If Only in My Dreams

So, wow, funny story. I get really excited about having a decent blog (there's something about blogger that's so aesthetically pleasing) and make a few posts. Then my computer starts acting wonky enough for me to finally reformat (remember to copy everything onto an external hard drive!) and start over. So, when I do this, I have to punch in all of my passwords for my digital life (thanks to Mr. Mozilla Firefox who has remembered them for me for so long now) and I get to this one and for some reason I can't remember what it is. Now, I've had 3 email addy-s in the past several years, and two major passwords, both of which have two variations. This makes for several different combinations. Well, it took me a coupla months to hit the right combination. But nonetheless, here I am.

Let me describe this moment for you. I am sitting in my apartment (I could call it a studio apartment, but it's really just a room)on my loveseat that I was too attached to get rid of (it's as ugly as sin) and there are a few piles of clothes laying around that didn't quite make it into the "dirty enough to need washing" category. My betta fish, Leeroy Jenkins (Leeeeeeerrrrroooyyyyy Jennnnnnnnkkkkinnnss), is staring at me hungrily because I haven't fed him yet. The most important elements of RIGHT NOW are the smell and the sound and both are related.

I smell incense. I found my pack that I got a coupla years ago for Christmas that I burned almost nonstop last year. There's something about the smell that is just comforting. I don't use it to cover up the smell of pot and I don't use it to pray to Buddha, I use it because I'm a smell guy. Aromas conjure strong emotions for me and are usually tied to memories. I have an old cologne, IRON, that if I smell it, I can close my eyes and I can see myself playing the Legend of Zelda . . . I apparently wore it alot when I played that game (I probably got them on the same Christmas). This particular variety of incense (I don't know what it's called. . . it's written in Indian (India Indian) was what I burned a lot around Christmas last year.

What I hear is music. More specifically, a Christmas CD by Diana Krall. If you are not familiar with Diana Krall, I highly suggest you remedy that. What she does is Jazz Magic. Now, I jumped on the Swing bandwagon in the 90's, but I was never a fan of jazz jazz. In retrospect, I don't think I was mentally developed enough to appreciate it. There's something about jazz that pulses and never resolves; it's heartbeat is a progession. Any jazz music I hear makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Vague, incorporeal images flash in my mind and there are usually common articles. Coffee, the sharp smell and biting taste. Warmth, deep internal warmth while the ouside is cold. Bright lights and earth tones. A feeling of belonging and deep-reaching love. The realization of a special moment. The kind of moment you wish you can retreat into and live the rest of your life. But it floats just outside of your reach so you can never really grasp in and make it your own.

Jazz music reminds me of Christmas. Maybe because both bombard the same area of my brain. Maybe because the perfect setting for listening to jazz music is Christmas time. There's something about it that fits perfectly with walking downtown, seeing the bright lights and earthy brick of the buildings. Feeling the warmth of your coat and scarf while the wind threatens to take your ears. The sound of the snow pack underneath your footsteps and the lingering carols from some distant shop. The indescribable aroma of fresh snow and fresh brewed coffee that burns both your lungs and your throat, respectively. The ecstasy of sharing such moments with someone you love or the bittersweet thoughts of having that someone with you as you take in all the magic.

My favorite Christmas song is "Somewhere in My Memory." You may remember it on the Home Alone movies. It's the slower part of the main theme that actually has lyrics. I've never heard a Christmas song that so accurately describes what I see, hear, and feel when I think about Christmas. Here are the lyrics:

"Candles in the window
Shadows painting the ceiling
Gazing at the fire glow
Feeling that gingerbread feeling
Precious moments
Special people
Happy faces
I can see
Somewhere in my memory
Christmas joys all around me
Living in my memory
All of the music
All of the magic
All of the family home here with me"

If I close my eyes I can almost see some indistinct scene where my family is all together celebrating Christmas. I can see the colors, smell the scents, hear the laughter, feel the warmth. But the thing is . . . I don't think any of it really happened. Not that way, at least. Sure, we had Christmas, but there wasn't nearly as much family as I see in my heart. The smells weren't as strong and the emotions were more banal. Maybe this concept isn't so much a memory as an ideal. It's something intangible that I reach for but can't quite touch, no matter how much I struggle.

Zach Braff's character in Garden State ( I do not suggest this movie as it contains a ridiculous amount of language and a scene of nudity [which I don't understand why it's there, it's so completely gratuitous] but there are some interesting questions brought up about our existence and how we live our lives) talks with his friend about our concept of home, the image and feeling that comes to mind when we think of "home" :

"You know that point in your life when you realize that the house that you grew up in isn't really your home anymore? All of the sudden even though you have some place where you can put your stuff that idea of home is gone. You'll see when you move out it just sort of happens one day one day and it's just gone. And you can never get it back. It's like you get homesick for a place that doesn't exist. I mean it's like this rite of passage, you know. You won't have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for you kids, for the family you start, it's like a cycle or something. I miss the idea of it. Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people who miss the same imaginary place."

That sums it up, really. This thing I see, this wave of nostalgia and sentiment, doesn't really exist. It's a culmination of all the emotions and feelings that surround that time of year. It is rooted in my desire to create the foundation of family of my own and the desire for a warm, joyous life. A life full of warmth that naturally results in beautiful movements when my wonderful family gathers to celebrate not only each other, but the birth of our Lord. That really is the foundation of all our joy.