When there is enough time, nostalgia is the best drug. If you can look down the road and believe that there is a chance to relive whatever you are turning over in your mind, that’s just dandy. Let’s push it down the road a bit.
Nostalgia is about many things, but most of all it is about time. I do not know the amount of time I have spent lost in nostalgic thought. It is not too far fetched to think it equates to many months worth of time; perhaps even years. I sit each day and think of the past, and when I think of the past, I think mostly of the now perceived joy and perfection of the past. Never mind stopping to think about how no time is perfect and how the present reminds us of this almost every moment and that we are supposed to live in the present; never mind all of that. Remember only that then is better than now. Contrary to that, my thinking of the future is almost always about doom and loss and ultimately, death. In this considering, the great “To Come” is rarely better than now.
I imagine this has to do with my need to control everything. As discussed, memories are many things, but are they not also workshops for control. We can look into our past and construct fantasy lands in which to prance about. We can then feel that sickly sweet feeling of knowing the best of times are gone and will not be back. Which is not to say we don’t try to bring them back — I do more often than is healthy. I love to drink with those closest with me. Part of the reason I do this is I want to enjoy that moment, but I suspect a bigger part is that I want to feel like I felt then. If I could feel like I did then my troubles would be either solvable or non-existent, or so this flawed thinking goes.
An example. I have a very close and dear friend named Chris. I never call him Chris, but that is his name. He is approximately ten years older than me and in some ways, we are the same person. In many other ways, he is someone I have looked up to for over 20 years, who has taught me about art and intelligence and politics and drinking and humor and love and passion. He is one of my true norths, a friend of such consequence and beauty as to make life worth living.
Shortly after meeting him we were drinking on a Friday afternoon at our friends’ apartment. He had spent many years in the military before coming back to college; so, despite our age difference, we were both sophomores. I recall sitting on a chair just outside of the kitchen and he was next to me. There were others milling about, sitting on the nearby couch; the stereo was likely playing The Beatles. He is taller and larger than me, both in person and personality. His is a magnetic personality that changes the mood of a room. We were crouched together, each holding a drink, likely a 40 in my young hand, and he was telling me a story. He was telling me about The Rut. Immediately I was drawn in. This was sweet nostalgia in the hands of a great storyteller. He told me about when he spent months drinking his nights away, watching movies and eating fast food and thumbing through skin magazines. I’m not going to go too far into the story, because to me, the story is sacred and not mine to tell. What I will go into is the absolute joy I felt upon hearing this story. He unfurled it to me and I laughed so hard, and I mean for minutes on end. Not only was this humorous, this was revealing a person like me who found humor in pain and absurdity, who had a sadness to his countenance, who felt true and present and real. The telling of that story was a seminal moment in my life.
Fast forward over 22 years and I talk to him most days. I lean on him like I lean on those closest to me, and I try to be kind and supportive in return. We have spent so many nights drinking. And I don’t mean one or two beers with dinner and a night cap. I mean hours and hours of drinking, dancing to live country music or battling it out in Trivial Pursuit; perhaps the far right perspective is on the television and we are sardonically commenting. Whatever it may be, it is a full connection. What troubles me is that each time we start drinking, a part of me wants it to be like then. I am always present and I am always enjoying it, but that nostalgic pull wants to create the feeling I felt when he told me about The Rut. Then there was only years ahead of us and so much to learn; a young friendship like young love.
The logical fallacy here is that this feeling negates that there are not years ahead of us now. It negates that possibility and hope and promise still exist. It erases the future with a distorted view of the past. This is but one of the ways nostalgia destroys us: It robs us of the greatest of moments, either partially or fully. Yet, we return.
