Tuesday, 5 December 2017

I[ ]B

I have been hit by a wave of nostalgia.

It is a wave I will admit to cresting with relatively alarming frequency. Simple though life seems sometimes, it is also true that I am a jigsaw puzzle made up of many different pieces that don't quite fit. Over a decade ago, on a different blog and in a quite different place, I used the analogy of a wall of bricks to describe a shelter. Some of those bricks are still in place. Those that aren't still sit in the foundations. I never truly forget things.

For whatever reason - lack of sleep last night causing me to overthink things, sudden downtime following insane weeks at work resulting in meditative/reflective lethargy, or just circumstance - today has managed to pique my interest in things that may be a part of me, but in some ways, I barely remember.

I spent all morning transferring music to my iPod, music that I love but also reminds me partially of Rebecca and partially of a friend who died while I was at university. (By extension, more music that reminds me of university, and buying CDs at random just because I could.) While doing so, just before disconnecting my iPod, I found and added 47's first demo EP, which reminds me vividly of his old house in Kent, his room in which I slept, and in which he handed me said EP with a reminder to look out for the album when it came out. And the resulting band I ended up playing in. My guitar, which used to be his, stands in the corner. Yesterday I thought vaguely of digging out my bass.

The Seamstress was attracted to boys who played bass and those with beards. I am both now, but with little real consequence.

More came. Thinking about my grandparents on Twitter coincided with accidentally clicking open a forum on which I used to rôleplay. A dead forum, maybe, but one in which I used to spend hours spinning intricate tales without knowing where I was going with them. I tapped out a post there, signifying an ending of sorts, with a strange mix of pride and melancholy. Earlier today, in fact, I spiralled back through my past, looking for a specific post on a specific LiveJournal (which I found). Each of those words, heavy with meaning, shining through the years with the glow that reflects the fact that somebody sat down to write them...

None of this, though, really compares with porn.

Last night, lying awake, I was reminded of some porn which I could have sworn I have, but remained completely unaware of exactly where to find it. Awaiting a meeting that didn't happen at 8:30am, I sat at my computer sifting through my old, scrappy Disks of Wonder, scanning the filenames at speed. Again and again, names leapt out at me; things that inspired me, alarmed me, aroused me. I found the porn I was looking for, and transferred it to my external HD (on which I keep my porn), thus relieving the struggling CD-R from its labour that has lasted a decade and more... but it wasn't the only file I transferred, grabbing at random scenes I know by name, things I may want on hand even though it wasn't the right time this morning.

All pieces of the puzzle.

When I dream, the dreams all take place in the house where I grew up. I haven't been there for years, and yet I can still see it so vividly - feel it, even - all around me when I close my eyes and concentrate. This is the same computer. It's the same brand of tea I sip. It's the same music; the same words; the same porn. In a lot of ways, it's the same ILB.

Some bits of my past I miss. Some bits I don't. I suppose I am still learning. Sometimes that is difficult. But I am, whenever nostalgic, pleased that I made it through.

I am still. I am here. ILB. Hi. Hello. It's me.


Anonymous said...

Thank you so much for this well-explained article. Looking forward to the next article.

Indigo Byrd said...

I can relate to so much of what you wrote. Not the porn because I don't have much, but the music and the apparent randomness of re-connections out of the blue. I started writing my blog to find some purpose in life after my mum's death, and then I started writing about an old lover from 25-ish years ago, and dredging up poems I wrote and songs we listened to, and the other day I ended up walking around the block of land we used to own... Not cause I would want to go there again, but rather marveling at what we did have, that I honestly didn't realize at the time. Anyway I liked what you were saying. Thanks.

Innocent Loverboy said...

@Indigo Byrd:

That's quite some memory you have! I don't have too many concrete memories of my old lovers, as things tend to get lost in storage or thrown away by well-meaning but ill-judged family members; I've also certainly never owned, or shared, land.

But I still have memories - very visual ones - and certain songs, or words, or (more specifically and more powerfully) scents, that bring them back. Or sometimes they just come back for no reason whatsoever, as is usually the case.