“There’s time to conceive in and time to expire, though the time ‘twixt the two tells the tale that transpires” – Ambrosia
If you have not already noticed, this is not your basic DIY blog. So, for a minute, I am going to look at what was and let the present wait. Indulge me.
I have always been fascinated with and enjoyed old things. No, not ancient relics so much as those created within my lifetime that connect me with a time and place I can recall. Take, for example, my 300 disc cd changer that sits atop my desk. This Rube Goldberg contraption whirls and clicks as the gears turn between discs and I derive an odd comfort from hearing those machinations versus the dead silent, seamless efficiency of my Spotify. I don’t know why this is, but it’s true. I do have a tendency towards nostalgia which, my kids have pointed out, can border on the morbid. And they are right. In my drinking days, I often used alcohol as a sort of time travel – it put me back in a romanticized version of my life that felt better than current reality. Of course, at the depth of my drinking days, I had loused things up pretty good, so the times that came before looked preferable. But as Taj Mahal sang, “There is just no percentage in remembering the past”. Thankfully, now the present feels great, clean and sober, and I realize it is okay to look at the past as long as I don’t stare at it.
There are so many beliefs that old fogies (which I am dangerously close to being) cling to: “They don’t make ’em like that anymore”, “Those were the days” and my personal favorite, “How can you listen to that shit!”. I remember vividly my mother rolling hers eyes and lamenting the “noise” coming from the back and white Zenith as the Beatles rocked my world on Ed Sullivan. So I have to laugh at my foolish judgments of hip hop. Some day that “shit”, too, will be playing in elevators,
Ok, so where’s this going? It is with this respect for the past (including its limitations) that I stepped into my Spartan yesterday. Not with my old morose colored glasses, but with an appreciation for what was. Dali’s “The Persistence of Memory” is also so known as “The Persistence of Time”, and this alias occurred to me as I entered my trailer time capsule yesterday.
It is obvious that Sparta had not been lived in for awhile, I doubt it had even been someone’s clubhouse or meth den. As I looked around it struck me that, like the ghost town, Bodie, people just cleared out and that was that. That exodus, fittingly, seems to have happened at the millennium. I will give your eyes a rest and let some pictures tell the story:
Forgive my ramblings but I warned you that this blog would be a sort of journal and , as such, self-indulgent. I promise that tomorrow I will chronicle some actual work.