This will be my final post of 2008. The new year sort of snuck up on me. Even when one is unwrapping presents on Christmas morning, that next year still always seems a year away. I suppose it's just in the human mentality to not "count on tomorrow" and "just live for today," as Mr. Shaver sung.
It's always a little mind boggling to look back on a year. In terms of unexpectedness, really on any system of scale, this has been a unique year. Last year I was in a castle on the northwest coast of France. Three days after landing in Paris I was driving three Parisians (none of whom knew how to drive) in a rented Citroen down the A-11 towards Bretagne. Though quite frankly it was a bit awkward in the castle, it was one hell of an experience. When one looks at these sorts of things, perspective is always important. I know a lot of people that haven't even seen a castle much less spent an evening in one.
This year, despite possessing the requisite champagne, I'm far from Bretagne and far from any castles. It seems as if this New Years Eve will be a relatively quiet one, comparatively speaking of course. Given the stature of the "holiday," this seems almost sacrilege to many.
Ironically, only three former New Year's Eve really stick out in my mind over the last eight years. These were all memorable for who they were spent with as much as anything else. That said, distinct events happened in each that makes them stand out. There were the massive fireworks courtesy of H in 2001-2002. Drunken tears and screaming always stand out no matter the night. Then of course 2003-2004 provided no end to drama. Getting left at a house party by my girlfriend, trying to pick a fight with a kid I poured beer on the previous summer, walking home in the rain, and then the requisite happy Hollywood ending with Kash, temporary as it was. 2006-2007 brought the inaugural Roost New Year's Eve party. There wasn't much going on there beyond general Roostness, questionable decisions in search of female companionship, and of course the bad/good? decision to put a roast in a the crock pot at 2AM so it would be ready for consumption when we awoke (These great ideas always seem to end up biting you in the ass, metaphorically speaking of course). All of which brings us back to the castle, which beyond the horrible music granted an unforgettable experience, one I was able to share with someone special.
I saw a lot in this intervening year. I'm not sure I'll ever figure out how I got from France to Fort Smith, from a life of somewhat hedonistic gallivanting to static pragmatism but here I am. Tonight, like much of our existence on this earth, should be a somewhat staid affair. Some dinner at home, some effervescent wine, and a party at a good friend's new Fay Jones designed home. Though we might forget them, it is often the quiet nights with close friends that are most affirming for our spirits.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Chocolate and Ice
Every year around this time I began to obsessively listen to a small set of "holiday" songs. My use of quotations is perhaps perplexing. Most assume a song is either a Christmas tune or not. Gray areas don't really exist with quotations. Until I first heard My Morning Jacket's 2000 EP, My Morning Jacket Does Xmas Fiasco Style, I saw holiday songs in black and white.
When one speaks of anything regarding taste or personal preference, there is always an attempt to draw a correlation with something else. A comparison is required so one can adequately and descriptively give an idea as to what one might expect (Dick in High Fidelity grants us a classic example of this pursuit: "She's kind of Sheryl Crow-ish crossed with a post-Partridge Family pre-L.A. Law Susan Dey kind of thing, but, you know, uh, black").
Despite my adoration for My Morning Jacket, I've always struggled in my attempts to relate their sound. As luck would have it, I struck on something close to an apt description for the experience of listening to this particular EP. It is reminiscent of a rebellious Gregorian Monk starting an expansive rock band.
Though there are only six songs (including the bonus track), the record clocks in just shy of thirty-five minutes. What sets it apart--and keeps me interested each year--is the edgy nature inherent in the EP. In the opening track, Xmas Curtain, Jim James tells us about reluctant shoplifters and salacious hypocrites--"hey! The Christmas curtain falls on lawbreakers that pave the way for thoughtless folks like me and J who'd pay, but cant afford the finer things in life so we heist them all..."
This catchy (yet ironically bleak in content) tune is followed with I Just Wanted To Say. It's elegantly stark--"I just wanted to say, happy holidays, today. I just wanted to be just a little part of your cheer. There comes a time in everyone's life when everything shines like a star that falls from the sky"
Utilizing their unique vocal talents, the band follows this with something a bit more traditional--Christmas Time Is Here Again--a song extolling the positively regenerative possibilities of the season. Reminding us that--"Christmas Time is here again. All this joy for girls and boys, life was bad but now is good. All is right, I think we should bring out the joy, light up the tree. Though time moves fast it's not too late, it's only Christmas Eve."
