mariachi?
Originally uploaded by thirdgradevocabchamp.
Obligated by the recent resonance of coming back, or going back I cannot leave the matter unexamined. And, so, following the advice of some thinkers of the past, I attempt to take a miniature step into the carving of my own existence, trying not to commit an act of pedantic pseudo-academic regurgitation.
In a fine illustration of melancholy, installed carefully in Pedro Almodovar’s latest movie, and presented beautifully by Estrella Morente, the song named also with the term in question, reminded me of my incessant fights with the humanities teachers of my youth. Fights that turned into discussions when my teenage insolence was frowned upon. While smiling gently at the descriptive adjectives that then flew back and forth, I try to understand the cause for my utter despise for the utopia that this young teacher held most dear.
Time, distance, and specially emotional detachment have led me to realize that it was not their utopia what I despised, which was a rather noble dream. A more equal society, through the implementation of government sponsored social programs; and independence from abusive American influence, are neither unworthy of consideration, nor unattainable. Yet, the former me screamed, insulted at the mention of what it sounded like recycled communism in a place where a noteworthy revolutionary movement was never even started. While I defended an unswallowed conviction, I was awarded many titles, and I distributed even more myself. Though, I know now that it was the words in the speech what struck my teenage rebel with disgust.
How does a man so young and full of ideals, carries the heavy luggage of remembering events that did not come to pass. Why do we cling to nostalgia for the fantastic? Is this a masochistic sacrifice traded for security, or survival instinct? It seems like our culture has an open affair with the legends of the past. We revere it, we fear it, but mostly, we deeply miss it.
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I miss it, because it rings the bells of innocent youth. I believe it, because reality must be tempered with imagination. I hope for it, because it keeps us hopeful.
There will always be a dissatisfaction for what is when held up to the memories which impugn out daily lives as distracted by their own transcience, because memories are at once without time and without discomfort and thus can never be tainted by either. The only utopia is that of nostalgia because we remember things more for what they mean than what they are. And would we really want it to be different. What art can there be if there is not conflict?
Extracts from Graham Swift’s Waterland:
“So how do we know — lost in the desert — that it is to the oasis of the yet-to-come we should be travelling anyway, and not to some other green Elysium that, a long while ago, we left behind? And how do we know that this mountain of baggage called History, which we are obliged to lug with us — which slows our pace to a crawl and makes us stagger off course — is really hindering us from advancing or retreating? Which way does salvation lie?
No wonder we move in circles.”
“(…) there’s this thing called civilization. It’s built of hopes and dreams. It’s only an idea. It’s not real. It’s artificial. No one ever said it was real. It’s not natural. No one ever said is was natural. It’s built by the learning process; by trial and error. It breaks easily. No one said it couldn’t fall to bits. And no one ever said it would last forever.”
“My humble model for progress is the reclamation of land. Which is repeatedly, never-endingly retrieving what is lost. A dogged, vigilant business. A dull yet valuable business. A hard, inglorious business. But you shouldn’t go mistaken the reclamation of land for the building of empires.”