The widely accepted definition of nostalgia is a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations. My definition however, is slightly different.
To me, nostalgia is a most intoxicating distraction, an innocent that with magnification becomes a devilish vixen on the brain, sometimes the heart, and with fervent fixation, even the soul. She is my secret opiate. I turn to her when the realities of modern day comings and goings lack the certain ‘je ne sais quoi?’ to peak my interest. For I have a most curious medulla oblongata, and this day and age is arguably experiencing its greatest shortage of true unrefined beauty. So sometimes I overdose.
I am not the only one.
Look around you (North America and similar) and you can see the public desire for nostalgic distraction. Superficial as it may be, it serves a purpose. We are for a moment lifted from the confines of an increasingly impersonal, anti-social and unimpressionable time and transported to a simpler, more tangible era. Archetypal butcher shops have recently struck a chord with the masses, emulating the old world trade, except for the prices. Even soap is now reborn a handmade item, in varietals that question necessity and often are mistaken for fresh-sliced fudge. And men only barbershops have made quite the comeback with the slick styles of post Depression era. With that palette, one requires a drink to pair. So our bars have taken to the classic cocktail list, Manhattans, Negronis and my personal favourite, Old Fashioneds…Sure why not, pun intended.
‘Vintage’ items pacify the yearnings for a connection with a moment in time long since extinct. Just look at recent design trends and you’ll easily see our obsession with ‘reclaimed’ wood furniture, feeding the desire to possess something with a story of its own. Or consider fashion, with its constant need to root itself in a past decade of style…as if unfounded within a vacuum of protected and confirmed originality, it would be without an anchor and float into insignificance.
How about music? CDs may be obsolete, though vinyl records (and their respective playing devices) have become rather popular among the young, urban and debatable hip. Vinyls being terribly impractical for today’s impatient and ravenous musical appetites, it seems quite ridiculous that it would spread like wildfire among the online generation.
But it has.
So the question is why? Why inconvenience ourselves with old methods of delayed satisfaction? The answer is simple; the old methods have a soul. When your CD skips or record crackles, you remember that it too, is mortal. Each scratch was made uniquely, at a moment in real time, whether by carelessness or by the wear and tear of age. And that is where you find the bond, between a thing and yourself. For, are we not but a tangible thing that carries with it its scars? And in my case, dents too. A thing that lived a life, displaying the toll taken by time well spent, choices reckless or not.
The human soul seeks comfort in things tangible, mortal; yet timeless…perhaps it’s our own desire to still be relevant somehow, when our time is done. By making fragments of history significant, we are protecting ourselves from the idea that our generation will be forgotten. Though in an ever more sterile world where the fruits of our labor result in invisible products, what enduring contributions do we have to offer inhabitants of the future?
Even our 21st century architecture and design lack that staying power. Meticulously crafted structures from civilizations long gone remain for hundreds, if not a thousand years. Their craftsmanship, detail and beauty unanimously deemed worthy of protection and praise. I ask, will our glass and steel boxes offer the same aesthetic pleasure? In our time, or in a few hundred years? Will they even be standing? The way construction is conducted these days, it appears that the demand for production and greed for profit sets a damning pace that does little to inspire confidence for longevity.
For these reasons and select others of our individual own, we cling to the last good souvenirs, for that is what they are. We long for the times that we lived to see, and in some ways more for the times we didn’t.
The danger is when we ask ourselves why? The answer is not pretty. The answer may hurt. Or at the very least, the answer will keep us from ever being fully present.
Sometimes I ruminate on this question a moment too long. Long enough that the euphoric high wears off and I see nostalgia for what it really is…
A masochistic preoccupation.
giselleandbeyond 
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