Peter Pan tries to retrieve her shadow
Jun. 27th, 2002 11:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sun_set_bravely(11:45 GMT)
I have woken up to the Lancastrian sun blazing through the window and a searing need to hear "Walk on the Ocean." And not a Toad CD in sight! damnit! Why do I wake up sometimes with one certain song so clearly in my head? Sometimes I think my brain receives radio waves and just picks up on specific ones at random moments. Though maybe songs come to me with more reason than that. I might not want to admit that "it seemed they'd already forgotten we'd came / now we're back at the homestead / where the air makes you choke / and people don't know you / and trust is a joke" sings painfully to me at this moment.
The sky is blue (blue!) and the sun is so wonderful out there. Being back here is strange because it feels simultaneously like I never left, but also like my time here was centuries ago. And it's strange to know that when I leave on Sunday, I probably won't ever see this place again. Of course, that's what I thought when I left two years ago, saying goodbye to all my friends and to the physical places that held so much astonishing happiness for me. But when I leave this time, my friends will move on to their futures elsewhere, so I won't have a real reason to come back here.
If I could write an epic poem about how memories can haunt as surely as people, I would do it, to exorcise them. The memory of joy can hurt as much as the memory of pain and suffering. The fear when remembering pain is that it will happen again, that it's not behind you. The fear when remembering joy is worse: that you'll never feel it again, that you have had your small lot of happiness and now all that's left for you is the downhill tumble of apathetic existence.
~ ~ ~
Every summer I re-read Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead. I've done this for maybe four years now. Who knows how long I'll continue? I'm not sure why I do it, either. By now, it's comforting, like inhabiting her world is part of the summer routine. The world she creates is so black and white; maybe I read to find which person I am this time. (I always hope to be Howard or Dominique, or even Mallory, but I'm always afraid I'm the mousey Katie) Also, I find Rand to be a major mindfuck, and I enjoy grappling with her once a year. I like to discover our agreeing points, and I love to find places where I think she was an absolute nutbag.
But as much as I adore Rand's vision of work as passionate and her arrogant confidence, the world outside never is this easy to understand.
And so today I'll go out into the bright daylight, probably to relax on County field, watching people play football and recover from their hangovers by dozing in the sun. And I'll argue with Ayn Rand and I'll try to ignore that girl moving in and out of the trees who looks startingly like a happier version of me.
P.S. Earnest, this LJ-Cut Tag goes out to you.
I have woken up to the Lancastrian sun blazing through the window and a searing need to hear "Walk on the Ocean." And not a Toad CD in sight! damnit! Why do I wake up sometimes with one certain song so clearly in my head? Sometimes I think my brain receives radio waves and just picks up on specific ones at random moments. Though maybe songs come to me with more reason than that. I might not want to admit that "it seemed they'd already forgotten we'd came / now we're back at the homestead / where the air makes you choke / and people don't know you / and trust is a joke" sings painfully to me at this moment.
The sky is blue (blue!) and the sun is so wonderful out there. Being back here is strange because it feels simultaneously like I never left, but also like my time here was centuries ago. And it's strange to know that when I leave on Sunday, I probably won't ever see this place again. Of course, that's what I thought when I left two years ago, saying goodbye to all my friends and to the physical places that held so much astonishing happiness for me. But when I leave this time, my friends will move on to their futures elsewhere, so I won't have a real reason to come back here.
If I could write an epic poem about how memories can haunt as surely as people, I would do it, to exorcise them. The memory of joy can hurt as much as the memory of pain and suffering. The fear when remembering pain is that it will happen again, that it's not behind you. The fear when remembering joy is worse: that you'll never feel it again, that you have had your small lot of happiness and now all that's left for you is the downhill tumble of apathetic existence.
Every summer I re-read Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead. I've done this for maybe four years now. Who knows how long I'll continue? I'm not sure why I do it, either. By now, it's comforting, like inhabiting her world is part of the summer routine. The world she creates is so black and white; maybe I read to find which person I am this time. (I always hope to be Howard or Dominique, or even Mallory, but I'm always afraid I'm the mousey Katie) Also, I find Rand to be a major mindfuck, and I enjoy grappling with her once a year. I like to discover our agreeing points, and I love to find places where I think she was an absolute nutbag.
But as much as I adore Rand's vision of work as passionate and her arrogant confidence, the world outside never is this easy to understand.
And so today I'll go out into the bright daylight, probably to relax on County field, watching people play football and recover from their hangovers by dozing in the sun. And I'll argue with Ayn Rand and I'll try to ignore that girl moving in and out of the trees who looks startingly like a happier version of me.
P.S. Earnest, this LJ-Cut Tag goes out to you.
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re: PS
Date: 2002-06-27 09:59 am (UTC)Always Always Land
Date: 2002-06-27 05:43 pm (UTC)Mmm. Bittersweeter is more like it.
But you do have pictures, I assume. Not that they're ever a complete substitute for experience. You're right about the double edge of happy memories. I've always considered memory a blessing rather than a curse, but returning often to memories of joy can make me wonder if I "peaked too early"; if we're all versions of Brenda and Eddie in Billy Joel's "Scenes From An Italian Restaurant", doomed to be in the same story of a buried past happiness told over and over again until it's no longer fun to hear, it's pathetic.
The nice thing about life is that there are new joys to be discovered. All the time. New and different. But it's still good to haul those joyful memories out of the attic sometimes--along with books by certain authors--and taste that bitter along with the sweet.
Great entry. Thank you.