Terry Kath and Peter Cetera's 1972 Debate - "Dialogue I & II"

Into mid-century American history are written two kinds of heroes. Of course, the primary heroes were those who fought in Asian fields of death, dying, suffering and confusion.

But there were others, too. Especially those who wanted them home. Those who spoke of choosing life. Yes, "making love, not war." About what it meant to be a human being.

The nation's conscience was appearing, and it was radiating from our younger, better angels.



It emerged on college campuses; in protests, chaotic disruptions, gatherings and, sometimes, with a certain violence. Yet, there was a sense that something special - and good - was happening.

This new collective conscience was coalesced, memorably and beautifully, by art and music. Soundtracked by Jim Morrison and The Doors, the Who and the Rolling Stones. Chorused by Martin, Robert, Timothy and an historic collection of thinkers and orators.

And, mostly importantly, it created dialogue. Nixon famously despised it - and later, to his regret, he simply disregarded it. Dissonance was attacked with rhetoric, racism, belittlement and shame. Mistakenly - and purposely - righteousness was cast in the context of drugs, pot and ignorance.

But the coffins kept coming home, draped in flags; and the cameras rolled. The images indelibly imprinted and energized the young, beaded and bell-bottomed. The result was a movement that would define their generation.

Musicians and artists added their own kind of symphony and momentum. Historic voices, poetic words, beautifully blended chords and bass rhythms. Like the Who's poetic tantrum about teenage wastelands.

From the past, they leap at us as something really, really special.



Especially a famous dialogue from Chicago V: "Dialogue parts I & II," written by Robert Lamm in 1972.

It was passionately vocalized by Terry Kath and Peter Cetera. Terry, on his lead guitar, sent Lamm's words and chords across the studio to Pete, who responded with bass guitar and inspirational naivete.

It's stirring and beautiful. To sing along and replay over and over is to glimpse the special moments in 1972 when heroes came in more than one form.

Dialogue, parts I & II - YouTube

"Are you optimistic 'bout the way things are going?
No, I never, ever think of it at all
Don't you ever worry, when you see what's going down?
No, I try to mind my business, that is, no business at all
When it's time to function as a feeling human being, will your Bachelor of Arts help you get by?
I hope to study further, a few more years or so. I also hope to keep a steady high
Will you try to change things, use the power that you have, the power of a million new ideas?
What is this power you speak of and this need for things to change? I always thought that everything was fine - everything is fine
Don't you feel repression just closing in around?
No, the campus here is very, very free
Does it make you angry the way war is dragging on?
Well, I hope the President knows what he's into, I don't know
Don't you ever see the starvation in the city where you live, all the needless hunger all the needless pain?
I haven't been there lately, the country is so fine, but my neighbors don't seem hungry 'cause they haven't got the time
Thank you for the talk, you know you really eased my mind. I was troubled by the shapes of things to come.
Well, if you had my outlook your feelings would be numb, you'd always think that everything was fine"

Cosmic love Kathleen

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future... Steve Miller Band

New. That's how we felt. And what we were, at seventeen. In 1977, we were skinny and invincible and unafraid. We were beautiful. We were very much alive.

We had new driver's licenses and our first part time jobs. Our first cars. We had razors we never used. Striped jeans. The girls wore lip gloss, bell bottoms and crazy gypsy shirts. And we pretended that we knew how to kiss.

That newness was the hook, the chorus of our lives - and it played endlessly from our back-dash Pioneers, record players, and staticky bedroom radios. We sang, we grooved, to Earth, Wind, and Fire, Parliament and the Who. Practiced those kisses to soundtracks of Fleetwood Mac, Elton John, The Eagles and Eric Carmen.

And Steve Miller.

Miller, in his soothing, synthesized tracks, warned us, though, that time was slipping away.

We didn't listen - of course. We were too busy singing and fast-clicking through our spinning slide carousel of everyday discovery.

Too busy dreaming.

Looking back, I think we clicked past some of life's best moments - before we even knew what they were. We should have opened our eyes wide, smiled, held up our hands and forced time to stand still. Taken the time to scratch "OMG" on the bottom of the slide. To annotate the moment.

But we didn't. We couldn't. We kept clicking, life kept clicking.

Most of us didn't spend time looking in the rear view mirror. As the music played, the fleeting magical moments would have to be remembered - would only be remembered - sometime in the future.

