Nostalgia...

... for Knots in the String.

“The return to analogue, the current obsession with pre-algorithmic internet culture, the desire for “realness” in an age of AI and synthetic slop could all be reflective gestures - attempts to slow down, to reconnect, to feel grounded again. Or maybe they are early tangible signs of something harder, and less benign.

I suppose the question isn’t why we are seeing this rise of nostalgia. Perhaps we should be asking exactly what kind we are being pulled toward.”

On Nostalgia

Goodness! How ambiguously sinister that sounds!

And here was me thinking that liking 1960’s-70’s fashion, my parents’ music, recipes from my childhood, memories of my husband’s and my lives, letters, old TV programmes and so forth was perfectly satisfying, harmless behaviour. It feels wonderful to share nostalgic reminiscence with family and friends. Life is built within a framework of memories, and they can be as strong as steel, as clear as crystal and as valuable as diamonds. Just this week, my friend Pan and I sat on the beach recalling the fun we’ve had over the years. She’s been so ill and was so determined to swim. My point is the recollection, the evident nostalgia, gave us joy and made a good time even better.

Do you think it’s a bad thing to recall times past?

Nostalgia: affectionate and often sentimental feeling experienced when remembering past times, places, and experiences, especially those with happy personal associations. The feeling may also connote a desire to return to past times and places or wishing that they could be experienced again. Britannica

I would say that through nostalgia, we’re perhaps trying to find ourselves. Lanterns and all…

I enjoy the old fashioned way – gardening, flower arrangement, embroidery, now painting, things that smack of complete nostalgia. Dad and Mum took so much pride in the gardens they nurtured and I learned by osmosis. Mum asked if I would like to learn flower-arranging when I was eleven and I thought it sounded wonderful – a skill that means little these days, but I learned balance, colour and form and even now, will always measure a stem before placing it in a vase, will eye off the form of driftwood for a rudimentary Ikebana.

I also went to art classes as a teenager on a Saturday afternoon. I remember the building in Launceston, the top end of Charles Street, the afternoon winterlight shining through the windows onto the table. Perhaps it was there that the seeds of a lifelong interest in art were sown.

So is such nostalgia bad? Gosh, I hope not because I hanker for so much that was good from the past. It helps me put the jigsaw that is me together, and keep it together.

I believe in old-fashioned etiquette. I’m quite happy when a man gives me his seat or opens a door for me, when men stand when a woman enters a room. I like having a handle – I am a Mrs. I will accept Ms – but I don’t like it, nostalgic as I am. Nor do I like it when a male acquaintance refers to me as ‘mate’. I am most definitely not his mate. I am Prue. Or Mrs. Batten. Respect is a welcome thing and goes a long way and it’s rather special to find people with manners, with knowledge of etiquette. Does anyone write a thank you letter these days, or a condolence, a congratulatory message? On writing paper? Or is it a swift email with an emoji. OMG – give me nostalgia for the way we were!

When I was young, I would go to the cinema, what we would called ‘the pictures’, and before the film began we would stand for the National Anthem – God Save the Queen in those days. Respect for our awe-inspiring late Queen. These days we barely go to the cinema, and we show our respect for our monarchy privately.

When I walk along the river now, I can recall the clinker-built fishing boats swinging on their moorings. Remember too, lying in bed and hearing that same fishing fleet (perhaps 4 or 5 large wooden vessels) leaving at dawn with their diesel engines quietly thrumming. Later on, having loved Mrs. Miniver, I would imagine a Dunkirk flotilla in those diesel motors. I would drift back to sleep on my soft mattress with the dip in the middle, snuggling down into sweet-smelling cotton sheets, checked woolen blankets and a pale green, Sanderson-style floral eiderdown. Crisp, clear childhood memories. I fail to see how such recollection can be sinister.

If we choose to visit brocantes and thrift shops, market days and car-boot sales and we buy retro goods that spark joyful memories, isn’t that a good thing? Does it not contribute to the creation of a history. Does it not give newer generations an appreciation of what was? After all, these younger ones are most often the purchasers of those memories. Good on them, I say.

If it means learning of happier, safer times, does that not soothe their worried souls, give them strength when they need it? Why should they be subjected to nothing but darkness and the high voltage stress of a world going awry, day after day?

I remember my son and daughter loving the stories their dad would tell them of his adventures as a child. Now, it’s our grandson who wants to hear the stories and if he chooses to indulge in his own journey toward nostalgia as he grows older, I won’t criticise. I will see it as a perpetuation of all that was good and can perhaps be good again.

