Introspective Sunday
(I apologize in advance if this gets maudlin.)
In our living room, there’s a cd playing that Jonno just received from a super-special secret satan admirer-type person. It’s essentially a “best of” album, with Cocteau Twins songs spanning from the mid-80s (junior high/high school) to the late 90s (semi-grownup-hood): 15 weird, wonderful years, that have taken me places I’d never have thought I’d go.
Now, my feelings on nostalgia are pretty clear: I’m uncomfortable/unwilling to go mucking around in my past just for the sake of feeling warm and fuzzy. But sometimes I can’t help myself. Now’s one of those times.
See, the problem with nostalgia is that it’s addictive–once you start down that road, it’s hard to turn back. You’re listening to a cd like this, and one song plays through, dredging up all sorts of happy memories of a younger, possibly more carefree you, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle on a cold winter night on the shores of a moonlit lake, carousing like you never thought you’d grow older and own a house and begin to settle down (just a bit). Against your better judgement, you keep listening. The songs remind you of photos, images that make you think to yourself “Well, I haven’t changed much, have I?” but when friends see them on your mantelpiece or in your photo album, they all comment on how adorable you were back then.
Hmm. Maybe that’s it in a nutshell. Maybe I’m just not willing to admit that my past is past.
Or maybe this mushiness/revulsion is specifically related to the saccharine-sweet music of the Cocteau Twins. I mean, when a certain someone recently reminded me of a RevCo album I’d almost forgotten, it didn’t have the same effect at all.
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