Funny the thing’s you remember. Funny the things you forget. I have been remembering to forget to remember and forgetting to remember to forget a lot recently. You can blame it all on general exhaustion, or on the fact that I attended a wedding at the weekend where some faces from the past swam in front of me for a few hours and then, as these things do, passed back into the mists. Either reason works okay.
I don’t think I get as misty eyed and romantically reminiscent as I used to do. There is nothing inherently attractive in imagining pasts that only vaguely existed, after all. We all of us make up our own stories and retell them to death. There is no truth and there are no lies. Just different stories. They all change always. They all take on new accents with each retelling; cast new lines and reel in new angles. And there is nothing to be gained in throwing rocks in the pool just for the sake of seeing ripples break on the shores of ancient regret.
Instead just smile beatifically, shrug a shoulder and let it roll away. The fact that you all shot off on different tangents does not diminish the value of the initial explosion, after all.
But songs. Records. The moments they store: the cores of those explosions. For me, at least. The ciphers that give body to the energies of youth. Or of age. The familiarity of sounds and words that kiss you on the nape of the neck. Those things always curl up around my heart; cuddle up and nudge me with knowing nods and gentle rejoinders. Remember this? The cast of a shadow over the harbour wall. The scent of leather upholstery and perfume mixed in late night driven home and a whisper of will I see you again? Bitter wine and chocolate kisses. Midnight in candlelight a mile above the city and thunderstorms rolling in from the ocean. A chasm of indifference and a pocket full of promises.