Not to get too engrossed in a traditional spirit, the band opts for Nick Cave's New Morning. They adorn this post-apocalyptic proto eutopian song with lightly elegant instrumentation. In their hands it is transformed into a hopeful statement of the possibilities of our own future--"Thank you for giving this bright new morning, so steeped seemed the evening in darkness and blood. Let there be no sadness, no sorrow, Let there be no road too narrow. There'll be a new day, yes it's today, it's forever."
For good measure a cover of Elvis' "Santa Claus is Back in Town" wraps up the EP (though it is technically followed by a hidden track). This is naturally a rocker, with Jim James sounding a bit fuller than on any other track.
I read recently in the WSJ that we become bored with Christmas carols because the novelty has worn off. We know what will come next. The assertion was that a song must "balance predictability with surprise, familiarity with novelty." Irrationally I fear that fate for Fiasco Style. Fingers crossed, I hope to make it through at least one more season with the soaring vocals, teardrop lyrics, and expressive licks of My Morning Jacket Does Xmas Fiasco Style.
When one speaks of anything regarding taste or personal preference, there is always an attempt to draw a correlation with something else. A comparison is required so one can adequately and descriptively give an idea as to what one might expect (Dick in High Fidelity grants us a classic example of this pursuit: "She's kind of Sheryl Crow-ish crossed with a post-Partridge Family pre-L.A. Law Susan Dey kind of thing, but, you know, uh, black").
Despite my adoration for My Morning Jacket, I've always struggled in my attempts to relate their sound. As luck would have it, I struck on something close to an apt description for the experience of listening to this particular EP. It is reminiscent of a rebellious Gregorian Monk starting an expansive rock band.
Though there are only six songs (including the bonus track), the record clocks in just shy of thirty-five minutes. What sets it apart--and keeps me interested each year--is the edgy nature inherent in the EP. In the opening track, Xmas Curtain, Jim James tells us about reluctant shoplifters and salacious hypocrites--"hey! The Christmas curtain falls on lawbreakers that pave the way for thoughtless folks like me and J who'd pay, but cant afford the finer things in life so we heist them all..."
This catchy (yet ironically bleak in content) tune is followed with I Just Wanted To Say. It's elegantly stark--"I just wanted to say, happy holidays, today. I just wanted to be just a little part of your cheer. There comes a time in everyone's life when everything shines like a star that falls from the sky"
Utilizing their unique vocal talents, the band follows this with something a bit more traditional--Christmas Time Is Here Again--a song extolling the positively regenerative possibilities of the season. Reminding us that--"Christmas Time is here again. All this joy for girls and boys, life was bad but now is good. All is right, I think we should bring out the joy, light up the tree. Though time moves fast it's not too late, it's only Christmas Eve."
Not to get too engrossed in a traditional spirit, the band opts for Nick Cave's New Morning. They adorn this post-apocalyptic proto eutopian song with lightly elegant instrumentation. In their hands it is transformed into a hopeful statement of the possibilities of our own future--"Thank you for giving this bright new morning, so steeped seemed the evening in darkness and blood. Let there be no sadness, no sorrow, Let there be no road too narrow. There'll be a new day, yes it's today, it's forever."
For good measure a cover of Elvis' "Santa Claus is Back in Town" wraps up the EP (though it is technically followed by a hidden track). This is naturally a rocker, with Jim James sounding a bit fuller than on any other track.
I read recently in the WSJ that we become bored with Christmas carols because the novelty has worn off. We know what will come next. The assertion was that a song must "balance predictability with surprise, familiarity with novelty." Irrationally I fear that fate for Fiasco Style. Fingers crossed, I hope to make it through at least one more season with the soaring vocals, teardrop lyrics, and expressive licks of My Morning Jacket Does Xmas Fiasco Style.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Youth and Young Manhood
Invariably when one sets out on a household clean up project or redecoration, some remembrance of times past rears its head. Though it perhaps should not be, it is usually an unexpected encounter. We cordon off our lives and expect our past to respect the boundaries. Our expectation is for the past to stand politely in the wings and appear only when expressly conjured.
This is out of practical necessity as much as anything else. What could be accomplished if one was to constantly mope over yesterday? Our mind creates these boundaries for self-survival. I think it is because of this that we are always so surprised at the strength of those innocent emotions that can blindside us at the drop of a hat.
