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One memory triggers another, which nudges an intention, which elbows a notion, and the next thing you know, you're consciously chasing a train of thought along a track that threads through the reaches of your mind, a ticket in one hand and a computer keyboard in the other.
In my case, from time to time over the years, I've put my search-fu to the test by extending my investigative tendrils into the fabric of the Internet to search for information on old friends and acquaintances with whom I've lost contact. I do this as a "catch and release" kind of activity, in the sense that I do nothing with the information I uncover, as I've found that attempts to re-establish contact are almost certainly doomed to failure, crippled by the passage of time and the divergence of life paths.
Some years ago, one such search session was triggered by a troubling dream about my first serious girlfriend, whom I knew and loved - and lost - about 4 years before meeting Galina.
Ascribe what you will to the adjective "troubling"; it would take me too long to explain and would probably not make sense. I'll just mention it was one of the very few dreams that, over the years, I recall having remembered upon awakening.
During previous attempts to search for her name - an eminently searchable name owing to its uniqueness and one that she would have almost certainly retained professionally - every technique I could conjure came up empty. No hits on any site, and no runs or errors, either, except for perhaps initiating the search to begin with.
The search prompted by my dream came up empty, and to be frank, I didn't really know what I would have done if my efforts had been successful. Would I have called? Made myself known? Almost certainly not, in retrospect.
It may be said, I guess, that my reluctance in this regard was tied to a fear of rejection. I will respond, "Guilty as charged," and thank you to keep your armchair psychoanalysis to yourself. It's hard to change your attitude toward something that happened a long time ago, and I had dealt with the issue by avoiding it through all of the intervening years. The approach wasn't perfect, as it failed to suppress my intermittent curiosity, but I could live with the result.
My curiosity remained dormant until about 8 years ago, whereupon I fired up Google and essayed the same search yet again, with sharpened search-fu skills. This time, mirabile dictu, Google spat back not only the exact full name I was looking for, but an address, a phone number, a professional affiliation; in short, the works. And the kicker? She worked in Houston, as did I at the time.
Sometimes, it is a small world, indeed, as we had said our goodbyes in New York nearly three decades earlier.
So there I was, with the information I sought displayed on my screen, yet sitting with a puzzled look on my kisser, not knowing what to do. (Take it from me, not knowing what to do in theory is a lot easier to deal with than not knowing what to do in practice.)
The safe alternative, of course, was to sit tight and do nothing. "Ne rockez pas le boat," as such advice might be expressed late at night in a New Orleans bar. But I have seldom been one to seek safe alternatives in such circumstances, so I called the number.
It was no longer in service.
I had scratched the itch. By all rights, I could go back to my mundane existence, secure in the knowledge that honor - and curiosity - had been satisfied. I had done my part.
So naturally, I then called directory assistance to find out if the number had changed. It had. Several days later, while standing in line at a book signing, I called the new number and spoke to the receptionist. My party was out. I cut the connection without leaving my name or number.
A few more days passed, and I called again.
My party was in. "Who shall I say is calling?" asked the receptionist.
I said my name.
An eternity passed. I'm sure it was at least that long. Longer, maybe.
A familiar voice came on the phone.
Years melted. We spoke of pleasant surprises and had a short conversation, ending with the words, "We must get together."
Three days passed. I called, left my number.
I got a call back and it was during this call that my telephone became an oracle of sorts, from which came an answer to a question I had forgotten I ever wanted to ask, and which, having remained unasked for so long, had corroded and become stuck fast in the catacombs of my mind. You see, I never really understood what had led to our breakup. During that conversation, she told me.
I was dumbfounded. Was that how it was? That was me? Could I have been so... stupid?
Yes. Apparently so, and on all counts. In truth, I became aware of such qualities later, and thought them to be the result of our breakup, assisted to some degree by the natural tendency of youth toward arrogance. It had taken time and effort to overcome and outgrow those qualities once I had become aware of them.
What a fool I had been! What an idiot! What an imbecile!
I was seized by a pang of regret for What Might Have Been if only I had been more open to admitting mistakes, to being more communicative, to saying "I'm sorry." Indeed, I recalled a line attributed to John Lennon, to the effect that "love means having to say you're sorry every fifteen minutes," which made a lot more sense, when you thought about it, than the slobbering sentimentality of the original tagline in Love Story.
In the end, it may have simply been the passage of time that finally cured me; and though I'll bet good money there are those who would question the use of "cure" in this context, it matters not. Not now, anyway.
In the end, we made plans to meet for dinner, but something serious came up, and it never happened. Nor was it ever rescheduled. Nor, I suspect, will it be, ever.
And thereby stands explained the curious circumstance of what may be described as a rusted switch - overgrown with weeds and underbrush - situated way, way back along the side of the track that traces my life inside my head. The switch hardware was made bright and shiny that night, and serviceable to boot. There is, alas, no going back. The switch will never be thrown.
To risk further overworking the metaphor, as I sit here wondering about that switch, I am reminded of the many miles of smooth track since, reflecting the many accomplishments and great joys that have come along with the ride. I have been particularly fortunate in my circumstances, despite the petty pressures and distractions that try to derail me, as they do all of us all from time to time. I would not change a thing.
