Nostalgia is a malady of modernity as things recorded are able to be re-consumed over and over again ad nauseam. Yet, this appears to satisfy a wide swath of humanity who finds comfort in the familiar. To a new generation that lives in the immediacy of information at their fingertips, the novelty of the new is in constant flow and is ready to be tapped at their convenience. From this massive intellectual migration out of history to a form of homelessness as identified by not having a place people can return to, the deterritorialization of our species is evolving due to this separation of our social, cultural, and political practices. We are the epitome of the precariat, as we exist without predictability or security. Our collective identities are waking up to the bizarre reality that citizenship, culture, and customs are arbitrary fixations that serve the economy more than they serve the heart and soul of an individual.

It feels as if nostalgia draws me into the confinement of not getting out of my own past and so I need to practice letting go of those strings that hold me to that past. Recently, we were supposed to travel to Los Angeles, California, to see the band Nitzer Ebb, who we’d last seen perform back in 1991. Instead of incurring even more costs, we decided at the last minute to eat the price of the tickets and take a pass on digging into what was amazing to us some 30 years ago.

A couple of nights ago, it happened again after we arrived at a small venue in Phoenix where we were supposed to take in the Legendary Pink Dots. We walked in while the first act was performing but decided to head out to the patio instead. The second act was a solo artist who helped usher us back down the road before the headliner ever took the stage. The worst part of the night was watching the audience and getting confronted with scenesters and the ubiquitous black uniform that is de rigor for alternative culture. There is no novelty left in warmed-up memories that are better left fading in the background.

So, how about those old books I still own? Are they reminders of places I’ve been, or could I possibly ever read them again? We have DVDs gathering dust on shelves because, at one time, they were favorites that we felt changed our outlook or perception of aesthetics. Over the last twenty-odd years, I’ve not been able to bring myself to watch one of them; as a matter of fact, I recoil at the idea of listening to dialogs that never seem very far from my memories. As I’ve shared with many a person, Gilligan’s Island is never far from my mind’s eyes and ears and now I curse that show I watched so often back in the early 1970s.

I’m disconnected from my own generation, my parent’s generation, and, for the most part from the Millennials too. I’ve always abhorred conformity and ritual where growth is not the intended consequence of the endeavor. As a whole, we are boring people with isolated instances of genius, creativity, inspiration, and purpose. We function on the margin where our humanity is sacrificed for the benefit of the few, and then we gawk at the spectacle of those who crack under the immense pressure of divorcing greater purpose for the convenience of existence.

To paraphrase William S. Burroughs, changes can only be brought about by altering the original. Copies are part of a virus that repeats itself word for word, thought for thought. I desire to be more than a copy of who I was at 20, 30, 40, 50, or 60. The original must be torn asunder and reassembled, taking elements and cutting them up with the alien, strange, and unfamiliar. We must crush our tendency to find the nostalgia in who we were just yesterday and embrace a strong evolution to find what is new in tomorrow.

I’d like to make Frankfurt Green Sauce (Grüne Soße), but I cannot find the following fresh herbs for sale in America: salad burnet, sorrel, chervil, cress, and borage. While fresh Wagyu beef can be purchased across Japan, you’ll have to order it frozen online here in the States. Back in 2011, Caroline and I enjoyed a small wheel of Cendré de Lune or Ashes of the Moon cheese (a variety of brie) in Canada, and while it was one of the most magnificent cheeses we’ve ever experienced, it’s not allowed to be sold in the U.S. Visit Hungary and indulge your palate on some Mangalitsa pork, then ask your local grocery store to get some for you. Need some goose fat? You’ll be ordering that from France or the United Kingdom because you won’t find it on these shores. Maybe your recipe calls for some Crème Fraîche or Quark? I hope you have a local German store else you’ll likely be purchasing online from a company like the Vermont Creamery, which is one of the very few companies I can find in America that makes these products.

