1963
I was born in the year of JFK’s assassination (you could say it started off with a bang), the Sixties was the decade of revolution and political change with music being a powerful vehicle through its protest songs and psychedelia. Skipping ahead to 1969 and Neil Armstrong would take small steps for man and larger leaps for mankind as he bounced across the surface of the moon. That same year on an open field and under Tangerine trees and Marmalade skies; 400 000 hippies, bikers and other free-spirited souls with a proclivity for removing their clothes would descend on Max Yasgur’s farm for the celebrated Woodstock Rock Festival. South Africa had no idea this was going on… the staunch National Christian ethos of the National Party had resisted the introduction of television until 1976, calling it the devil’s box, fearing amongst other sins that it would unleash an absolute corruption of the mind. The irony is of course that years later the SABC would do exactly that. Bereft of that square box the cinema became my portal to adventures and heroes, the Cine International in Pretoria Street, Hillbrow became a Saturday morning tradition. My mother would fill my palms with coins amounting to twenty-five cents and with that small fortune I would gain access to another world, one filled with Batman and Robin TV series (featuring the iconic Adam West), and the advertised film, my early cinephile diet commencing with Westerns and Lassie movies. This two-hour entertainment would set me back by 15 cents, leaving me 10 cents for popcorn and a soda. My mathematical subtractions off the number 25 becoming legendary.
Transport consisted mainly of walking and trolley buses, I was a frequent flyer on the transport buses of Johannesburg city, commuting from Hillbrow to various parts of the city centre in search of youthful adventures, hiding from the bus conductor to save 5 cents became a day’s good work, afterwards we would sit in wait at tight cornering intersections knowing that the bus’s electrical connecting rods to the overhead cables would derail on the tight corner causing electrical sparks, falling rods and endless entertainment. Life was good.
I listened to music in all its intriguing genres in a variety of technological developments and sizes; from the transistor radio (usually located in the lounge and resembling an adult-sized coffin), to record players and Vinyl (33, 45 and 78 rpm), 8-Track cassettes (the cereal box and the cassette sharing similar dimensions), 4-Track audio cassettes (thankfully smaller), Juke Boxes (yes), Sony Walkman, CD Players, Boom Boxes (yes again), MP3 Players, Streaming and now I believe we are back with Vinyl.
Telecommunication is literally a time-machine travel experience for me; I can recall using a wind-up or crank telephone (used to alert the operator that you wished to place a call), the rotary dial phone was the norm for many years (dialling the numbers eight and nine were always a gamble – get them wrong and you’ll have to start the whole dialling process again), tickie boxes (public phones with 5, 10 and 20 cents slots), the push-button phone came around and suddenly the technology was seriously upgraded; the answering machine with flashing lights and awaiting messages probably was the death knell for carrier pigeons. Then it went from small cordless phone to Motorola bricks to Nokia Indestructibles to BlackBerry to Smart phones and Watches faster than standard loaves to sliced bread… (hold on, I have a WhatsApp notification)
My first tattoo cost R20, I walked down the stairs to the Hillbrow Indoor Flea Market on a Monday morning, the artist looking like an ex-con, resplendent with faded tattoos, greasy hair and a cigarette dangling out the corner of his gnarled fascial expression. I strode in purposefully, chose a tattoo flash and was out twenty-five minutes later. No sanitizing, no gloves and not even sure if that needle was ever cleaned.
And so, my world slowly turned as I outgrew my favourite pair of jeans, overplayed my favourite song and watched as friends and acquaintances came and went with an equal measure of sadness and for some acquaintances a huge relief. I hung onto my childish innocence for as long as possible but realised I had to let go of these safe moorings.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.
W.B. Yeats
This journey continued as we forged our path through the tempestuous teens and following that the rollicking Twenties when we were all kings of the world and believed we could live forever. Turning Thirty was a big deal for some of my peers, judging by the Thirtysomething television series that became a staple for many (I had no need to watch, still believing I could live forever) We looked forward to certain birth-years and dreaded the looming approach of others. The Thirties ushered in a sense of possible decorum (we bought our first proper new car, having wrecked the one we had in our Twenties), we did the test-run on relationship cohabitation and on the success or (failure) of that felt the jolt of heartbreak. The Forties together with the first signs of graying and bad knees made us realize that the middle of the ride had begun, for many this decade passed quickly as children, careers and relationships kept us busy. The Fifties, across the spectrum of relationship status were a last gasp attempt on holding on to what we once were, this usually precipitated and in no particular order; the purchase of a Harley Davidson with numerous tassel accruements, for men a younger girlfriend (in the hope of wild crazy sex), add weight-loss and then weight-gain (or the other way around depending on how the relationship with the younger girl-friend panned out) A frank discussion with all your joints about output and productivity is usually in the mix together with deep philosophical discussions – usually with yourself at 3am in the morning.
But ten years (or 521 weeks) goes very quickly.
Read that again. Way faster than a nine-year who counts down the days to the tenth birthday. I did and this year when I turned 60, I realized that God willing and with the general avoidance of meteorites hitting my head, I have about twenty to twenty-five good years left. I’ve set my sights on that target; it is not a life-span but a health-span that I am aiming for and if I get more out of the equation, I will be sincerely grateful. I am at the age where Health insurance companies start giving you a wide berth with a myriad of conditions to be concerned about, from hearing loss, cataracts, osteoarthritis, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, diabetes, depression and dementia.
But I do qualify for a Seniors discount at the local Hardware Store.
Sixty-year-old me spoke to twenty-year-old me and accepted that I will not live forever, I have already bypassed the life expectancy of South African males by two years, the worldwide life expectancy is 70 years old and the Italian life expectancy is 82 years old. Having being blessed with Italian genes and also favoring the Mediterranean Diet together with keeping away from the trappings of modern civilization cuisine finds me in a good place.
Keeping the mind and body as far away from the ravages of time is essentially about self-defence, in the sense that martial arts applied with Aliveness is really about overcoming adversity. I now have two opponents; the one in front of me and my aging body. If I wish to maintain my health-span I am now more diligent about my daily practice of sleep, eating less often, skill-development, conditioning, mobility, reading and writing.
If not, I will be seriously pissed off as Keith Richards would be right.
Age
It occupies a time in space
It wrinkles our face.
It starts to bend our spine,
but adds flavour to wine.
Steve Bazzea