Memories
As the winter winds litter London with lonely hearts
Oh, the warmth in your eyes swept me into your arms
Was it love or fear of the cold that led us through the night?
For every kiss, your beauty trumped my doubtWe’ll be washed and buried one day, my girl
And the time we were given will be left for the world
The flesh that lived and loved will be eaten by plague
So let the memories be good for those who stay”Winter Winds” — Mumford & Sons
There’s a “style” of guitar playing that players refer to, mostly in a derisive sense, as shoegazing. I hesitate to call it a style; not because I consider it a lower form of art or skill, but rather because it’s more a condition than a method of playing. A typical shoegaze session usually involves laying down some ambient, droning layer into a looper and putting it on repeat. From there players can either build upon a theme and create castles and cathedrals of sound, or perhaps use it as an inspiration to phrase moving, petulant, or perhaps whimsical melodies. The exercise is inherently introspective and requires that the player look into, or down to, their feet and gut (hence shoegazing).
I’m guilty of this pleasure at times. In life and lyric. There are certain times in life, however, where something tears my eyes from the ground and forces me to look around. I prefer the comfort of cracked sidewalks and littered landscapes lying about my ankles. Raising my vision to the horizon is dizzying and altogether unpleasent. Yet sometimes I am forced to raise my head and take an honest assessment of my surroundings. One such occurrence of this refocusing arose recently. I discovered an old friend, whom I once considered a dear friend, had passed away. Now you may presume that the loss of life and perhaps some deep rooted sadness arrested my vision. And you would be wrong. In fact, it was the opposite — a lack of sadness.
It’s not that she was not important to me. She was. But she was. Truth be told I did not know her any longer. As I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it was that made her so to me an age ago, I called to mind her memories. I was not prepared for the flood of… feeling that rushed over my body and captured me. The merciless Arabian sun baking our exposed skin as we crossed a crowded street outside of Doha. The cigarette smoke slowly stretching from the corner of her upturned mouth as she grinned at my attempts at Arabic. “En shallah” I would mutter under my breath as we left another unfulfilling business meeting. I feel the way her deep brown eyes would penetrate whenever she did choose to speak openly and clearly about herself and her childhood, demanding not your attention but your very attendance in these deep, honest discussions of the heart. And the ancient taste of the briny air somewhere along the Moroccan coast. The sand cutting its way through our toes as we walked, discussing life, religion, love, and how we were going to find a way out of the country. In truth, we only pretended to be hurried in our search for a way out.
Looking back I realize, and I truly hope this isn’t overly pretentious of me, that I lived an entire lifetime in those moments. There are indeed men who would grasp hold of that single thread and wrap their entire narrative in it. And it is just one chapter in my story.
Other memories about her belong to me alone, and will remain that way. But the entire exercise made me consider the chapters of my life. Two truths quickly arose: 1) I never truly considered myself an old man (though I routinely joke about it) and 2) I was afraid of death and dying. You see, I discovered that I enjoy collecting memories and storing them away only to be lost and forgotten; replaced by the newest, shiniest batch. Death is not an end to me, but rather it required that I come to terms with my investments. That they were nothing, and that a life spent chasing after the next memory is a life wasted. And when I do die, those memories may not persist, and even if they do they would most likely mean nothing to me as my passions would be, should be, pointed to higher truths.
And that scared me. Because on the rare occasion that I allow myself to open a chapter of my life previously written… when I sit down at the fireplace and close my eyes… when I open them again to see the past thus written on my heart, I feel. I cannot simply remember, but must also relive the experience. And I treasure that.
The peaceful darkness of the early morning thunderstorm on the beach of Kauai. Watching the low clouds thunder their way up the rainforest clad mountains.
The dusty lonely road somewhere in nowhere Texas. That purple sun casting it’s warm fingertips across my boots and face.
The weekend inside of that hotel room that we never left.
The greasy pizza in Chicago at 4AM on a frigid morning after spending weeks on the road and in cheap motels.
The fresh spring Dublin afternoon when the flowers in the public gardens were abloom. And those ancient roads that shared their own memories.
That long, slow ride across the British countryside as I let the stress and strain of work fade with the sheep and hedgerows.
The bitter cold of the big city as I trudged past Central Park on my way to the subway. Heartbroken and utterly alone in the masses.
That awesome thunderstorm that raged outside my penthouse suite in Dubai; the glass ceilings and tall windows capturing every terrible, terrific nuance.
Walking barefoot along the piers in San Francisco. The cold marine layer slowly gripping my entire body as I allowed myself to shrink into the harsh heart of the city.
Santa Monica at sunset. Going as far west as land would allow and as I watched the sun set on the water, the strong urge to follow it and continue west.
That infinite, immaculate night sky atop a frigid mountain in Colorado. When every star screamed it’s existence and demanded my attention.
And so many more.
Yes, I’m an old man now. If not in year, than in memory. And as I allow these memories to flood back I realize that I have lived a lifetime of lifetimes. So much to treasure. Maybe to share. And I do not fear death. I’m ready for whenever my time comes. I have already experienced far more than I ever dreamed or deserved. Even in the bad there is good. And the good is only made better because of the bad. So maybe when I go back to my shoegazing I’ll work from this new body of source material. And if I am blessed and fortunate enough to collect more memories and lifetimes, let me not simply store them away, but draw from them every last ounce of essence.
And to my dear friend. I miss you. I had forgotten that I did. As-salamu alaykum until we meet again — en shallah.
