Of Flashbacks and Foolishness

So I’m sitting with Dad in his new attic bedroom yesterday, preparing to install some lovely bamboo window treatments, and partaking, and listening to David Crosby’s If Only I Could Remember My Name album, on vinyl nonetheless, (a fine piece of music, you must check it out) and suddenly I was transported back to the early and mid 1980s, to my dad’s former attic bedroom in the house I grew up in, with its record albums and sloped and slanted ceiling, and such a flood of memories came pouring through.

I had the rare advantage of being raised in an environment steeped in music and individuality, where my quirks and oddness were encouraged and appreciated. I did not always appreciate my luck, though, and in hindsight, I could travel back to my early teen years and firmly plant a large foot into my own arse. But we seldom realize how good we have it at the time we have it, eh? Anyway, I had access to Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, in every conceivable form from Buffalo Springfield to solo works. I had Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here, Native American songs, Middle East albums full of instruments I couldn’t even recognize, and a healthy dose of groups most people have never heard of. I spent much time toking and spacing out to records, and I didn’t even mind flipping them over to hear the other side. I even had some 8 tracks, so there! I also had access to a 12-string Martin guitar and enough sense to pick it up and learn how to wield such a mighty tool. (I still have it, my dad determined years ago it was meant for me as only I can make her sing that way, so he gave it to me.) All of this in my dad’s attic bedroom, a sanctuary, a space to truly isolate myself from the harshness and cruelty of nasty school mates and miserable teachers and hateful neighbors.

Honestly, I wish I had an attic now, but I’m happy with having my own room. I am one of those people who just need a space all mine, a place to come to for escape and unwindy time. Not everyone needs this, and most couples are content to share a room with their spouses. But I am wired differently, I suppose, not that I need to tell any of you that.

So, where was I going with this? Ah, yes, the follies of youth. Nostalgia is your mind’s way of hanging on to the beauty of events and happenings you were too young and full of yourself to appreciate at the time. I had a close-knit family, albeit small, and I gladly incorporated my few but dear friends into those high ranks of kin. It never occurred to me then that we would go our separate ways and never again after leaving home would I ever get to sit in that attic and listen to albums with the people I felt were worthy enough to know that side of me. Even now, I sort of yearn for that-a chance to get together with special folk and laugh and play music and enjoy the company of others who embrace my differences. It’s lonely being an adult, I think, and sometimes, daily life interferes too much with my need to socialize. Maybe that’s foolish of me, to cling to the idea of wasting time and living carefree for a few hours, but I’m ok with being foolish.

Many of you I miss, or think of throughout the day. I always hope your lives are happy, peaceful, and interesting. I love keeping tabs on you via this handy Facebook-thingy; it allows me to fulfill that curious side of me, the neb-nose busy-body side. But some days, I really wish we could be sitting in my room listening to record albums and 8 tracks and talking of the trivial matters of our youths.
Meanwhile, let the sun shine in the darkest places of your lives, let the music fill your hearts, let love warm you to the bones, and may peace be upon ye always.

As you were, my friends.
Love,
Tanya