This blog is partly about small continuities: you see something and you make an association with something else, and so on, and so on, until there is a rambling stream of consciousness.
Yesterday’s post was called fug because it was about the moisture in a warm room condensing when it hit a large expanse of window. There is something cosy about seeing a window fugged up in such a way. From that though there is an easy connection with the word. The Fugs were a group, firmly embedded in the 1960s counterculture, formed in New York by poets Ed Sanders and Tuli Kupferberg with various musicians. In some ways if you want to know what the Sixties were about you could do worse than look at The Fugs. The never sold that many records or featured on any soundtrack of the age instead they typified a particular sensibility that fed into much of what happened at the time. They celebrated: creativity, freedom, vulgarity, energy, spontaneity, and were the opposite of polished professionalism.
The Wikipedia piece on Tuli Kupferberg ends with a quote from his last interview: ”Nobody who lived through the ’50s thought the ’60s could’ve existed. So there’s always hope.” In these intellectually oppressive times when all our calls and emails are being monitored, that is something to cling onto and worth more than just a fleeting moment of contemplation