My favourite part of the day is commuting. Not the part where I tap my toes impatiently waiting for the train and tram to arrive, but the part where I’m already in the train or tram, watching the world whiz by. See, having a good, stress-free experience on public transport depends partly on knowing the system, and knowing it well. For instance.. if I want a seat on the train, I take the 7.35 train out of Essendon, and I stand right between the first and the second bench where the pipe is. Usually, that’s right where the door stops.
If I woke up any later than 6.35, I’d miss the 7.35 and I’d have to catch the 7.44, which usually gets cancelled on a whim, and then I’d have to wait for the 7.50, and join the rest of the rat pack vying for space in the sardine tin. Sure, I’ll get into work a little bit early, but that’s a small price to pay for time travel.
Huh?
Yes. Every morning and every evening, I travel into my past. My trusty little iPod has a fairly… eclectic collection of music. It’s got everything from old classics like ‘When Doves Cry’ by Prince to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ by Queen and ‘Everytime You Cry’ by Paul Young to more recent tunes like ‘If I just lay here’ by Snow Patrol and ‘Let love in’ by Goo Goo Dolls (kudos to Mung for the recommendation).
Each time the opening bars of a song from my past plays – for instance, ‘Bittersweet Symphony’ by the Verve… I get shuttled to the point in my life where I first heard the song, when the song meant something to me. I remember why it meant anything to me, I remember the people who were in my life at that point of time.
I tend to think of my life in terms of being a great big castle, with thousands and thousands of doors. Each time a song plays, I follow the strains of music floating down the dark and dusty hallways, till I reach the room the music comes from. As I push open the rusty, creaky door, my senses are assailed by sight, smell, and sounds of that moment in time. A home movie plays in the darkened room, scenes from a life long left behind flashing on the wall.
‘Almost Doesn’t Count’ by Brandi. Two pictures hang on the wall. One of a boy, one of a girl. The home movie tells the tale of a girl, in love with a boy, for four years, standing quietly in the sidelines, watching him love another girl. Four years, and then the boy notices her standing quietly to the side, the girl, his best friend, who has stood by him unfailingly for four years. The boy falls in love with the girl, and for one and a half years, the girl is happier than she has ever been. The tale ends tragically, with heartbreak and pain, for both boy and girl.
Lately I’ve thought about him a lot more than I have this last…. 6 years. I’m not quite sure why. Maybe it’s remembering the things that he did for me that no one else did. The way he used to show up in front of my college, just to surprise me. Or when I walked home one day from school, headphones in my ears, and he tracked me down and walked next to me for a full 10 minutes, quietly, before I noticed him next to me. Gave me the fright of my life, but it was a fright that I would happily subject myself to any number of times again.
Last night I downloaded a whole load of Take That songs. Yes, Take That. Hear me roar. Rawr. I loved Take That. Loved them. These songs took me down a longer hallway of my past.. and opened other.. very strange doors along the way. Which brings me to Part 2 of this unfolding saga of Casa de Memoria.
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