Looking for the World that Was

Weird isn't it, how much people tend to open up when it's just them and a page? A blog. A diary. A journal. Most aren't so forthcoming with information when there's someone there to listen -- but then isn't that why we blog, or journal, or -- is there a way to verb the word diary? Just something I noticed.

I do wonder though, how much goes on in people's heads -- what thoughts are buzzing about on a daily basis in the synapses of those I love. Maybe that's because I'm feeling a bit off as I type this. Not sure why. Just -- it's a feeling.

It's funny that I ponder so much about the inside scoop on my friends and who they are when it was recently pointed out to me that I don't seem to bother with wondering about who they were.

The past.

It's not something I think on too much. It happened. Now it's gone. And yes, the events of my past have been woven together into the intricate tapestry that is my life, that is me, the man who types this blog. Would I be someone else if I'd not taken that shortcut and been stuck by a car at the age of six? What if I'd taken art and photography instead of jazz band and orchestra? What if I'd gone to Vanderbilt or G.W. instead of Notre Dame? Or what if my folks had named me Ian? Or Obi Wan?

Different guy, right?

So here are all these people that I know and care for and they too are woven -- yet I don't know about much of it or even wonder about it. I don't pry about the past much (though there are times). I ask about now --- I'm insanely curious as to the present -- why a person might be chipper one day or melancholy the next; I want to know what's up in the now and if that opens up a backstory, revealing a piece of the puzzle, cool. But if not... that's cool too.

When I think about it, I don't know much about my loved ones' lives prior to me being a part of them. Solipcistic, I know. It's like parents. I know that mine had this entire life together before I joined them. And I've heard stories, yes, and I've seen the vintage albums with the faded color photos preceded by the boxy black and whites, showing my parents as young, vibrant people who traveled and lived deliberately before turning the page to the part where I show up. And like them, I know some things about my friends and their sometimes sordid pasts.

But overall, I don't know that much. I know what people decide to tell me. And maybe that's because I'm the type who never closes his mouth and loves to tell anyone who will listen the story that is my life. I don't need to be prompted -- I just talk about it. Sure, the editing could use some work and the organization of the stories is very sloppy at times, but in the end it's just me sharing.

So I guess I expect everyone else to be that way -- to share what they want and keep to themselves what they want. It may come as a surprise, but I'd say I'm pretty respectful of people's privacy -- when it comes to the past. I'll pry if given the indication that prying is wanted. And you can just tell when people want to tell you something -- at least I can tell. Or, I think I can. Maybe not. Maybe I'm just an unobservant person who thinks he knows his friends.

That picture up there, by the by... no real meaning here. I was just looking for a picture that explained my mood when I started writing this very late last night and that one seemed to fit.

I took that photo. I always liked that contrast of the flower in winter. The flower pictured had a home in the window of what was then my mom's study. And I found it oddly haunting to see this flower perched there on the sill, as if it were staring quietly at a world it did not recognize -- and probably didn't understand. If flowers were capable of such sentient thought, I wonder what that one would have been thinking.