Thus it was recently while I was straightening up my room that I came across a particular picture. It was one I've seen countless times without a second thought. Taken the day of my graduation ceremony at the University of Texas in May, 2005, I am standing in cap and gown with my arm around a dear friend (if it's possible, that might even be an understatement). Smiles on our faces, we stare into the camera. Confidence and security seems to emanate from us both.
It is ironic how innocent this all seems in retrospect. Everything undoubtedly seems to have been easier then. This is a false recollection. Our worries then seem minuscule only because we are privy to their resolution. However, I was struck by the ferocity of the emotions that overtook me--a yearning to live again those years of "youth," a desperate guilt at decisions and indecision, and finally a resigned smirk at the circumstances of the day (getting yelled at by the women in my life for wanting to wear shorts under my gown, realizing that I had "outgrown" the slacks I had, having to rush to Old Navy with Kasia for new pants, and finally, tearing down Red River at 60MPH to get to the ceremony).
People use phrases like a "misspent youth" from time to time. Youth is simply spent. Unfortunately, we spend it in a confused haze of vacillation. It is only upon a second look that we confuse the situation and see it as misspent instead.
This is out of practical necessity as much as anything else. What could be accomplished if one was to constantly mope over yesterday? Our mind creates these boundaries for self-survival. I think it is because of this that we are always so surprised at the strength of those innocent emotions that can blindside us at the drop of a hat.
Thus it was recently while I was straightening up my room that I came across a particular picture. It was one I've seen countless times without a second thought. Taken the day of my graduation ceremony at the University of Texas in May, 2005, I am standing in cap and gown with my arm around a dear friend (if it's possible, that might even be an understatement). Smiles on our faces, we stare into the camera. Confidence and security seems to emanate from us both.
It is ironic how innocent this all seems in retrospect. Everything undoubtedly seems to have been easier then. This is a false recollection. Our worries then seem minuscule only because we are privy to their resolution. However, I was struck by the ferocity of the emotions that overtook me--a yearning to live again those years of "youth," a desperate guilt at decisions and indecision, and finally a resigned smirk at the circumstances of the day (getting yelled at by the women in my life for wanting to wear shorts under my gown, realizing that I had "outgrown" the slacks I had, having to rush to Old Navy with Kasia for new pants, and finally, tearing down Red River at 60MPH to get to the ceremony).
People use phrases like a "misspent youth" from time to time. Youth is simply spent. Unfortunately, we spend it in a confused haze of vacillation. It is only upon a second look that we confuse the situation and see it as misspent instead.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Hidden Inside
Films are a magical thing. There is no end to the possibilities, no cessation to their delights. Most movies are enjoyed for their ability to mesmerize. Through melodrama, comedy, or action, we are given a chance to forget our reality and embrace an alternative experience wholeheartedly. On lucky occasions that experience will leave indelible marks on those who view them.
I recently watched Cedric Klapisch's sequel to the wonderful and sublime L'Auberge Espagnol (The Spanish Apartment). Though Russian Dolls, is ostensibly a sequel, I must admittedly disagree with Stephen Holden of the New York Times that it "has not much on its mind beyond updating the lives of the characters in his 2002 comedy L'Auberge Espagnole."
There is so much more on the mind. It attempts to explain the vagaries of love through the experience of the main character, Xavier. Though the film is indeed visually delightful, it was a piece of monologue by Xavier that really stuck with me. I hesitate to summarize so I'll just quote:
"If I think about all the girls I've known or slept with or just desired, they're like a bunch of Russian dolls. We spend our lives playing the game dying to know who'll be the last, the teeny-tiny one hidden inside all the others. You can't just get to her right away. You have to follow the progression. You have to open them one by one wondering, 'Is she the last one?'"
I can't add any more to that sentiment. The depth of those seemingly innocent words are, to me at least, a perfect summary of the human experience.
I recently watched Cedric Klapisch's sequel to the wonderful and sublime L'Auberge Espagnol (The Spanish Apartment). Though Russian Dolls, is ostensibly a sequel, I must admittedly disagree with Stephen Holden of the New York Times that it "has not much on its mind beyond updating the lives of the characters in his 2002 comedy L'Auberge Espagnole."
