Further Notes on Nostalgia: The Challenges of owning a West Highland White Terrier

14:32:00
“Everybody’s changing and I still feel the same” that’s the first line of the chorus of a similarly titles Keane song. That is the problem with being 20 or 21 in England. If you’ve gone to University and chosen a ‘normal’ course it means that you’ll be graduating sometime soon. This graduation is different from all others that you’ve had before because after this you should now be equipped to face the joys of new single bachelor or bachelorette-hood. It is what you have read in many books. The years of young adulthood spent living in an average to great studio. The years of independence where you do not need to rely on parental or governmental favour. The years when you’re still young enough to have a good time without really thinking about the future. It is the life you have imagined for yourself since you were 12. You work 9 to 5 every day of a 5 day week, you own a West Highland White Terrier (same breed as Snowy; Tintin’s dog) called Scrimp (alternate pronunciation of shrimp) and you have a group of like minded friends in a similar situation with whom you paint the town red every Friday night.

In truth this is only one half of the narrative regarding the mechanics of moving on. I have spent every year of my life so far in education. Moving from one phase to the next like clockwork. Everything had a map, an organised pattern that was infallible. After kindergarten I knew I would go to nursery school and after that I knew I would go to primary school and after that I knew I would go to secondary school and after that I knew I would go to an A level college and after that I knew I would go to university. What comes after university? What if the life you envisioned yourself living turns out to be further away from the reality? What do you do then? You see there’s no plan for this and it does not matter if you stay on to do a masters and then a PhD, because you know at some point that you will still be faced by this quagmire.

Even more beguiling is how jerky life has been so far. At any point when I feel that I have finally made to solid ground I feel myself yanked to another portion of the sea that I am not yet comfortable with. So just like all the other times, when I finally began to feel comfortable about life in university I see the end of my current course. I know that soon, I must prepare to sail for uncharted waters.

It is a little overwhelming when the world you know seems to be bursting at the seams. It’s the fluidity of it, the choppiness of it, the intermediacy of it, the knowledge that every step already taken was only in preparation for the next. The startling realisation that there will probably never be a time where I can stop and admire the view. So why is it that everybody’s changing and I still feel the same? Everyone around me seems to be developing some mechanism for contending with the approaching difficulty while I remain woefully unprepared. Or maybe it’s just that we’re all actors, constantly going through the motions, never letting anyone see deep enough to realise the conflicts that lie therein. Maybe whoever it was that first said nothing lasts forever had the right of it...


Happy Days,
Afam.

the great expedition...

07:17:00
I remember what it felt like to have a kaleidoscope. I remember my thoughts when I looked through the kaleidoscope for the first time. I remember marveling at how fractured the world became. I wondered why it couldn’t be like that all the time. I remember the things that ceased to remain ordinary. I remember thinking that we must be blind to ignore these jewels hiding in plain sight. The glasses of water, the Barney duvet thrown across my bed, the shape and colour of my brother’s brow, the patterns hidden in the terrazzo floor. The images from my kaleidoscope are like the memories of my childhood. The broken pictures float around my mind, joined at the edges by a flawed hand. The sutures fray constantly, the memories themselves move in and out of focus. It’s like a multitude of television screens. The sort that wouldn’t be out of place when walking by an electrical goods store. Each television with it’s own memory playing repeatedly.
I remember losing my kaleidoscope. I remember the feeling of being in the presence of the mundane but lacking the special tool to make that which you thought was mundane extraordinary. I didn’t know that that was what it felt like to be heartbroken. I should have realised that love is like a kaleidoscope. It magnifies the ordinary, isolates the brilliance of the normal and multiplies it. It makes sure that you never forget that the dark spot on her lip was a Monet . One worthy of being hung in the hall of a Monarch. Without a kaleidoscope you forget that the precious moments are often the unremarkable ones. 
Is it so wrong that I should lead an expedition to find my kaleidoscope?

Happy Days,
Afam

Henry Robertson, Neptune and I...

01:25:00
It seems to me that we’re all really selfish. How is it that when it comes to others we freely dispense  advice and honest observations like they mean nothing? Ask me about my opinion on any one of my many acquaintances and I’ll probably attempt to break down each and everyone of them listing their faults and merits with medical precision. I would be so honest, blunt and brutal that one would immediately assume that I hated the individual in question. But when it comes to me being true to myself I am next to useless. I find myself stumbling through a series of false epiphanies that seem to strike at the truth but never really get to the heart of the matter. This is probably why people go to therapists. Your therapist is not your friend. You pay your therapist a good deal of money per hour to be honest with you. Honesty is just like any other commodity, it’s scarcity has led to an increase in it’s price. In my opinion it’s a drug. You go to your dealer every so often for a regular dose. You’re addicted to it, you can’t live without it. 
I visited my dealer today, and I wasn’t happy with the product. A little to pure for my tastes I think. To be fair if it were any more diluted I would probably find another. I seem to have digressed quite a bit this time. You’re probably thinking that I’m now going to talk about the several drugs we take and their respective dealers. While this is a worthy challenge it’s not one that I feel like taking today, so rain check. This one is about one of my honesty dealers, Henry Robertson.
Henry’s family crest is a merman version of Poseidon holding a trident. This alone tells you a few things about him. He likes silver, he likes water and most things water related, and his family is fairly well off. That his family is well off is a relatively new occurrence so the family crest isn’t actually his. He found it while trawling through the internet. He claims that it belongs to a line of Robertsons and that he chose it because he’s a Robertson as well. At this point I’ll change my line of description. Which author spills his guts about his protagonist in the first 500 words? 
Henry had always been gifted with the girls. He was also very noble about it. He attributed his success to years of hard work and practice inspiring his friends to strive for the same success with the same tools he claimed to have used. He had us watch Fight Club and meet Joe Black because he claimed that Brad Pitt had the right of it. That if we could somehow exude the air and swagger that the actor brought to every movie we would achieve the honourary position of chick magnet. There may or may not be any truth to this (you’ll never know because a magician’s tricks die with him) but I’m fairly sure that this wasn’t the reason for Henry’s popularity with the girls. As far as I can remember he seemed to charm everyone he met. 
As his squire, vice president and cardinal, I should have seen the signs then. I should have been able to steer him from his current dilemma but I was as blind as he was. This is not a tragedy, nor is it a love story, think of it as atonement for my selfishness. It’s a combination of all the things I should have told him through the years but didn’t. Friends are never as honest as they should be, that is if they want to remain friends. However they retain a thread of guilt for every half truth told. So this is my ultimate act of friendship.


