![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Locust Valley, day 3...
Oct. 21st, 2004 06:58 pmOne of the, I don't know -- perverse? -- aspects of coming to visit my parents is that I'm stuck for a time referent. Basically, all I seem to be able to do is dredge up the past.
Even the act of walking down to the beach, for example, does this. I've walked this path many times, out of habit, really. Back when I was a kid, fresh out of high school, I'd walk down to the beach, climb out on the jetty, and yell at the seagulls about the failed course of my first love. And it gets to the point eventually -- though I didn't realize it at the time -- that such activities are more of a comfort than a catharsis.
Then there is the beach house, which is not the same place where I had to face down a dozen boys my age, and older, and younger, when I was falsely accused of lifting someone's car radio. Or recalling the patch of sand about a dozen paces to the west of the structure, at the boundary between sand and vegetation (such as it is), where I spent an interesting afternoon burning all but a handful of correspondence of that first love. At the time, I attributed some kind of closure to the act, but in the end, it really didn't change things at all.
All of this has to do with the fact that, in the backmost corner of my mind, all of these recollections and observations -- here in my LiveJournal and elsewhere -- are a way of providing a record of the things that crossed my mind for my progeny. As I have probably noted elsewhere, I never got to know my father because he died when I was young. His handful or letters tell me nothing about the man. (Granted, this lack of substance has allowed me to make up a persona for him, which may be actually much better than who he was, but I digress...). The same pretty much can be said for my grandfathers -- and grandmothers -- who left nothing but one or two photos. Who were these people? What made them tick? What did they care about? Who did they vote for? Who did they cry for?
Being in this house is also an exercise in comparing what is against what was. My parents are not the people they were back when I was in high school. And so, in the end, all of my attention during this visit ahs been focused on the past, and -- by looking at my parents -- at a not-so-rosy future.
It's depressing. I need to get out of here for a day, at least.
Cheers...
Even the act of walking down to the beach, for example, does this. I've walked this path many times, out of habit, really. Back when I was a kid, fresh out of high school, I'd walk down to the beach, climb out on the jetty, and yell at the seagulls about the failed course of my first love. And it gets to the point eventually -- though I didn't realize it at the time -- that such activities are more of a comfort than a catharsis.
Then there is the beach house, which is not the same place where I had to face down a dozen boys my age, and older, and younger, when I was falsely accused of lifting someone's car radio. Or recalling the patch of sand about a dozen paces to the west of the structure, at the boundary between sand and vegetation (such as it is), where I spent an interesting afternoon burning all but a handful of correspondence of that first love. At the time, I attributed some kind of closure to the act, but in the end, it really didn't change things at all.
All of this has to do with the fact that, in the backmost corner of my mind, all of these recollections and observations -- here in my LiveJournal and elsewhere -- are a way of providing a record of the things that crossed my mind for my progeny. As I have probably noted elsewhere, I never got to know my father because he died when I was young. His handful or letters tell me nothing about the man. (Granted, this lack of substance has allowed me to make up a persona for him, which may be actually much better than who he was, but I digress...). The same pretty much can be said for my grandfathers -- and grandmothers -- who left nothing but one or two photos. Who were these people? What made them tick? What did they care about? Who did they vote for? Who did they cry for?
Being in this house is also an exercise in comparing what is against what was. My parents are not the people they were back when I was in high school. And so, in the end, all of my attention during this visit ahs been focused on the past, and -- by looking at my parents -- at a not-so-rosy future.
It's depressing. I need to get out of here for a day, at least.
Cheers...
