Shouts From Down Under

Back to my future; little boy lost...

Some things never change.

But our perception does, and the only thing I can seem to pin point that makes the difference here is time.

Have you ever mentally taken a journey back through your memories to childhood? Things a little foggy? Some things very dim? Large chunks of it completely blank?

Well, try doing this physically; back track to where you spent those years, when you first began to absorb your surroundings, develop your personality, learn life lessons that remain to your present self.
This can be a painful exercise, confusing, nostalgic and even emotional. You can feel a bit lost, as if your life no longer has meaning, and that the things that underpinned your stability, the things you held as your base examples; immovable pillars that shaped, and still heavily influence the shape, of your life now, have somehow moved, blurred the lines, even disappeared entirely.

Your elderly parent's may even say, "What? I don't remember telling you that story...?" "I never said that." "No, I can't remember that fellow." "Are you sure you did that?"

You may not have moved far away from this place - town, city, village, farm, island, slum, boarding house, orphanage, housing commision zone, public tenement block.

So perhaps the contrast and effect of time may not be so contiguous, and you don't feel that it's such a big deal. In fact, you'd probably shrug and say, hey, get over yourself.

And there's not much option either. Life goes on. You go back to your future home, job, family, setting, friends and aquaintances. All those things that are now familiar, that have taken years to be absorbed so that your old life fades into the realms of forgetfulness.

Until you return again, be it 5 years, 15 years, or 35 years later.

It's a spooky feeling, in some respects, to return to the place where you grew up. Ever notice the number of movies and novels this effect is taken advantage of? For example, John Grisham's The Inheritance (I think that's the book) where his character returns home to lay his old father to rest, in a huge spooky mansion, along with all the usual skeletons in the closet.
Yes, a yummy story that I always enjoy very much. (Woodpanneled library, crackling log fire, Ezy chairs, windy thunderstorm rattling the shutters, and a large sleepy dog lying on the polished floorboards under your slippers, always come into my imagination at least, while reading stories like this)

I find it fascinating, this nostalgic sense of loss, this connection with your past self, that stood here, or sat here as was often the case in some parts of this town, so many years ago.
How can I stand here now, and see the same view, except everything looks way smaller now, and paint has peeled, corrugated iron roofs have rusted, streets have been paved, ashphalted, gutters installed, buildings renovated, doorways opened up or closed over, street signs renewed, shops changed hands.
How can I stand here now and my family of the time not be here. So many may have passed away even. Regardless of how I feel, they may have no nostalgic feelings at all. They may not even think of this place.

Not all memories are pleasant. It could even be said that not many were pleasant. They were not the good old days. I won't go into details, that may not only be boring, but are only how I perceived things as a young person - a child.
I do remember clearly as a child that pain was so intolerable. I was often extremely tired. I feared contact with people other than close family, and I didn't relate to family that well either.
While being fond of them, in everyday matters this was mostly absent in a physical sense, and I think now, that even if we had all been more demonstrative with that type of love, embarrasment and shyness would have taken any enjoyment away.

But I do miss those years, and the people, very much. There is a combination of pleasure and pain associated with being in places like this, where memories return, flashes of events, visions of our experiences and the dialogue in the conversations then.
There are the schools we attended. My brother, sister, and four cousins who came to live with us on the farm. They became like brother and sisters. The passing of one "sister" in more recent years devastated me beyond explanation.

Yet, despite the pain, I continue to stare, to explore, to study people's faces and see if I recognise anyone I knew as a kid, see if anyone recognises me. Some appear to, but they only speak a greeting if necessary. While pleasant enough, this is a country town, and people are shy.

Have you ever noticed how shy people are? Even, and perhaps especially in cities, but I think more so in the country, people are generally so SHY.

Yes, they get along ok, and there are plenty of special bonds, but there seems to be a shyness among millions. A reluctance to just talk together, or greet strangers, open up, trust. It's understandable that's for sure, but I sometimes wonder if everything nasty we hear on the news, or the occasional nutter who overextends social welcome (sometimes that's me, that nutter ), I wonder if all the bad reports on the news really justify such distrust of our fellow man.

It seems that perhaps it's not our fellow human who is untrustworthy, but the rules that govern our interactions. And some of those rules are in the heads of us, us humans!

What a paradox.

Almost as curious as the nostalgic paradox whereby I crave those memories, that string that ties me to unique sets of moments, days, years, 1/4 lifetimes, but at the same time becomes an inescapeable rope of pain, depriving me of forgetfulness, of the anesthesia of memory loss.

Maybe alzheimer's will come as a blessing.

Two things I have learned in life. Among other points.

Old people are just young people trapped inside shrivelled bodies.
You can see the gleam in there, their entire life is written in that sparkle of awareness. There is a young person still brimming with energetic memories, and sometimes very with-it up to date ideas.

Old people are just young people that didn't commit suicide.

Thos two life lessons have come at a price, with added attachments of grey hairs at my temples.

A couple of places that bring back memories I'd rather not think about, are contained in the following pics, IF I can manage to upload them. The internet is ok here, but pics from my phone are another story. Still, we have progressed from smoke signals and carrier pigeons out here, so that is something.
Forgive me if this is totally boring. These places only have meaning to me, I suppose. Otherwise they wouldn't be unique, would they?



Every heard of Little Boy Lost? I feel like him, but I'm not he.

I'll blog on him next time...

Sparky

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