I live in hope…

Other things:

I ran into a cousin I haven’t seen for at least 10 years. I would love to have had the time for us to walk down Memory Lane. We shared a childhood together, despite our 8 year age gap and he was a favourite cuz. He’s such a lovely looking man with beautiful grey hair and he reminds me so much of his dad the artist, my uncle, of whom I was so fond. There! You see? Nostalgia, memories. It’s hard to separate the two. And should we anyway?

*

I read this Substack

From Commotion to Calm

and it really resonated. ‘I still liked people. I just liked them best one at a time. Occasionally seated. Ideally, with an end time.’ Fabulous admission. I feel the same.

*

I’ve spent time painting. But even better, I’ve been writing and have written myself out of the first hole. A brilliant feeling when that happens. Thank you, Annie! (She’s a very multi-faceted character) and that brings me to another review for Act III. This time from the UK – ‘A real tour de force! I practically inhaled the ballet elements … (Batten) brought them to life so vividly. The detail of the training and rehearsal and dedication was wonderful. As was the depiction of Richard and Annie’s relationship. So delicate and so bittersweet.’

Oh yum! I’m so happy with that!

But like I said last week: this writer suffers from lack of self-belief. Nevertheless, this writer also loves creating a story, which is why she feels so happy when she’s knee-deep in words and her favourite characters.

*

Just as an aside, I used all the Q-Less tiles at breakfast the other day and again the next day! I think I’ve only done it maybe four times in a month!

*
Whilst waiting for ballet class to begin again after a 6 week school holiday break and afraid of becoming too stiff and sore, I’ve gradually begun to introduce ballet exercises to my day, culminating in a full online class today. The class was so good, I’ll keep doing it so that I have two ballet classes a week. I’m very excited about the flexibility it can give me - either at the cottage or if I have to be in the city I can switch it on there. I used the online class between ballet schools when looking for a Seniors Class and also during Covid. It kept the joints and ligaments oiled which paid off.

I recalled this week how when I knew I was to have major surgery, I set myself a fitness target over a 7 week period. It involved ocean swimming, uphill walking, beach walking and between 11000 and 12000 steps a day. My son suggested it to give me the best possible chance of mending from such mammoth surgery. It paid off, despite the hiccup requiring a second operation. And I realised I’ve probably never been as fit as before I went into hospital in 2024 as a 72 year old. Now, at 74, I’m going to do it again over 7 weeks and see how fit I can become. Time will tell…

*

I read and re-read Tom Ryan’s poignant and beautiful piece. Synchronous in a way, as when I’m hurt and sore of heart, all I want are the outside spaces where my feet can fall gently and I can breathe away distress. I suspect Mary Oliver may show me the way…

When We Needed It Most, Mary Oliver Sent Us a Fox

*

For any of my American friends can I refer you to the wonderful Ramona Grigg who says it as it is, who is unashamedly anti- Trumpism, who fights from the heart. I’m so in awe of her.

It's Americans vs. Anti-Americans Now

* This has been the week of Australia Day, the day we celebrate our nation and sing its praises. If one is fervently nationalistic (and for that, read whatever you like), one will fly the flag, be deliberately blinkered on such things as multiculturalism, and drive round with flags hanging off one’s vehicles, yelling for migrants to go home.

For my husband and myself, we quietly celebrated democracy and equality for all. We don’t need a coloured bit of fabric flying to believe in the country in which we live; in fact, we have a Japanese carp kite on our small flagpole. So on the 26^th, we celebrated our nation by having an Australia Day meal of curry with a spicy orange chutney (homemade) and a mango chutney to honour our multicultural nation, followed by a homemade berry pavlova (pavlova – the quintessential Australian dessert). As we ate, we hoped our country manages to steer clear of the mess outside its borders and indeed manages to maintain our Australian ethos which is so unique. This week we heard that Canada’s Mark Carney is to visit Australia in March and to speak in our Parliament. That can only bode well…

Song this week? A nostalgic one, of course! To celebrate our nation…

PS:

As a final postscript, our little Womble is in hospital today after getting a bite from a paralysis tick (rife on the coast this summer). He has a weakened gag reflex and can’t drink so he is sedated, has a drip and is being given anti-paralysis meds. We hope to collect him this evening. We had spoken to the emergency vet overnight and we had to check his neuro signs every hour. By the time we left to travel the hour to the vet’s at 7.30 this morning, he was exhausted from being prodded and we were tired from prodding. When we took him to the vet, he looked a little stunned as he sat in the receptionist’s chair. Little did the poor darling boy know what was coming. He is in the best place.