There is so much more on the mind. It attempts to explain the vagaries of love through the experience of the main character, Xavier. Though the film is indeed visually delightful, it was a piece of monologue by Xavier that really stuck with me. I hesitate to summarize so I'll just quote:
"If I think about all the girls I've known or slept with or just desired, they're like a bunch of Russian dolls. We spend our lives playing the game dying to know who'll be the last, the teeny-tiny one hidden inside all the others. You can't just get to her right away. You have to follow the progression. You have to open them one by one wondering, 'Is she the last one?'"
I can't add any more to that sentiment. The depth of those seemingly innocent words are, to me at least, a perfect summary of the human experience.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Fruits of Fantasy
The clementines are here. My preference to fresh fruit has been a relatively recent phenomenon. It began with a few apples here, a handful of oranges there. Soon enough I was delicately handling kiwi, discussing the relative merits of johnagolds, and generally craving tangelos.
Looking back this all seems to be rather pedestrian. Though the produce was always around, it wasn't until my time in France that I begun to really see the merits of fruits outside the flowering trinity of apples, bananas, and oranges. My idea of branching out had been buying a handful of kiwi or a carton of blackberries to supplement my pulsing desire for summer strawberries.
Litchis opened my eyes. The second night I was in Paris, a bowl was set out and filled to the brim with brittle, scaly little pale ovals. I was honestly surprised to find that these oddities were commonplace. Though I was apprehensive, those feelings dissipated after I peeled the outer shell and plucked the translucently pinkish fruit into my mouth. At the center of the fruit is an inedible seed. Both the appearance of the fruit as well as that inner seed reminded me of a peach, though the litchi was much sweeter and less dense than a peach. Before the evening ended I had consumed at least a dozen or more. I was officially a fan of litchis.
Though they were my gateway, litchis would not remain my fruit of choice while abroad. That station was won by the mango. My revelatory experience with the mango came early in my travels as well. Though I do not recall the exact circumstances of the evening, I believe I was walking in the Marais with my girlfriend and her friend. It was well after 10PM when we stepped into a Japanese restaurant for something to eat. Because of the late hour I was not interested in eating much more than a few pieces of sushi while the girls had full meals. For dessert Morgane ordered fresh mango (I must admit that I found humor in this. Beyond the fact that one would actually choose to have fruit for dessert, why on earth would one expect there to be fresh mango of all things? Evidently most Asian restaurants there serve mango for dessert).
When I first bit into the cubed fruit my derisiveness dissipated. I've been lucky enough to eat quite a few mangoes since that night in the Marais but none could reach the perfection of that first mango. For some reason the produce across the ocean seemed so much more fresh, it seemed to enliven my mouth. Now, every watery out of season clementine, each mealy mango just makes me shake my head in disgust and wish for the produce at the fruit stand on Avenue Pasteur in Courbevoie.
Perhaps it is unfair to constantly compare the fruit of my present to that of my past. Though these comparisons never live up to the imagined past, it seems ingrained in human nature to examine their correlation. With fruits or otherwise, we always catch ourselves doubting our present.
Looking back this all seems to be rather pedestrian. Though the produce was always around, it wasn't until my time in France that I begun to really see the merits of fruits outside the flowering trinity of apples, bananas, and oranges. My idea of branching out had been buying a handful of kiwi or a carton of blackberries to supplement my pulsing desire for summer strawberries.
Litchis opened my eyes. The second night I was in Paris, a bowl was set out and filled to the brim with brittle, scaly little pale ovals. I was honestly surprised to find that these oddities were commonplace. Though I was apprehensive, those feelings dissipated after I peeled the outer shell and plucked the translucently pinkish fruit into my mouth. At the center of the fruit is an inedible seed. Both the appearance of the fruit as well as that inner seed reminded me of a peach, though the litchi was much sweeter and less dense than a peach. Before the evening ended I had consumed at least a dozen or more. I was officially a fan of litchis.
Though they were my gateway, litchis would not remain my fruit of choice while abroad. That station was won by the mango. My revelatory experience with the mango came early in my travels as well. Though I do not recall the exact circumstances of the evening, I believe I was walking in the Marais with my girlfriend and her friend. It was well after 10PM when we stepped into a Japanese restaurant for something to eat. Because of the late hour I was not interested in eating much more than a few pieces of sushi while the girls had full meals. For dessert Morgane ordered fresh mango (I must admit that I found humor in this. Beyond the fact that one would actually choose to have fruit for dessert, why on earth would one expect there to be fresh mango of all things? Evidently most Asian restaurants there serve mango for dessert).
