And fittingly, I ran across a poem that ties the 60th anniversary of the opening of space age, to this nation's oldest pass-time. So I will type no more -- except to say that some times, perhaps when I least expect it -- the Universe moves. . . perfectly -- with unwasted grace, before a hidden alternate mirror of explanation, and self-reflection. . . . This is one of those times:
Sputnik: October 4, 1957
On this day in 1957, Sputnik went up
and my sister Joan and I
and our father went up
to the roof of our apartment house
on Arden Street, and watched the sky.
I don't know what we thought we saw
in the October night amid the lights and white dust
but it wasn't the space race
with our rockets exploding on takeoff
and their monkeys in space capsules orbiting the earth.
Only later did we memorize the names
of the seven clean-cut Project Mercury
astronauts on the cover of Life.
Project Gemini. Rendezvous and dock.
Project Apollo. A soft landing on the moon.
Science in the form of technology was about to deliver a knockout blow
to the antiquated forces of culture,
and in Cambridge, England, they were
preparing to have one hell of a brawl about it,
but we were just glad to be watchers of
the sky from our Manhattan roof top,
and we had our money down on the Yanks
to take game three from the Milwaukee Braves
in the World Series tomorrow night
-- David Lehman
[And the change of masthead art is simply to bring in good karma, anew -- not to say we've forgotten about senible "bump stock" ban legislation, high capacity magazine legislation and AR-15 (and similar) bans.] Now you know. Four years ago -- just this very afternoon -- I was at first puzzled, and then sublimely enlightened -- by close inspection of a mirror of another sort, as I took my return flight, northward. . . Fly onward, one and all -- and do travel light. Smile.
नमस्ते
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