I used to think that America was the place where everything was possible and readily available, where our future was as big as the country is wide. Now, I look at Groningen, Utrecht, and Amsterdam in the Netherlands and how they are re-engineering their cities to be more accommodating to bicycles while cars are pushed to the edges of town. In Germany, the first bicycle highway is under construction, with ten cities being connected via a 100-kilometer (62-mile) stretch of road far away from cars. It goes without saying that the rail systems in Europe, Japan, and even China all make our aging rail infrastructure look like we haven’t progressed in 50 years. Oh yeah, that’s because we haven’t.

We have some amazing food in America, but it’s largely relegated to a dozen major metropolitan areas where restaurants that are not franchises can still exist if you are willing to pay for quality. I suppose it’s the same for nature where our bigger cities have incredible parks, but we can’t afford much more than a few trees, a small playground, a dog run, and if you are lucky, some lights for an evening stroll.

Last month, I wanted to sample some fountain pens before purchasing a new one. One might think that in the fifth-largest city in America, I’d find one pen shop, nope. While in the Frankfurt airport earlier this year, I stopped in the Montblanc pen shop but realized I wasn’t in the mood to drop $700 to $1500 on a new fountain pen. In the relatively small town of Weimar, Germany, with a population of 65,542, I had two shops to choose from (I considered various pens and ultimately bought one).

Maybe this is the way it’s supposed to be as we crash into the cultural phenomenon of diminished attention spans, accelerated time, and competition with the infinity of digital media that demands everything is done fast. Franco “Bifo” Berardi is likely right in his postulation that we have forsaken our ability to allow our senses to elaborate on what it means to indulge in quality and meaning. Slowing down must surely be a sign of mental illness because who has the time to nourish their soul? The funny thing is, it is the wealthy who still hold fast to the essence of luxury, where to enjoy something means taking one’s time to savor the indulgence.

Caroline and I are well aware of our obsession with the speed of information and the rapidity that which knowledge can flow into our lives, and yet we are also very alert to the fact that our senses are only truly satisfied when we are lingering on a quiet beach on the Oregon coast, rafting through a deep canyon in Croatia, touching the inner silk lining of a bagworm cottage, or tasting something as uncommon as Szechuan duck tongue. Reading a book, exploring a modular Eurorack synthesizer, or spinning yarn with a drop spindle are also ways we slow down. In this sense, we are able to explore the luxury experienced by the fantastically wealthy who can afford to give their time over to their passions.

Photo: Mangalitsa pig ears and tails being used to make pork broth.

Heading out this morning, I saw my first sign of fall with the leaves turning yellow and brown. It’s a bit confusing, therefore, that in the late afternoon, we can hear the buzz of cicadas, which is a sure sign that summer is still here. Yet the mornings are starting to cool and are in stark contrast to the daily highs that were in the 100s just a week or two ago. Up in Flagstaff, Arizona, they saw snow a week ago, and in Montana just yesterday, they had 4 feet of snow or 122 centimeters of the freezing stuff.

The summer is fading fast with the passing of the equinox as autumn starts to make itself known. Somehow, this is reflected in my headspace as I’ve been taking a pause from writing and playing with making music. I shouldn’t be too surprised by my creative desert as my modus operandi has typically been one of intense focus at the expense of all else. With my current diet and weight loss urgency, I’ve had all of my senses tuned to working on extending the summer of my life instead of giving into the fall.

Being consumed by novel tasks is one of the drugs that have always consumed me, but here, at this later stage of life, I see the imperative to work towards the habituation of healthy practices. Hopefully, the old maxim about being better late than never can still be realized by this man of oft bad habits. Trying to find a balance, I have to remember not to neglect my attempts at practicing the creativity I’m able to express, as losing that would be as dire as losing a limb.

Maybe it was the yellowing leaves on the sidewalk acting as a reminder of time passing that inspired me to jot down some thoughts today. Or maybe there’s a quiet urgency within me that’s afraid of allowing the creative embers to go cold. So, I force myself to write as a method of throwing kindling into the mind so the fire might roar back to life. Whatever it was, I cannot sit idly by as fall portends winter and that season is a forlorn space with a pallor that threatens to chill the sparks I need to stay warm.