Woven throughout many of those new days was a kind of love. For some, like me, it was a magical, uncertain, indescribable thing. It was sweetly confusing. It was hard to hold, hard to understand. It could be powerful but inconsistent. And inescapably filled with teenage drama.

Some of my more special moments were with my high school girlfriend, Kathleen. Known by her friends these days as "Kate."

Our journeys took distant paths - as they inevitably would. My sisters would remind me over the years, when they'd see her in the neighborhood with her children, about what I'd missed. Tease me about a long-lost teenage love.

After we both moved away, all I knew of the girl were her occasional posts on social media.

And now, the point of this story.

Four years ago, my time-stream shifted. In that turmoil, one of my children whispered to me, "Dad, can't you see it? She doesn't love you." And, "You need to find someone that loves you for who you are."

No, I hadn't seen it. But they were right - she didn't.

As time and pain passed, I found it hard to remember how love used to feel. And, when my friends would ask why I was still alone, I didn't have a rational answer, But I knew; I was hoping to find that newness again.  As it remained hidden, I began to wonder - could I even recognize it; something I didn't understand, that I couldn't feel?

Steve kept singing and time kept slipping. Then, one night in July, I had a vivid, almost lucid dream. In it, a beautiful, mystical, seventeen year-old Kathleen told me, "John, of course I love you... I know you."

There it was, that feeling. Simple and profound. How it was supposed to feel. And it was so real that I could still remember how it felt long after waking.

And so, even if I don't find it again, feel it again, I am so grateful for that memory. Of what it's supposed to be. What I'm supposed to find.

Perhaps, in 1977, our shared, innocent discovery was so new, so formative, that our souls became connected in ways that we're not meant to understand.

Maybe they're mysteries never to be revealed. Milliseconds of magic that can only be tapped in the fast, fleeting moments of youth.

These days, my seventeen-year-old cosmic love is successful, married and content. My reflections here are about moments that persist and linger in the timestream of 1977. This is about the soul. The past, the present, eternity.

I sent Kathleen a Facebook message a few days later and thanked her for a message she never knew she sent. And yet, I received a happy and tender reply, wishing me well.

Perhaps we don't just have to dream of love - a certain, special kind of love. The kind that is woven into who we are and who we were. An enduring, unknown soul-borne connection.

The kind of love that is found deeply; in the close-up, crystal depths of someone's eyes. "I love you. I know you. As if I've always known you."

The kind of love that can make us new again. Alive again. Across the cosmos, seventeen again.

The kind I'll never stop searching for.

Thank you, Kathleen. You'll always be Kathleen in my cosmos.

A Hemmingway Affliction

In Mariel Hemingway's autobiography, "Out Came the Sun," she spoke of the mental health issues her family has faced - including the suicides of her famous grandfather and her sister, Margaux. She also spoke of a sister diagnosed with bipolar schizophrenia.

“I am a Hemingway," she wrote, "and to me, that means that I have a ticket to understanding a world of darkness, of courage, of sadness, of excitement, and — at times — of complete lunacy. And yet, other people with other names feel these things too. It may just be that they don’t have an American myth to which they can connect themselves.”

Mental health disorders affect nearly 1 in 5 Americans. They are the leading cause of disabilities in the U.S. and Canada. And too often, when a family member is diagnosed with a mental health disease, the entire family suffers.

Brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers. They see wounds that can't be treated. Sufferings that change, sadly, who were are and who we used to be.

To my college son yesterday, I said, "Matt, we are like raw nerves. We sense brightly, see everything, feel everything. And that makes us different - maybe special - but vulnerable."

We're a kind of human high-def display. One that sees the detail of our self-universe - but also all of its flaws and imperfections.

As one of us, you might collapse under the weight of beauty or under the burden of neurotic imperfection. Perhaps the world can keep fewer secrets from us.

We love rain and sunsets. Music and magic. Art.

But we see ghosts.

Mariel knows. Brilliance and lunacy - normalcy and madness - are often separated by a thin line.

And not just among the Hemingways.

Citations:
Author: Hemingway, Mariel
Publisher/Additional Information: 
New York, NY: Regan Arts
Link:  http://books.simonandschuster.com/Out-Came-the-Sun/Mariel-Hemingway/978194139323...
Year: 2015