Is there any minimum age before we are allowed to bath in feelings of nostalgia, at times? What is the turning point from which you start wondering about the value of the presence, idealising the past and fearing the future?
The charm of a black album spinning circles on a velvet plate. A needle reading music notes amidst some cracking, as if it were a cosy fireplace. The beauty of imperfection. The album cover a mystical piece of art, which you can hang on the wall as proudly as if it were showcased in one or another Guggenheim museum.
The smell of fresh bread lingering as invisible morning haze in the street. A bakery’s open door, tempting you to surrender to your taste buds and buy a warm loaf or sweaty croissant. The impossibility to cut it into slices, at least not yet, and the eagerness to loot the soft inside, while abandoning the crust.
A dialect word you thought had long been extinct already. A forgotten childhood dish that appears on the dining table. Some black-and-white pictures glued in a scrapbook, shot in a time when taking a picture was a tedious undertaking still. I always imagine smiles were brighter in those days, or at least more sincere; people always value more of what is scarce, and they rejoice in novelty. So then, I wonder, which archaeologist will ever find his way in the labyrinth of pictures that are scattered around in our modern virtual world? How ever to summarize history in this avalanche of information, technological whims and communication exchange that buries us each moment of the day?
More than substance, memories remain. Then why do we remember what we remember, while we forget what we have forgotten? What makes certain events stand out, and survive the test of time, while other moments in our life disappear as steam escaping from a cooking pot?
The charm of a black album spinning circles on a velvet plate. A needle reading music notes amidst some cracking, as if it were a cosy fireplace. The beauty of imperfection. The album cover a mystical piece of art, which you can hang on the wall as proudly as if it were showcased in one or another Guggenheim museum.
The smell of fresh bread lingering as invisible morning haze in the street. A bakery’s open door, tempting you to surrender to your taste buds and buy a warm loaf or sweaty croissant. The impossibility to cut it into slices, at least not yet, and the eagerness to loot the soft inside, while abandoning the crust.
A dialect word you thought had long been extinct already. A forgotten childhood dish that appears on the dining table. Some black-and-white pictures glued in a scrapbook, shot in a time when taking a picture was a tedious undertaking still. I always imagine smiles were brighter in those days, or at least more sincere; people always value more of what is scarce, and they rejoice in novelty. So then, I wonder, which archaeologist will ever find his way in the labyrinth of pictures that are scattered around in our modern virtual world? How ever to summarize history in this avalanche of information, technological whims and communication exchange that buries us each moment of the day?
More than substance, memories remain. Then why do we remember what we remember, while we forget what we have forgotten? What makes certain events stand out, and survive the test of time, while other moments in our life disappear as steam escaping from a cooking pot?
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2 comments:
an incredibly awesome post, my friend...asking such a good question about our memories. what is it that connects us to those precious times/things??
i have recently purchased a unit that has yet to arrive. it's a record turntable that transfers the vinyl recording to your computer! i'm so excited, for the very same reasons that you have cited! i have my grandmother's record collections from the big band era and i am anxious to take their joy with me, where ever i might go.
take care...
that kind of record turntable sounds like the best of both worlds..
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