Backward-Looking Angel

What is it about spring that brings on the backward-looking melancholy? As soon as the weather turns warm, my thoughts turn to the past, to friends who have long since passed out of my life, of places where many happy hours of my youth were (mis)spent, places where magic happened, places that are gone.

I am not the only one with this obsession--it seems to be a topic by which writers have long been consumed. Not only have entire novels been written on this theme, but one of the longest ever written is titled (depending on how you translate it) Remembrance of Things Past or In Search of Lost Time. Either way, the past is a problem. Why do we artistic types obsess about things we are powerless to change, about places to which we can never return? Is it the place itself, or is it the person we were in that place at that time? Proust spent many years and thousands of pages trying to find the answer, so why should I have any great insight?

Lack of self-confidence and trust in my own decision-making abilities are the culprits with me, I fear. I am always second guessing myself--kicking myself for not taking advantage of certain situations. Late at night before I drift off to sleep, I wonder what would have happened if I had said “yes” instead of “no” (in my case, it’s never about regretting having said “yes,” it’s always about turning things down) in the back of that car at 4 a.m. on a deserted street (in L.A., in N.Y., in Chicago). I have, time and again, told myself that the gut instinct at the time was correct, that no was indeed the correct answer. But if that is true, why am I haunted by the might-have-beens?

There are the times (long past) that seemed so magical. That night at the Stone Pony when Southside Johnny played with Graham Parker, and Springsteen showed up to jam on Creedence and Aretha. The time at The Bayou when he showed up with Robbin Thompson (I came out of the bathroom and almost walked right into him). The time I saw Gillian Welch at a tiny venue out in the woods of Virginia, when her mesmerizing performance of “Long Black Veil” seemed to call forth all the lost souls, to speak to the backward-looking angels in all of us…

There are the places (long gone) where I was so happy--the record stores where I bought the music that literally saved my life. The Sears where I would run in after catechism class on Saturdays to buy the latest hot 45 for 99 cents. Yesterday and Today Records, where I would obsessively leaf through each rack of vinyl, hoping to find some brand new bootleg no one else had noticed. Kemp Mill Records in Georgetown, where I bought my first X album. Penguin Feather Records, where I would spend hours combing the aisles for obscurities, the hippie owners too stoned to care. Kramerbooks & Records, where I hustled down the next day to leaf through the Brian Eno LPs after having read in the Post that Bruce had been there the day before…Main Street Records, where the sales clerk generously fronted me 25 cents so I could buy The River (which I had forgotten was a double album) the day it came out, where I spent countless Saturday mornings fingering the records, desperately trying to drive away the heartache and loneliness…

Places that are gone. The Bayou, where every band worth seeing used to play. The old 9:30 Club, where the hipster New Wavers hung out amongst the rats and cockroaches. The Key Theater, where I went to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show (for the umpteenth time) in my prom dress. Windsor McKay’s, where they had “Rosalita” on the jukebox (and the only place in town where Bruce was friendly enough with the owners to drop by when he was in town). The Ontario Theater, where I missed seeing The Clash ‘cause I was too scared to go by myself…

Decisions regretted, a “no” that should have been “yes”…When will I learn to say “yes” at the right time? When will I look forward instead of back? When will I stop obsessing over things I cannot change, over memories that haunt me, over places that are gone?…