I have not been listening to golden-oldies radio (have not done so for years, I would guess) and have not been watching sixties-nostalgia on TV, but for some reason the Small Faces' "Itchycoo Park" has been thrumming through my head all day, occasionally bursting out in vocalized yowls of "What will we do there? / We'll get HI-I-I-IGH / What will we touch there? / We'll touch the SKY-Y-Y-Y-Y." Where it came from, I cannot guess.
I am feeling especially blissful today, this very moment included, so somehow it must have popped up as soundtrack to my inner monologue. I am lucky, I guess, in having these long, fairly regular spells of euphoria, bordering on rapture, that have practically nothing to do with outward reality. I am as broke as ever, boyfriend-less (and effectively asexual), periodically stressed over work, and struggling to keep the place warm in freezing weather. The world is still in shambles, with Christians feeling persecuted by the mere fact of homosexuality's existence (queerdom is for bible believers what the state of Israel is for Islamicists), melting icecaps and shrinking biodiversity, a couple of wars going on that nobody seems to be able to justify, so nobody even tries anymore (except to keep them funded and supplied with fresh young meat), and an economy that is growing by leaps and bounds for 1% of the population (or less), while the rest of us wait (as we're told to) for the trickle-down effect.
But I do have an aged dog who thinks I'm a fresh helping of god, modestly good health as I draw near to age 57, and a fairly active imagination supplying a fantasy world of my own that makes Avatar look like The Seventh Continent.
I'm feeling "light and breezy," which ought to trigger some Rodgers and Hammerstein, but, no, it's still head music, as I feel fourteen again, vaguely inebriated on youthful horniness and the bouncy, clear colors of acid on a late summer's afternoon.