Sometimes I can't really connect with the fact that I was alive in the seventies. Ok, only for the last couple years. And I was obviously too small to engage with the realities of 1970's America very deeply. But still.
It seems to me that everything was somehow more authentic then. It seems like that was the real America. I mean, we had the method actors, De Niro and Kaitel and Streep, we had Coppola and Scorcese at their peaks. Sure they're all still around, but when I look at Meet the Fockers, hell, when I look at Charlie Sheen... it's hard not to think that those were the good old days.
Vietnam was there, I mean the war, the cause. The dawn of health food in California was a joke for a Woody Allen film. The TV was big and convex. There were woods all around my suburban town, enough for my uncle to have a salt lick for deer in his backyard. The bad economy. The population explosion. Crime-ridden NYC. Lines for gasoline. And big cars! Why does all that sound so great? And not just great, but somehow more durable and tangible than anything I can say about life now?
As for London, I guess London was full of wooden buses and buck teeth, bad plumbing and bad food. Jellied eels and the like. Right? I don't have the references for the UK that I have for America. Obviously. I mean I have a skeletal framework. But basically London didn't exist before 1997 as far as I'm concerned. When I arrived there, on my twentieth birthday, I expected it to be like Ab Fab. That's why I was there darling.
I wonder if my kids will look at old pictures and laugh at my haircuts, as I did. ("That was the style!" my mom insisted.) I wonder if they will be disappointed that I haven't done some of the things or been in some of the "scenes" that they will later come to associate with the nineties and the first decade of the 21st century, just as I never forgave my parents for living in upstate New York in 1969 and not going to Woodstock.
I wonder how long this retrolicious, all the past is for sale, hey remember when, I love 19childhood-memory-of-our-target-market thing will go on? I feel like buying up everything about the seventies before they run out of stock. I feel like connecting with the reality of the decade of my birth- which is clearly impossible, and exactly what some man in a board room came up with, smoking and laughing evilly, circa 1986.
Showing posts with label nostalgia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nostalgia. Show all posts
Monday, February 26, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
what’s happening to me?
There’s quite a lot of variables you see. Let’s look for a moment at the constellation that is now. I'm listening to a song which is stylistically locused in 1970’s America, but it might just be a very convincing pastiche. Browsing the web I find a page for the Catholic school I attended from ages 5 – 12. The uniforms are the same and two of my teachers are still there, as is the school nurse, who must be in her sixties by now. I look at the map on the wall, and realize how far away I am from the world that made me. I scan the school calendar- “Saturday February 10, ziti dinner!” And even more heartbreaking- “Friday February 9, set up for ziti dinner.” So many layers of nostalgia, like the most sorrowful filo pastry in the world. I guess that would be a burnt one, or one with a not-so-tasty filling.
It's hard to define that suburban American world, which I left ten years ago now, on what sometimes feels like an extended vacation from my real life. Impossibly cozy and mildly oppressive. There's a certain brand of feel-good philosophy which is ceaselessly forwarded like a garbled e-greeting-card, willfully upbeat. It's the kind of world where, when faced with difficult news on the television, one only smiles gently and says “I just don’t like to believe that things like that really happen.”
There’s my laptop, which I have named and personified, and feel attached to. I feel like she (Periwinkle) is an individual, that she is different from other Compaq Presarios, and if something (god forbid) should happen to her, I would not only feel a distressing sense of disconnection to the world, but I would not be able to replace her. She’s different because she’s mine.
There is the kitchenette in the corner of my apartment in the East of Turkey. In an apartment building erected 50 or 60 years ago, it has the feel of an even older apartment in the States. One that an old person has been living in for an awfully long time, without making any changes. I like to think that, like Neal Cassidy in the beginning of On the Road, I’m living in a “cold water flat.” Of course there is a hot shower, but the other taps are indeed cold water only. And my shower at the moment is cold, too. I’ve run out of gas and I’ve forgotten to order another canister. Ok... I didn’t forget. It’s just I don’t know how to say canister in Turkish, and I don’t want to sound like a fool.
I did call the water company. I’m an old hand at that, since I was in Istanbul. Most people in Turkey order these big containers of water for their homes, about the size that go in water coolers in offices. But here, instead of a stand, you have a handy pump which you stick into the cooler, like a straw for a really big, really thirsty person. Of course it’s nearly impossible to gage the amount of pressure needed to fill a small glass of water without overflowing. But it's become a kind of game.
