Girl Anachronism?

I romanticize the past, the foreign, anything older than me that I don't know or understand. I could romanticize you too.

I'm not sure why. I've always wondered in the past why I loved it. Perhaps it's from having older parents who grew up around older cultures than my average friend's more youthful counterparts. Perhaps it's from specifically growing up around my mother who always bought used things, things that were older than what everyone else was used to to begin with. Maybe it was from being well-read and those stories, unless sci-fi, had to be set in the past. It's always interesting to look back at the different trends that humans grow attached to during their lifespans. Hell if I know, but if I could just get my hands on one of those old Vanagons or explore France this summer via some vintage motorcycle with a sidecar, I might would lose my shit. Good thing my shit will be strapped to my back in a brand new backpack -- in the make of WWII fashion. These old land cameras on top of my dresser and the suitcase-style record player in the living room just call my name to be looked at. Just a little reminder that we aren't stuck with only the newest gadgets of our time. That back in the day when quality mattered, things were built to last, they were sturdy. Yet now every aspect of our lives are constantly changing and we're constantly being upgraded to different eggshells to walk on.

At the end of the day I just like being reminded I don't need anything fancy to function. And that we should't just be future or even present minded. We should respect the people of the past because there are stories there -- original stories, there. There are all of these graves filled with people who lived in the times of the real WWII backpacks mine mocks whose stories we'll never know because they're lost in the ground and we didn't get them out in time.

I go to my grandmother's every Sunday, and although we're not close and I quit going to church with her and she likes to periodically remind me with her Northern-and-then-some ways how much she despises my hair, we have lunch and we catch up. I've tried to get her to tell me these old stories I love so much. You'd think at nearly 91 she'd have some, but she's awfully bitter. (Mostly due to having to provide for her 5 children while her marriage dwindled in the countryside, and in regards to my last post, this is another reason I refuse to settle. I want to be in a good enough shape of mind to tell my stories, because although she's great physically, something won't let those stories out.) However, she was going on casually about how she didn't think her friend down the road, whom she likes to play cards with, won't make it much longer. She talked about another family friend in bad shape. She can talk about death like she talks about the chicken we're eating and how she cooked it five minutes too long. She never mentions her own much, if any, though.

The difference in our skin is fascinating. We look quite a bit alike when compared at the right age, aside from the nose. But now she's got all these wrinkles, and my mom always made me iron shirts I'd be willing to wear, but even I couldn't wear her. But then here in headquarters I look down at this smooth, youthful (somewhat crappy, thanks to those ding-dongs) skin, add on 70 years and get her. Her favorite era is one of my least favorites--the pioneer days, although I like it at Old Washington.

It's funny how I can look at my own past and shudder and maybe that's why I want to go even further back, and that I'm dissociated in the present and unsure, although hopeful, about the future. I never paid much attention in history class but it could've been the teachers. Can't help but wonder, though, what it'd be like to see Paris in the rain in the twenties, you know. Although that idea's a little too copyrighted, so maybe some flappers dancing to jazz in New Orleans, that's nice enough.

Yet then I think about this computer and video cameras and medicines that have saved me from what would've been death and I thank whoever listens. Yes, I'll be perfectly content in a quaint Texan home. Or like they say, so long as the company's good, right?