When I first bit into the cubed fruit my derisiveness dissipated. I've been lucky enough to eat quite a few mangoes since that night in the Marais but none could reach the perfection of that first mango. For some reason the produce across the ocean seemed so much more fresh, it seemed to enliven my mouth. Now, every watery out of season clementine, each mealy mango just makes me shake my head in disgust and wish for the produce at the fruit stand on Avenue Pasteur in Courbevoie.
Perhaps it is unfair to constantly compare the fruit of my present to that of my past. Though these comparisons never live up to the imagined past, it seems ingrained in human nature to examine their correlation. With fruits or otherwise, we always catch ourselves doubting our present.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Taking Hold of the Scene
I must admit that I have been struggling to write this particular post for quite some time. This has been a result of circumstance as much as anything else. Life has seemed to speed up a bit over the past weeks. Since I am fond of ease and leisure this "speed" would seem to be something I might bemoan. However, it has been largely a result of positive life events occurring rather than tedious responsibility.
As I've mentioned before, I am certainly cognizant of my tastes. I find pleasure in the simplicity and (perceived) purity of an older generation of musicians. I feel as if I'm more critical of the "moderns" than I am older artists. Perhaps it's easier for me to excuse the blemishes of a different era.
There are some who are lucky enough to work in an environment or industry that keeps them abreast of the changing music scene. But for most, myself included, the task of staying current is impossible--between the cost of legally purchasing new music, to the amount of new material out there, it's like a second job. As a result the number of modern artists I consider integral to my existence pales in comparison to those of an older generation.
In reality, it is no small wonder to connect to a new band. This was certainly my own experience with Okkervil River. Though I rarely listened to them, Okkervil River had been on my radar for quite some time. This wasn't out of distaste but out of negligence. They were given a short and half-interested initial listen and largely forgotten. At some point in the past two years they were granted more attention.
Since I love words--their interaction, how they sound, their subtleties--it was the intricate lyrics of front man Will Sheff that first began to attract me. Songs like "Listening to Otis Redding at Home During Christmas" and "A Stone" contained not only a well of emotion but a poignancy rarely accomplished in any medium smaller than the modern novel. Out of that, the majesty and grandeur of songs like "The War Criminal Rises and Speaks" and "Our Life" hit me in a new way. Further and further the flames of my fan-hood spread as I saw the arc of their body of work--the flashes of genius that were coalesced into their two most recent records.
Of course writing about this is a somewhat futile exercise. Those who enjoy Okkervil River already do so in their own private way. Each experience of music is unique to oneself. It might pique the interest of one who hadn't yet been privy to the joys of the band. But, until the body of work is consumed, my words exist only as an empty approximation of my feelings.
As I've mentioned before, I am certainly cognizant of my tastes. I find pleasure in the simplicity and (perceived) purity of an older generation of musicians. I feel as if I'm more critical of the "moderns" than I am older artists. Perhaps it's easier for me to excuse the blemishes of a different era.
There are some who are lucky enough to work in an environment or industry that keeps them abreast of the changing music scene. But for most, myself included, the task of staying current is impossible--between the cost of legally purchasing new music, to the amount of new material out there, it's like a second job. As a result the number of modern artists I consider integral to my existence pales in comparison to those of an older generation.
In reality, it is no small wonder to connect to a new band. This was certainly my own experience with Okkervil River. Though I rarely listened to them, Okkervil River had been on my radar for quite some time. This wasn't out of distaste but out of negligence. They were given a short and half-interested initial listen and largely forgotten. At some point in the past two years they were granted more attention.
Since I love words--their interaction, how they sound, their subtleties--it was the intricate lyrics of front man Will Sheff that first began to attract me. Songs like "Listening to Otis Redding at Home During Christmas" and "A Stone" contained not only a well of emotion but a poignancy rarely accomplished in any medium smaller than the modern novel. Out of that, the majesty and grandeur of songs like "The War Criminal Rises and Speaks" and "Our Life" hit me in a new way. Further and further the flames of my fan-hood spread as I saw the arc of their body of work--the flashes of genius that were coalesced into their two most recent records.
Of course writing about this is a somewhat futile exercise. Those who enjoy Okkervil River already do so in their own private way. Each experience of music is unique to oneself. It might pique the interest of one who hadn't yet been privy to the joys of the band. But, until the body of work is consumed, my words exist only as an empty approximation of my feelings.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
The Curse of Memory
A month ago I had the realization that September was ending. Now I've had that same realization about October. I suppose my wonder at the passing of time either belies a touch of inner boredom or the creeping effects of age.
