I don't think I ever had a proper period of nostalgia. The feeling sort of overwhelms me at it's leisure...like a transient entity...a bad landlord that drops by arbitrarily. I've moved 3 miles from the place I've lived since I was 5 years old. Not nearly far enough away to douse the echoes of so many daily journeys to the train...countless trips to the sub shops just around the corner...and all those fantastical pilgramages to my friends' houses. Where have they gone? I know Mike (with his TRS-80 and PARSEC cartridge) faded long ago...and others are back there, but it's different now. Our collective heads have travelled beyond the threshold of adulthood...our childhood fantasies realized and replaced by more complex memes that transcend our geographical locales. Even when we're together it's a sentimental yearning-fest.
Not to say that it's all a futile excercise of trying to reinitialize an irrecoverable condition.
The only thing that I can label as an inherantly "adult" state (so far) is the dichotomy of simultaneous nostalgia and foresight. Somehow, I've armed myself with a metal detector (fitted with a rear-view mirror) on the beach that is lucid existence. A day that shares the purity of learning new experiences, tempered with a blueprint of past excursions on familiar ground, is common enough for me to accept my life as a work in progress worthy of continued funding.
I'll be honest with you (me)...I've had a few drinks, and the euphoria I'm feeling right now (euphoria = somewhat pretentious bullshit-i-tude...bear with me...it passes) convinces me that there is a "code"...a series of conduits and pathways that constitute "truth". Whether or not I've actually latched on to one of these hotlines is pure conjecture...but there's a "beat'...an undeniable tempo that I can adhere to. I know I'll read this later and wonder why I didn't wait...but, at the same time, I'll ponder my mindset and realize that there's no joy that compares to the manifestation of thought as it occurs.
But there are MANY other types of joy...

A strange dream that doesn't have to mean anything...
I allow myself to linger in the small room (one of three) adjacent to the parent's bedroom. "Adjacent" is too...pragmatic. The rooms actually comprise one wall of the bedroom. The one I'm in now is immaculate and, despite it's size, well dressed with character. As I scan the shag carpeting and the velveteen pillows, I wonder if the other two rooms are as androdgenous as this. Soon, one of the daughters comes in. She walks past me with a smile and begins to make the (by any standard) already made bed. "Where is your brother?", I ask. "Italy. He'll be back after the competition." "Have you ever been?" She warms to the very thought. "Mmm. Yes. Iove it there." "Yeah, everything's so different...the foliage, the roads, the colors...it's as though you're on another planet." Why did I offer that? Had I ever been to Italy? I didn't think so..
The Father walks in. It's Tom Hanks. The mom follows, sits down on her bed and makes a phone call. It's really hard to gather either of their dispositions, much like it was with the daughter. Pleasant, but aloof. He says hello, then begins talking to his daughter about school. The details escape me, but I do recall the same air of levity hanging on every sentance...almost like every phrase is a possible setup to a joke. Some are actually delivered...or so I'd believe. There is no subsequent laughter. As I sweep under the desk in the smaller room (is this what I do? Some sort of maid? Indentured houseguest?), I interrupt them. "I'm sorry, but you folks have to be the dryest natural comediens I've ever met", I offer admiringly, perhaps with a hint of benign inquiry. Tom, the Dad, says, somewhat cryptically, "It's always been like that" with slight grin. "You'll get used to it." I consider how well adjusted the daughter seems despite having to sleep two feet from their parents' room. Is it a testament to their parentage, or do they just have good genes and a remarkable sense of irony? Maybe there was a period of rebellion, but it's not palpable here.
My head hurts. I feel a little sluggish, like my mind is pulling it's punches. It's later, now. Same day? I'm in the mall, talking to another of Tom's daughters. I owe her money, supposedly, for some sort of services rendered. Nothing salacious. Her boyfriend is there. They both clean tables in the food court as we discuss how much I've given them, and how the remaining balance stands at $56. They have some difficulty explaining why, but I don't feel the need to challenge them. It's as though my will is subdued...I am complacent here. I keep waiting for my instincts to clue me in around these people, but the engine doesn't turn here. My mind is across town, now. I see two japanese girls...costume makers? The are modeling two VERY realistic Koala bear outfits to several unimpressed Italian businessmen and a worried, power-lunch-ready British woman. I feel bad for the girls...this is humiliating. What sort of application would call for this? They're even mimicking Koala behavior. "These won't work. You can see the slopes of the eyes through the lids.", one of the Italians says. He chuckles at his unexpected onset of bad taste, and repeats "You can see the slopes". No one else laughs. The British woman is upset. "Girls, we can't use these. We need something for tomorrow." Dejectedly, the two girls remove their outfits and walk outside. One is crying on the others shoulder.
It's dusk. The girls have been shopping for something...department store bags aplenty. They laugh and relax on a nearby bench. Where are they? On the roof of the building they were in earlier pitching the Koala suits. It's their intention to sleep here tonight...on the roof. As the sun sets, they don golden face masks and huddle together, staring sleepily at the horizon as the world is basked in deep reddish hues.
Across the city, I am sitting on a beach chair, staring at the same sunset. I'm still not sure where I am, or what city it is, but I am not at all alarmed. I know the girls will be up at the crack of dawn for more humiliation. I know that, somehow, they are happy...just as I am right now. Alone. Part of me argues that contentment does not equate to most definitions of true happiness, but the notion doesn't remain long as I allow my gaze to drift up towards the newly appearing stars poking through the dying scarlet sky.