Nostalgia as antidote

 

 

The Perversi and Ongarello clans. Mid 1960s

A who’s who of trouble. Can you spot me?

 

According to the World Health Organisation, those above 65 are considered elderly.  As an elder therefore, I have time on my hands, lots of it, time to indulge in romanticising the past. Cosseting the past couldn’t be described as a trustworthy pursuit, that would be a fantasy.  It’s more a constructed way-it-used-to-be partial unreliable memory, partial imaginary feel-good narrative. I guess it doesn’t require truth. Just rose-coloured glasses! It’s claimed one’s pain perception is lowered through indulging in nostalgia.

 

Today, nostalgia is not so much defined as lived. It has become an antidote to technology, a literal raison d’etre.  Particularly, in this instance, for the elderly.

 

It’s not that I long for the good old days.  Neither do I wish to idealise it; it was different, hard. We were less evolved. Perhaps naïve.  We smoked lots of ‘safe’ cigarettes, drove while pissed, suffered the patriarchy, were oblivious to trauma conditions, the scorching sun, and chemicals and sprays.  Climate change and the ozone layer were conditions that existed in the ether, or not at all.   We even managed to overlook creepy Rolf Harris.

 

I remember the past as somewhat more simplified. We weren’t distracted or consumed by technology, artificial intelligence, scam calls, hackers, stranger danger. We went bush, or drank to forget.  We hadn’t yet been introduced to the production of synthetic embryos, deep fakes and killer drones. We had lots of sex. Well, some people did.  To be fair, I didn’t spend much time reading newspapers.  I was too busy making stuff, partying, working, house renovating and parenting. Not necessarily in that order.

 

Back then we didn’t slam our fist on the fuck-you litigious button to extract financial revenge when someone did us wrong.  We took responsibility, or got angry.  I recently admitted to my acupuncturist I was tormented by it.  His response: ‘still?’ I felt a stab of shame. Only a man would say that to a woman! It remains unfashionable amongst the patriarchy for women to display anger.  Anger energises, sharpens the mind, allows you to let off steam, and gives creativity a boost. It can also make you sick.

 

Largely, as someone inclined toward intensity and sorrow, emotions that share space with a hot temper - go figure - remembering more simple times and the calming feeling of nostalgia, is medicine. Fabrication, or not. Having had my joy factor and pleasure principle overlooked as a small child, nostalgia provides me with enough juju to maintain a sense of personal order, to put on a happy face. I’m drawn to serious people and serious conversation. My tribe. I lay the entire blame for this on my astrological natal chart: Scorpio by four! Due to this, I need more Hare Krishna devotees to cross my path, minus the covert misogyny naturally.  Wearing cheerful, colourful saris, and banging cymbals, a kind of whoop whoop abandon written over their faces, I’m often transfixed by their sight, their real or imaginary inner hosanna.  The sight of their slow procession and their noisy clangers is an event sure to raise my dopamine levels, charm a smile into existence.

 

But seriously, (sorry, not sorry), give me a hit of wistful yearning for the past any day, a sentimentality washed in indistinct sepia tones. Give me just a moment’s return to too-heavy make-up, mini-skirts and fuck-me boots. Disco balls, barrels of riesling, outrageous wedges and stilettos, and Farrah Fawcett hair. Give me hot days in the garden with annoying sisters by four and the even more annoying cousins, mostly boys.  The power of our collective energy, the vibrational delight of singing together, the innocence, the mischief-making and collecting dandelion flowers from the side of the road, destined for neighbourly mothers in exchange for sweets.  Trips to the mountains, backpacking through South East Asia, drive-in cinemas and the crimson Valiant.  Green ginger wine, the smell of jonquils and pine trees, the rolling hills of Diamond Creek, and the winding Yarra River.  The melancholic baritone of Leonard Cohen, his poetry and music.  I don’t want to go back to it all, but the charisma of remembering invokes a feeling of belonging, somehow more real, more wholesome.

 

There’s no substitute for reminiscence, especially an account that excludes trauma. There is no stand-in for the meeting of eyes, the touch of a tender hand on your arm.  I identify with the philosopher Simone Weil when she says ‘attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity’. It can’t be replicated with a device. Paying attention to each other, and the feeling of homesickness is a remedy for a world obsessed with smart phones and gadgets.

 

You can’t stop change.  I wouldn’t want to; I actually thrive on it. This medium-level ache for yesteryear could be a desire to escape, preparation for death, or just a natural pastime that aids examining regret and remorse in order to make amends with the past before it’s too late.  It’s a good thing, right?