There are no snows of yesteryear, only the track up ahead.
Cheers...
In my case, from time to time over the years, I've put my search-fu to the test by extending my investigative tendrils into the fabric of the Internet to search for information on old friends and acquaintances with whom I've lost contact. I do this as a "catch and release" kind of activity, in the sense that I do nothing with the information I uncover, as I've found that attempts to re-establish contact are almost certainly doomed to failure, crippled by the passage of time and the divergence of life paths.
Some years ago, one such search session was triggered by a troubling dream about my first serious girlfriend, whom I knew and loved - and lost - about 4 years before meeting Galina.
Ascribe what you will to the adjective "troubling"; it would take me too long to explain and would probably not make sense. I'll just mention it was one of the very few dreams that, over the years, I recall having remembered upon awakening.
During previous attempts to search for her name - an eminently searchable name owing to its uniqueness and one that she would have almost certainly retained professionally - every technique I could conjure came up empty. No hits on any site, and no runs or errors, either, except for perhaps initiating the search to begin with.
The search prompted by my dream came up empty, and to be frank, I didn't really know what I would have done if my efforts had been successful. Would I have called? Made myself known? Almost certainly not, in retrospect.
It may be said, I guess, that my reluctance in this regard was tied to a fear of rejection. I will respond, "Guilty as charged," and thank you to keep your armchair psychoanalysis to yourself. It's hard to change your attitude toward something that happened a long time ago, and I had dealt with the issue by avoiding it through all of the intervening years. The approach wasn't perfect, as it failed to suppress my intermittent curiosity, but I could live with the result.
My curiosity remained dormant until about 8 years ago, whereupon I fired up Google and essayed the same search yet again, with sharpened search-fu skills. This time, mirabile dictu, Google spat back not only the exact full name I was looking for, but an address, a phone number, a professional affiliation; in short, the works. And the kicker? She worked in Houston, as did I at the time.
Sometimes, it is a small world, indeed, as we had said our goodbyes in New York nearly three decades earlier.
So there I was, with the information I sought displayed on my screen, yet sitting with a puzzled look on my kisser, not knowing what to do. (Take it from me, not knowing what to do in theory is a lot easier to deal with than not knowing what to do in practice.)
The safe alternative, of course, was to sit tight and do nothing. "Ne rockez pas le boat," as such advice might be expressed late at night in a New Orleans bar. But I have seldom been one to seek safe alternatives in such circumstances, so I called the number.
It was no longer in service.
I had scratched the itch. By all rights, I could go back to my mundane existence, secure in the knowledge that honor - and curiosity - had been satisfied. I had done my part.
So naturally, I then called directory assistance to find out if the number had changed. It had. Several days later, while standing in line at a book signing, I called the new number and spoke to the receptionist. My party was out. I cut the connection without leaving my name or number.
A few more days passed, and I called again.
My party was in. "Who shall I say is calling?" asked the receptionist.
I said my name.
An eternity passed. I'm sure it was at least that long. Longer, maybe.
A familiar voice came on the phone.
Years melted. We spoke of pleasant surprises and had a short conversation, ending with the words, "We must get together."
Three days passed. I called, left my number.
I got a call back and it was during this call that my telephone became an oracle of sorts, from which came an answer to a question I had forgotten I ever wanted to ask, and which, having remained unasked for so long, had corroded and become stuck fast in the catacombs of my mind. You see, I never really understood what had led to our breakup. During that conversation, she told me.
I was dumbfounded. Was that how it was? That was me? Could I have been so... stupid?
Yes. Apparently so, and on all counts. In truth, I became aware of such qualities later, and thought them to be the result of our breakup, assisted to some degree by the natural tendency of youth toward arrogance. It had taken time and effort to overcome and outgrow those qualities once I had become aware of them.
What a fool I had been! What an idiot! What an imbecile!
I was seized by a pang of regret for What Might Have Been if only I had been more open to admitting mistakes, to being more communicative, to saying "I'm sorry." Indeed, I recalled a line attributed to John Lennon, to the effect that "love means having to say you're sorry every fifteen minutes," which made a lot more sense, when you thought about it, than the slobbering sentimentality of the original tagline in Love Story.
In the end, it may have simply been the passage of time that finally cured me; and though I'll bet good money there are those who would question the use of "cure" in this context, it matters not. Not now, anyway.
In the end, we made plans to meet for dinner, but something serious came up, and it never happened. Nor was it ever rescheduled. Nor, I suspect, will it be, ever.
And thereby stands explained the curious circumstance of what may be described as a rusted switch - overgrown with weeds and underbrush - situated way, way back along the side of the track that traces my life inside my head. The switch hardware was made bright and shiny that night, and serviceable to boot. There is, alas, no going back. The switch will never be thrown.
To risk further overworking the metaphor, as I sit here wondering about that switch, I am reminded of the many miles of smooth track since, reflecting the many accomplishments and great joys that have come along with the ride. I have been particularly fortunate in my circumstances, despite the petty pressures and distractions that try to derail me, as they do all of us all from time to time. I would not change a thing.
There are no snows of yesteryear, only the track up ahead.
Cheers...
