Nostalgia

This past weekend I had an opportunity to revisit some of the haunts of my misspent youth. Those of you familiar with Indianapolis might recognize Talbott Street as the avant-garde, bohemian neighborhood associated closely with artists, poets, poverty, and alternate lifestyles. I spent much of my twenties lounging about the living rooms of friends who rented the unkempt and decaying Victorians that had been ruthlessly subdivided by slumlords. Much of who I am today grew out of those shabby rooms, my appreciation for Victoriana, Art Nouveau, and Art Deco all rose from the splendor-come-squalor of Talbott Street. The friends have long moved on and though I still am in touch with some of them, the past always has a luminous quality akin to St. Elmo's Fire. The days seemed brighter, the spirits higher, the laughs louder, and the days carefree, but truth is the good ol' days never were all that good.

On Friday we paid a visit to the Talbott Street Nightclub to take in Indianapolis' equivalent of The Birdcage. Two acts in drag with lip-syncing to the pop hits of today and yesterday, cheap drinks, and the human sideshow that is uninhibited youth. When the curtain came down and the MC bid us goodnight, I stepped out into the chill of early November and had a look around.

There comes a time when you must face time's onslaught, honor those things that are lost, and move forward with as brave a face as you can muster. So, with a nostalgic smile I say farewell to friends who've moved on. So many people I thought would always be an integral part of my life have moved on to jobs and families far away, others have gone from this world all too soon. I miss them all and in the quiet hours before another feeble autumn dawn I can't help but wonder where they are and what they're doing.

Life is an ever-flowing stream of moments, not a condition, and if we don't live each we're carried haplessly downstream to our end. So I swim, sometimes with and sometimes against the current, but nonetheless I swim. The me who played football in the February mud and ice of twenty years ago in the empty lot on Talbott Street wouldn't recognize the me of today, and that's not a bad thing.