Monday, January 30, 2012

1) The Triffids, "Estuary Bed". I don't know how it is possible for music to induce nostalgia for times I haven't actually experienced. You could call such songs "evocative" and leave it at that, but there is something more. The narrator of the preceding "Seabirds" may have departed in despair, but the one here possibly knows more pain, by virtue of being on the wrong side of forgotten affection and having to live with that as years tick by. Forster said "Cattle and Cane" was a key progression where McLennan managed to dig up the past, and so too here. When that happens, it does not matter how tangential or disconnected your personal experience is to what is literally expressed; the heart will find a way to make a connection. Which is another way to say, this is a perfect song.

Monday, January 23, 2012

I regret not having kept a better record of my thoughts regarding the world around me, focussing instead on the one inside me. Not only because the latter gets repetitive (I like that, mind), but because I sometimes struggle to remember my feelings about, say, computing in the early days. I vaguely recall amusement about wikis, for example, and more clearly remember a growing sense of discomfort with the old system being pushed aside. It strikes me that the world has changed a lot in not a lot of time, and there hasn't been nearly enough of discussion to match. I like some of the recent manifestos on the topic, but there's nothing like reminding oneself of one's own reactions to events as they unfolded.

Yet everytime I try to engage in the topic with other people, it's met with cool, logical approval of what has happened, backed up with a pretty convincing list of reasons why that is the only sane reaction. It's when this happens that I am reminded of why I never liked writing about these things. It has rarely been facts themselves that interest me, even though they are what is needed for a calm discussion. No, I seem to cast everything into an emotional issue, in this case, as with all manner of childhood souvenirs, a lament on what has been lost. I could say more, but really, that's about all there is to it. I used to suspect, and now I know, that most people place no value on such oddities. And why should they, after all? Ah, but I cannot help it. I just cannot let go so easily. I may forget specifics, but I carry a mark. When out of the blue the memory comes back, it takes some willpower to prevent a deluge inside. It feels as though as these losses are connected in some way. Even after years of training, I'm not very far off from where I started.

Sunday, January 01, 2012

By no means are these feelings worthy of a post, if only because they are nothing new, and are likely to recur as long as I continue to live like this. Amongst people who know you, one feels the wistful reflection to the past has not always been misguided. A little bit of you lives on in people's memories, and that reciprocation seems so wonderful to a troubled mind. There is strength derived from seeing other lives, there is a stronger conviction in onesself. Not that that means one wants to put any of this to use. Much better to be immersed in this environment for longer; not use it as a remedy, but use it as reality. Because at the end of it all, how to put it better than: I really would not like to go.