Happy Days,
Afam.



Notes on nostalgia

03:09:00
Last night, while fairly inebriated I stumbled upon someone I didn’t expect to see, Alex Pickard. I met Alex when I was 18 going on 19. I had met his brother Ben Pickard the previous year. The Pickards were a decent bunch. They made you believe that happiness and a good sense of humour were genetic. Not many have such a sweet disposition towards others. In Ben while these characteristics were there they seemed sullied by life. It was as if he’d had an awful experience that had marred the springtime of his youth. I could never put my finger on it, his smiles weren’t as genuine as they should have been, and his eyes seemed a little cold. He was the sort of person you never wanted to vex, because you feared what lay under the happy exterior.

Alex was different. There was nothing dark underneath the happy exterior. His joie de vivre was contagious. I can’t quite recall how we met but I can say that once we’d met he quickly became a part of the tapestry of my life.We weren’t best friends but I’d like to say that we shared a certain camaraderie. So when I saw Alex while under the influence my joy was palpable. The years fell away. Even as we held unto each other and jumped around in glee, my joy did not subside. The shear randomness of it was overwhelming. After the crazy celebration, we once-again exchanged numbers. No promises were made because I knew that I’d probably never use his number. You might ask why. Why I would not jump at the chance to reestablish contact with one of the fixtures from my last years as a teenager.

I suspect that everyone has an inkling of the answer. It’s one of those things that you learn as you get older. Here I go again, pretending that I have all the answers when I’m just as clueless as everyone else. I will probably never use that number because Alex no longer has a place in the tapestry. Things have changed. He’ll always be a fond memory. If I ever bump into him I’ll be sure to engage in a brief exchange about both our lives. It never serves to be backward thinking. I always assumed that my years at Cheltenham with Alex and the rest of the lads would be the best years of my life. So when I left I was in a little bit of an identity crisis. I set my time there on a pedestal and refused to let anything come close to it. To me those were my golden years. I would have been perfectly content to go to university without ever speaking to anyone new. I would have been satisfied to maintain the relationships I had formed there in their entirety. My fondness for the time made me incapable of adapting to the changes that leaving Cheltenham brought. It was like trying to hold syrup with my palms spread open. Aided by distance and the thousands of people we met in time spent apart from each other the thick gooey years trickled out of my hands. In my desperation to keep the bonds formed intact I constructed an equally porous net below my palms.

I can’t tell you the exact moment I realised that my attempts to fight the change were futile. It was never my place to try to obstruct the tides of life. I was only ever meant to go with the flow. Reaching back in time to pull Alex to the fore front of my current life would be doing the opposite of what I was supposed to be doing. It’s the same with every treasured memory. Why bring it to the present when you can leave it the way it is? As a memory you can visit and revisit it. You can play around with it and wonder about this and that. You can block out the awful and preserve the good, but it’s funny how after enough time even the awful becomes good. It was enough that in the seconds that I clung to Alex Pickard and jumped in circles I was allowed a brief excursion to Cheltenham. It was enough that I went back to the way it was or the way that it had been for me. It was enough that for a few moments I was back there, laughing in the common room with the boys.

Happy Days,
Afam

Pure Imagination

18:32:00
They say that the best writing comes from total honesty. You’re meant to be telling the truth. I have several problems with this. If I were to share all and hold nothing back, then no one would look at me the same way. There are so many standards to live up to. So many sides of myself that i have shown so many different people that anything I did now would be unjust. Would it be fair to everyone to reveal that you aren’t the person that they thought you were? That you were a fake, a fraud. That the real you was a shadow thriving on false relationships. It’s best to keep them in the dark. Surely it’s enough that no one has all of you, that every one has a little piece of you stored. A perfect piece unsullied by any other characteristic that you might have. Is it not best that one person thinks of you as the fool and another the genius? To me it seems a little romantic that after you’re gone the only way that any of them can ever truly know you is if they all came together and combined their memories.
Amena thinksI’ve got it in me to write. I’d like to say i believed her, to grow a beard and a dirty tash. To stare into the distance in deep thought and after a few minutes pen down some genius that would summarize the human condition. Something that would make the hardest of hearts laugh and cry in equal turn. Something that’s not quite funny and not quite sad. Something that's as nostalgic as it is forward looking. Something that exposed your life in a page. The power that these genius wordsmiths yield is unparalleled. We dance along to their tunes in perfect harmony. In my opinion it’s a little narcissistic. For if the reasons that Narcissus fell in love with himself are universal, rational and reasonable, then every writer must fall in love with his readers because they smiled when he did and wept when he did. The readers must mirror the writer. When they fail to do so there’s a complete disconnect. I guess that’s why writers must be honest, because readers are not so stupid as to fall for drivel that’s completely imagined. Having said all this one must question if there is such a thing as fiction.

Happy Days,
Afam.

 

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