backward tracings
Memories
How sweet the silent backward tracings!
The wanderings as in dreams—-the meditation of old times
resumed—-their loves, joys, persons, voyages.
-Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass
So you might have guessed, I’m on a bit of a Walt Whitman kick. But this one just fit so perfect with yesterday. Actually, I wrote this yesterday (well, not this part—-but what if I did?—-) while sitting in the Ellice Café, which is kind of my favourite new breakfast place on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I usually wander on down Ellice from the university and have a decent breakfast in between my classes. It’s kind of like Cheers when I walk in, everyone shouts “Chris!” and then I grab my usual stool and tell some quirky anecdote from my morning. Well, it’s not quite like that, but you get the idea. And now you all know how to find me… But that’s really not what I was writing about. Yesterday morning, I rambled on down Ellice to my favourite little spot and ordered oatmeal (no raisins, please) and toast, and mused over my morning:
It’s snowing outside and the temperature is dropping. But there’s something pure and crisp in that. And despite the mass of work that needs to be done, despite work, despite the fact that I miss friends I haven’t seen in awhile, I feel that pureness. Almost like life has been birthed anew. And memory floats in silver strands, a bittersweet sensation of longing. Memory is imperfect; it tends to idealize things, makes them seem so golden. It plays the heartstrings making a deep reverberation that hums in the mind and warms the soul. But that’s an illusion, a façade of “golden days” that makes it seem like there was this perfect time. It’s kind of a yearning for utopia or heaven, an unconscious plea for life and peace and young love. Nostalgia can be a dangerous thing.
This morning I woke from unremembered dreams. During class they floated back: an image from the lake, looking out across the water from the beach and feeling the excitement, the quickening heart of being free, in the darkness of mid-night. There was this sensation that always went with times like that: a communal feeling maybe, of intimacy and connectedness. It has something to do with the isolation of the moment. Being so late, being so dark, the only people around are the few you’re with. That’s a powerful feeling and it usually goes overlooked. Mostly because life doesn’t have a lot of those moments, not in an urban setting. Even dead night can crawl with people. Isolation, with just a few, is something else—-the word “solidarity” comes to mind. It’s not something that can be forgotten.
How sweet the silent backward tracings!
The wanderings as in dreams—-the meditation of old times
resumed—-their loves, joys, persons, voyages.
-Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass
So you might have guessed, I’m on a bit of a Walt Whitman kick. But this one just fit so perfect with yesterday. Actually, I wrote this yesterday (well, not this part—-but what if I did?—-) while sitting in the Ellice Café, which is kind of my favourite new breakfast place on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I usually wander on down Ellice from the university and have a decent breakfast in between my classes. It’s kind of like Cheers when I walk in, everyone shouts “Chris!” and then I grab my usual stool and tell some quirky anecdote from my morning. Well, it’s not quite like that, but you get the idea. And now you all know how to find me… But that’s really not what I was writing about. Yesterday morning, I rambled on down Ellice to my favourite little spot and ordered oatmeal (no raisins, please) and toast, and mused over my morning:
It’s snowing outside and the temperature is dropping. But there’s something pure and crisp in that. And despite the mass of work that needs to be done, despite work, despite the fact that I miss friends I haven’t seen in awhile, I feel that pureness. Almost like life has been birthed anew. And memory floats in silver strands, a bittersweet sensation of longing. Memory is imperfect; it tends to idealize things, makes them seem so golden. It plays the heartstrings making a deep reverberation that hums in the mind and warms the soul. But that’s an illusion, a façade of “golden days” that makes it seem like there was this perfect time. It’s kind of a yearning for utopia or heaven, an unconscious plea for life and peace and young love. Nostalgia can be a dangerous thing.
This morning I woke from unremembered dreams. During class they floated back: an image from the lake, looking out across the water from the beach and feeling the excitement, the quickening heart of being free, in the darkness of mid-night. There was this sensation that always went with times like that: a communal feeling maybe, of intimacy and connectedness. It has something to do with the isolation of the moment. Being so late, being so dark, the only people around are the few you’re with. That’s a powerful feeling and it usually goes overlooked. Mostly because life doesn’t have a lot of those moments, not in an urban setting. Even dead night can crawl with people. Isolation, with just a few, is something else—-the word “solidarity” comes to mind. It’s not something that can be forgotten.
posted by chris at 12:21
6 Comments:
i'm REALLY glad you're blogging. it's nice to read thoughts that are more than just thoughts. i'm a thought guy, but you're a thought-plus guy.
see you Sunday evening - you'd better come. and invite Sarah too.
by the way: HI!
hey there Chris. Well it is my turn to be up at 1 in the morning while chandra is asleep. It is friday night and I am up late because I can be. I have nothing to get up for tomorrow so I won't. And when I do get up I hope MegaStructures is on like it was last week. If so I will watch it and marvel and how Mega the structure actually is. I will then think about how I could have become an engineer and then remember that I hated engineering and actually do really enjoy teaching. Anyways. Yeah, we will be home in 5 weeks from today. It will be good to see you and do some chill-axing and talking and maybe even a breakfast or two. You know what maybe I will just write you an email...
What you are describing, Chris, is joy. And, according to C. S. Lewis, this will always include a sense of longing and loss. It is, so to speak, a taste of heaven which, of course, is a taste of the divine.
By the way, Chris, who is Sarah?
Dude!
I am with you in spirit on the Walt Whitman thing. He's one of my true heroes. I'll bring my special edition of Leaves of Grass to work one day.
P.S. Do you like my choppy sentences? For that matter, do you like pina coladas? Getting caught in the rain?
Hello Chris!
I heard through the grapevine that you had a blog. I actually typed the address in wrong --- coincidentally, I happened upon a page by another young guy who is also and aspiring writer. I thought it was you until I read about how he lives in Texas. Then I thought: "Did Chris ever live in Texas? I never knew!"....but it didn't take me long after that to realize it was the wrong Chris! Teehee.
Anyhow, love your blog!
Hey chris,
im sitting here at work, looking out my window, the guys on the other side of the cubicle are talking about trains, planes and automobiles, yeah john candy and steve martin..brilliant.
Im still training so my days are spent watching other people work, and (my fav) sitting at my desk looking out the window and reading blogs. but its going to be a stellar job. thanks buddy.
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