well -- one thing was for certain: no matter what they found up there, it would never again be as easy for a father to tell his young son that the mysterious ball of light that appeared in the heavens each night was really just a hunk of old cheese floating in the sky. Nothing would ever be that simple again.
The four boys huddled around the remains of the fire each thinking their own private thoughts. The sound of a cricket could be heard somewhere off in the distance. Then it was quiet."
Happy Anniversary -- Quinn
No comments have been added yet.