"Now the days go by so fast"
The passing of time is a subject laden with trite expressions and worn out sentiments, neither of which truly obtain an exact perspective on the subject. Our collective inability to truly pierce the heart of the matter doesn't prohibit us in any way, in fact it seems to cause more attempts--each trying to get their horseshoe closer to the stake.
An argument can be made that photographs (and recording technology in general) have invariably weakened our memories; however, I'm not sure where I would be without them. It is somewhat unbearable to think that there are occurrences in our life whose only chance of "survival" relies on our own mental capacities. As unreliable as we are as humans, it helps to have an aid. I am, therefore, quite thankful to have so many photographs from all stages of my life (these usually bring back a rush of emotions and memories when I see them).
Despite this I have been known to scoff at certain types of picture takers, especially those who replace the experience by way of lens. This tendency is most notable in tourists (the best example being those who take pictures of pictures, i.e. hanging works of art). I am overly self-conscious and as a result I unfortunately tend to behave the opposite. Because of this I often neglect to take pictures of certain things or have my own picture taken by others. It is regrettable ridiculousness on my part.
"I can't remember all the times I tried to tell my myself to hold on to these moments as they pass"
My own goal in life is to simply remember well. It seems at times to be an impossible task. Each passing day grants new experiences that serve to block out the more dated memories. As these new memories crowd the edges of your mind, the older ones meld together and form a jumbled mess. Hazy uncertainty reigns in place of clarity. Despite the hazy uncertainty of memory, the over all feeling is usually retained. These are most often summarized in basic emotions--a smile, an exclamation of discord, or even a sense of general ambivalence. And then there are also those exceptional memories that are so ingrained, so real despite the passing of time, they remain tangible. It is unfortunate but those seem to be the exception and not the rule.
Often we are filled with longing to relive moments, to reconnect with people or places. This ability to remember certain things in the face of the present is the curse of memory. As such it seems to me that the oddity of our existence is in fact the present. Invariably, like the above quote attests, we lament our inability to derive the appropriate sense of fulfillment out of the moments we live. In a sense we are not truly living our life but living the memories to come and are thus forced to derive most our joy retroactively.
"Now the days go by so fast"
The passing of time is a subject laden with trite expressions and worn out sentiments, neither of which truly obtain an exact perspective on the subject. Our collective inability to truly pierce the heart of the matter doesn't prohibit us in any way, in fact it seems to cause more attempts--each trying to get their horseshoe closer to the stake.
An argument can be made that photographs (and recording technology in general) have invariably weakened our memories; however, I'm not sure where I would be without them. It is somewhat unbearable to think that there are occurrences in our life whose only chance of "survival" relies on our own mental capacities. As unreliable as we are as humans, it helps to have an aid. I am, therefore, quite thankful to have so many photographs from all stages of my life (these usually bring back a rush of emotions and memories when I see them).
Despite this I have been known to scoff at certain types of picture takers, especially those who replace the experience by way of lens. This tendency is most notable in tourists (the best example being those who take pictures of pictures, i.e. hanging works of art). I am overly self-conscious and as a result I unfortunately tend to behave the opposite. Because of this I often neglect to take pictures of certain things or have my own picture taken by others. It is regrettable ridiculousness on my part.
"I can't remember all the times I tried to tell my myself to hold on to these moments as they pass"
My own goal in life is to simply remember well. It seems at times to be an impossible task. Each passing day grants new experiences that serve to block out the more dated memories. As these new memories crowd the edges of your mind, the older ones meld together and form a jumbled mess. Hazy uncertainty reigns in place of clarity. Despite the hazy uncertainty of memory, the over all feeling is usually retained. These are most often summarized in basic emotions--a smile, an exclamation of discord, or even a sense of general ambivalence. And then there are also those exceptional memories that are so ingrained, so real despite the passing of time, they remain tangible. It is unfortunate but those seem to be the exception and not the rule.
Often we are filled with longing to relive moments, to reconnect with people or places. This ability to remember certain things in the face of the present is the curse of memory. As such it seems to me that the oddity of our existence is in fact the present. Invariably, like the above quote attests, we lament our inability to derive the appropriate sense of fulfillment out of the moments we live. In a sense we are not truly living our life but living the memories to come and are thus forced to derive most our joy retroactively.
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