I called them up and delivered my lines: “Good evening. I’d like one container of water please.” The man here replied just as they do in Istanbul- “Buyurun,” which means lots of things, like “go ahead,” or “help yourself,” or “can I help you?” I gave him my four digit code. I'm pretty sure I said all this correctly. And yet because of the speed, maybe because of the accent, the man stopped me and said “new teacher?”
“Yes,” I said. There was a silence, words in the background, and then a new voice on the phone.
“Hello. Gutten’tag.”
“Hello,” I said.
“Specken zie deutsche?”
“No.”
Silence.
“My number,” I said slowly, “is 6 4 2 7.”
“2?”
“6…..4…..2…..7”
Then I listened while the two men I had given my number to compared notes in the background. Satisfied with the non-falsifiability of their results, the second man got back on the phone.
“Ok!” he said.
“Ok!” I said.
What pleasure every mundane yet successful transaction of life can bring! I’m not feeling waves of melancholoy anymore; maybe it’s the upbeat nature of the song I’m listening to now, or the knowledge that I’m about to launch this little reflection onto my blog, where everyone can read my thoughts, and I can feel validated. God Bless My Blog. And you my friends. And you strangers; or should I say "friends I haven't met yet"? I’m off now. I’ll be tucking myself in bed to reflect on my dog-eared copy of "Chicken Soup for the Soul."
It's hard to define that suburban American world, which I left ten years ago now, on what sometimes feels like an extended vacation from my real life. Impossibly cozy and mildly oppressive. There's a certain brand of feel-good philosophy which is ceaselessly forwarded like a garbled e-greeting-card, willfully upbeat. It's the kind of world where, when faced with difficult news on the television, one only smiles gently and says “I just don’t like to believe that things like that really happen.”
There’s my laptop, which I have named and personified, and feel attached to. I feel like she (Periwinkle) is an individual, that she is different from other Compaq Presarios, and if something (god forbid) should happen to her, I would not only feel a distressing sense of disconnection to the world, but I would not be able to replace her. She’s different because she’s mine.
There is the kitchenette in the corner of my apartment in the East of Turkey. In an apartment building erected 50 or 60 years ago, it has the feel of an even older apartment in the States. One that an old person has been living in for an awfully long time, without making any changes. I like to think that, like Neal Cassidy in the beginning of On the Road, I’m living in a “cold water flat.” Of course there is a hot shower, but the other taps are indeed cold water only. And my shower at the moment is cold, too. I’ve run out of gas and I’ve forgotten to order another canister. Ok... I didn’t forget. It’s just I don’t know how to say canister in Turkish, and I don’t want to sound like a fool.
I did call the water company. I’m an old hand at that, since I was in Istanbul. Most people in Turkey order these big containers of water for their homes, about the size that go in water coolers in offices. But here, instead of a stand, you have a handy pump which you stick into the cooler, like a straw for a really big, really thirsty person. Of course it’s nearly impossible to gage the amount of pressure needed to fill a small glass of water without overflowing. But it's become a kind of game.
I called them up and delivered my lines: “Good evening. I’d like one container of water please.” The man here replied just as they do in Istanbul- “Buyurun,” which means lots of things, like “go ahead,” or “help yourself,” or “can I help you?” I gave him my four digit code. I'm pretty sure I said all this correctly. And yet because of the speed, maybe because of the accent, the man stopped me and said “new teacher?”
“Yes,” I said. There was a silence, words in the background, and then a new voice on the phone.
“Hello. Gutten’tag.”
“Hello,” I said.
“Specken zie deutsche?”
“No.”
Silence.
“My number,” I said slowly, “is 6 4 2 7.”
“2?”
“6…..4…..2…..7”
Then I listened while the two men I had given my number to compared notes in the background. Satisfied with the non-falsifiability of their results, the second man got back on the phone.
“Ok!” he said.
“Ok!” I said.
What pleasure every mundane yet successful transaction of life can bring! I’m not feeling waves of melancholoy anymore; maybe it’s the upbeat nature of the song I’m listening to now, or the knowledge that I’m about to launch this little reflection onto my blog, where everyone can read my thoughts, and I can feel validated. God Bless My Blog. And you my friends. And you strangers; or should I say "friends I haven't met yet"? I’m off now. I’ll be tucking myself in bed to reflect on my dog-eared copy of "Chicken Soup for the Soul."
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