I’ve been neglectful of my blog, but I have a good excuse. I knocked out the first draft of Nothing Lasting, and I’ve reached the halfway point in a new novella titled “Brother’s Keeper.” I have a swiftly approaching deadline for the novella, so my blog will probably be quiet for another few weeks.
In the mean time, in lieu of any new thoughts or profound nuggets of self-discovery, I leave you with this poem. I’ve been thinking a lot about nostalgia lately. Not actual nostalgic moments from my life, but the impact nostalgia has on people. I’ve been an outside observer during this process, as I generally am in my life. My conclusion? Nostalgia is a cold, toxic feeling disguised as a warm one. It’s the deep cold that reaches your core during the final moments of hypothermia.
As the Song Plays
Its notes hew to a false memory
a moment cherished in retrospect
perfect, among all the gray matter dross;
a fool’s fantasy given breadth and weight
by an endlessly regressive people
brooding a future never lived
as it obsesses on the yesterday
the song’s chorus
imbues all honest recollection
with a gilt-edged sanguinity
recalling the moment, that bright
when the stars aligned,
when the chaos settled as hazed dust
trapped in the summer sun, warming
the air of a childhood bedroom.
one chorus, one single bar of that contagion
brings back everything,
the very essence of its capture;
an incorrigible youth, a first kiss
a style, an era, a time before matter
a time before any of this,
a time that never was.
the hooks, beats and rhymes
harass and cajole, tormenting
a reaction of memory, of
once mimicked before mirrors
behind closed doors or
among select friends
now forgotten, but for those moments
shared without error, fault or embarrassment
of sublime innocence
scribed immemorial upon the brain.
nostalgia that batters any would-be thinker
with a single secular image
that corrupts an honest accounting
of who they were
Memory and nostalgia, gracing
an echoed path; one hewing straight,
the other true.