With any pet period of their lives, people seem to have distinct perspectives of nostalgia. Yet, it is true to say that most people of my own age yearn back with some affection to their sixties, my sixties, my late teens, the Beatles, Carnaby Street, the launching of a new modernity…
In respect of those younger than myself, I can empathise with — but not really understand the nature of — their yearning back to the seventies, their own ‘my seventies’.
But yearning for their eighties or nineties is quite beyond the pale of reason!
I suspect the general prevalence of favoured pet periods continues to alter with the passing of time, with the passing of new decades. Indeed, I assumed that one’s own specific pet period, once established, never changes. My sixties would always be my pet period.
But recently, with great shock, my sixties have been thrown out, yes, thrown out, in favour of a new retrospective appreciation of my seventies. What is more, my seventies have seemed to become set fair forever as my permanent pet period of nostalgia because of an increasingly mature angle upon childbearing, a new vantage point upon my seventies when I became involved in starting new lives rather than simply obsessing upon a singular impressionable selfishness during my sixties, a period that later, in hindsight, moulded me into an eventual altruistic readiness for my childbearing seventies while I was in my own twenties.
But while, today, I approach a new decade of my second seventies unfolding several decades after the twentieth century’s first and only seventies, I wonder whether the metaphorical baby is going to be thrown out, yes, thrown out, with the bath water. A second childishness, a second childhood, eventually thrown out, yes, thrown out with the slowly impending twenties, the roaring twenty-somethings crowding in around me like a new race of alien life.
Always thrown out, thrown out twice, but with different meanings. A birth called death. A birth called death.