Isn’t the deal with nostalgia just that if we can live in the past, then we live before all these difficult and painful things that have happened to us? We live without the memories. We live in a time that was safe. Enjoyable. Innocent.

I think about the people on Hoarders and I wonder if it really doesn’t matter what their current state is, as long as those objects they hold onto allow their minds to be somewhere else. Some kind of form of dissociation or retrograde fugue state—instead of the establishment of a new identity, there is an establishment of a prior identity.

Just a thought.

As I get older, and specifically throughout this experience, my desire for—or at least the elicitation of—nostalgic feelings has intensified. And they are very specific. The drum sounds in Phil Collin’s I Don’t Care Anymore. . .

Or Live’s Pain Lies On The Riverside. . .

Or the look of the trees and the smell of the air along a particular part of trail cooled by the effects of the greenery and nearby water.