I read a quote recently that resonated with me--something to the effect of 'you can miss a place or a time in your life without necessarily wanting to return to it'. It got me thinking about the intangibles of life in more general terms, about those places we cannot really reach inside ourselves and that they are the places we can never really explain or truly define. We remember them, but how does one define memories? What are they really? They represent something very important to us, but we cannot reach them, cannot touch them, cannot call them up all the time at will. Sometimes they are triggered by a smell, a room, a touch, a word. They point to places inside ourselves that are intangible, and it is often those places that make us melancholy, perhaps for how life 'used to be' or for some other feeling that tugs at our souls for attention. The melancholy comes from our minds and souls, comes from that part of us that is spiritual and not material. The spiritual is another intangible. I have often written in this blog about how my life used to be--as a child, or a young adult, or an employee starting out in the work world. I understand after having reread those posts that I write with a certain melancholy, an intangible feeling of sadness or even grief, that really has to do with my soul's acknowledgment that time on earth is passing and that there is nothing I can do about that. Even if I told you that I miss certain times from the past, I could not return to them even if I wanted to, because the laws of physics deem that impossible. I can of course return to them in the realm of imagination. That is the stuff of novels and dreams, and the basis for much of science fiction. The ideas of time travel, parallel worlds or non-linear time appeal to me; I find science fiction oddly comforting.
I have just finished reading Joan Didion's collection of California essays entitled Slouching Toward Bethlehem. Her writing is tinged with a melancholy that I can understand, especially when she writes about the Sacramento of her youth (where she grew up) and modern Sacramento. They are not the same and never could be. She knows that. But still. My favorite essay is the one where she writes about saying goodbye to New York City after having spent eight years there. Goodbye to All That captures so many of the reasons why young people come to New York City and why many of them never leave even though they should, because their dreams are gone and/or they are wasted and wasting time (their lives). I could understand her reasons for being there and for wanting to leave. I could relate to her talking about the wondrousness of the city, seen for the first time, walking down the city streets, stopping in to a small shop for a snack--all those things. I remember liking the city because I could be anonymous there; I could start over as many times as I liked, and no one was there to tell me not to do that. But of course there are only so many times one can start over, and only so many years that one wishes to remain anonymous in order to start over. She writes about the city being a city for the young, not for the old. That is because the dreamers come to the city, wanting to be successful, wanting to live out their dreams of becoming famous writers or actors. But the same could be said of Los Angeles and Hollywood; many waiters have waited tables there for years, waiting for their big break in Hollywood that will never come to pass. Many stay 'too long at the fair', as Didion describes it. I could relate to her absolute weariness of going to parties and hearing the same things said over and over again by the same people; at some point, you must act on the weariness or go crazy. You cannot listen to the pipe dreams of others for too long. You cannot listen to the bullshit for too long. If you do, you will be mired in the mud of inertia, and it will drag you under. You will become cynical. You can grow old in the city and never realize that until one day you wake up and it smacks you in the face--the realization that you are midway through life and that you have to do something with your 'one wild and precious life' as Mary Oliver writes. In Didion's case, she seemed to have had a nervous breakdown of sorts. But at the same time, she married her boyfriend; he took her back to California, her home state. It seemed to help her, as both he and she became successful writers. I like her fragility, her humility, her ability to insert herself quietly into the lives around her in order to observe and write about them. She was not aggressive in her dealings with people. But she is tough and unflinching in how she writes about their lives and about herself and her approaches to life--she is not afraid to write about her melancholy, about crying at the strangest of times and not knowing why, about being weary, about being human. Her essays are essays about the ironic, contradictory, messed-up lives around her (including her own) that constitute humanity. She writes about the melancholy of life, the melancholy of the intangible, in a way that makes me want to read more of her work.
