Nostalgia is a funny thing. According to the wisdom of the internoodle, it comes from the Greek words for Homecoming and Pain or Ache. The idea of the good old days. The notion of "living in the past! Hung up on some clown from the 60s!" (cannot help but slide into Seinfeld when the idea of living in the past comes up).
When I came home from South West Rocks, it was not a pain (aside from my errant and wilful sinuses and ear canals. And the mountain of marking to embark on.) Sure, I was glum that my escape to the seaside was over, and that Sparky had to be up before the birds for work the next day. But being home, not so painful.
There was a few gifts to greet me.
In preparation for an upcoming move (perhaps some grey nomading?), my parents have decided that I am grown up enough now not to store all my stuff a their place. Three neat piles of boxes and bags of irregular sizes and states of disrepair. Full of what can best be described as Stuff. I think this is where the Miscellaneous Crap from ALL of my house moves has ended up.
I call them my Nostalgia Showbags. ('Tis the season for the Royal Easter Show, after all.)
I found my Year 10 formal dress. The cowboy boots I wore to my 21st party. An essay I wrote for Year 11 drama about Cosi - the play I will be teaching to Year 12 at The Boy Factory next term (I got an A, 19/20. I don't think it was worth that much. I would have only given me a 15... But I've been told I'm pretty harsh!) My university assignments from the first year of my BA. My birthday cards from my 21st.
More fresian cow print than I care to admit.
I seem to have kept every ticket, program and flyer for all the shows I've ever seen.
Last night, my bedtime story was reading my journal from age 17 to 20.
Full of teenaged angst and really awful poetry. The English teacher I am now wants to take the hand of that cliched over-writer and show her how to use a red pen. Ah, the power of the red pen. If I knew then...
Of course, as with most half-arsed writers, I only ever wrote when I was in the throws of emotional turmoil - more often than not over a Boy - or too bored to think of anything else to do. Part scrapbook, part journal, part artwork... It is an artefact. It charts the rise (but not always getting off the ground) and fall of a number of significant relationships of my past. Romance and love and unrequited lust and friendships. It is truly a tome of the last moments of the 20th century. But this is Not a book that I want my parents to read. Or anyone I actually know. For when I die, I may well put it on the Burn Before Reading list, and organise a buddy to get to my home before my parents do to destroy the evidence. Like an arrangement some blokes have about destroying their porn (or maybe that is just on Coupling.)
And then there are the letters. And birthday cards. And notes. The signs off my door in college. 21st birthday invitations from that season of about two years long, where almost every weekend was a road trip somewhere in the state for another. Posters from all of the plays I have been involved in. Boxes of photographs.
Basically, if you know me, and you have ever sent me a birthday card or given me a drawing or written me a note, chances are, I probably have it.
I've had a good time living in the past. Finding new homes for my old rubbishy things. Deciding to ditch the stuff I really really don't need. Reading unsent letters, covering the full range of emotions from puppy love to vehement spite. Kind of makes me wonder how I'll feel when I read this blog is 10 years time...
But there is no Home Pain here. I'm really pleased I'm not that girl I once was (despite all the lovely messages on my 21st birthday card saying "don't change, your awesome!" (sic).
When I came home from South West Rocks, it was not a pain (aside from my errant and wilful sinuses and ear canals. And the mountain of marking to embark on.) Sure, I was glum that my escape to the seaside was over, and that Sparky had to be up before the birds for work the next day. But being home, not so painful.
There was a few gifts to greet me.
In preparation for an upcoming move (perhaps some grey nomading?), my parents have decided that I am grown up enough now not to store all my stuff a their place. Three neat piles of boxes and bags of irregular sizes and states of disrepair. Full of what can best be described as Stuff. I think this is where the Miscellaneous Crap from ALL of my house moves has ended up.
I call them my Nostalgia Showbags. ('Tis the season for the Royal Easter Show, after all.)
I found my Year 10 formal dress. The cowboy boots I wore to my 21st party. An essay I wrote for Year 11 drama about Cosi - the play I will be teaching to Year 12 at The Boy Factory next term (I got an A, 19/20. I don't think it was worth that much. I would have only given me a 15... But I've been told I'm pretty harsh!) My university assignments from the first year of my BA. My birthday cards from my 21st.
More fresian cow print than I care to admit.
 |
| That indistinguishable mass at the back is a pyjama top. |
I seem to have kept every ticket, program and flyer for all the shows I've ever seen.
 |
| This is just some the flyers from the latest Edinburgh trip. But you can just see (top right) a ticket stub for The King's Speech. |
Full of teenaged angst and really awful poetry. The English teacher I am now wants to take the hand of that cliched over-writer and show her how to use a red pen. Ah, the power of the red pen. If I knew then...
Of course, as with most half-arsed writers, I only ever wrote when I was in the throws of emotional turmoil - more often than not over a Boy - or too bored to think of anything else to do. Part scrapbook, part journal, part artwork... It is an artefact. It charts the rise (but not always getting off the ground) and fall of a number of significant relationships of my past. Romance and love and unrequited lust and friendships. It is truly a tome of the last moments of the 20th century. But this is Not a book that I want my parents to read. Or anyone I actually know. For when I die, I may well put it on the Burn Before Reading list, and organise a buddy to get to my home before my parents do to destroy the evidence. Like an arrangement some blokes have about destroying their porn (or maybe that is just on Coupling.)
And then there are the letters. And birthday cards. And notes. The signs off my door in college. 21st birthday invitations from that season of about two years long, where almost every weekend was a road trip somewhere in the state for another. Posters from all of the plays I have been involved in. Boxes of photographs.
Basically, if you know me, and you have ever sent me a birthday card or given me a drawing or written me a note, chances are, I probably have it.
I've had a good time living in the past. Finding new homes for my old rubbishy things. Deciding to ditch the stuff I really really don't need. Reading unsent letters, covering the full range of emotions from puppy love to vehement spite. Kind of makes me wonder how I'll feel when I read this blog is 10 years time...
But there is no Home Pain here. I'm really pleased I'm not that girl I once was (despite all the lovely messages on my 21st birthday card saying "don't change, your awesome!" (sic).
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