The Echoes of a Forgotten Place

I really just wanted to write tonight but I didn't know what I wanted to write about. Asking some people close to me came up unyielding, so I turned my sights to google and still nothing struck me as intriguing. Then I remembered a FaceBook post I composed many years ago; 2014 to be exact. It has a tone of nostalgia looking upon places that you may or may not have participated in its purpose.

After doing some digging through 9 years of posts; I was finally able to dig it up. The following is the post directly copy and pasted.

Have you ever had the fleeting feeling? You know, that feeling when looking at an empty stage, a lonely sports field, or perhaps even a deserted park or building. Almost like the energy of the place was as much gone as it ever contained? It's like when you move out of a house you have lived in for years. As you look around one last time, all of the memories flood through your brain, heart, and soul. You remember the games you played and the struggles you've endured. You think about the fingerprint that place left on you, and you on it. What is it about a stage, field, park, or abandoned building? How many lives have those edifices touched, altered, even shaped? Who was the last person to dance on that stage, cross home plate, or close that door for the last time? Moreover, why did these places die? Why did they slip from the imaginations of men and women alike? Why was the door closed for the final time? Hmm... I wonder. Are these places really "dead" or are they domiciles of memory? Perhaps a pail of faded smiles and dried eyes. Hmm, I think I'll always behold a fleeting feeling when looking upon places such as these, but with a sweeter taste in my mouth; for these lonely places, at least at one time were filled with beautiful human energy, and that, my friends, is pretty special.

I've been reading it over and over again, because I'm really surprised that my 24 year old self had that kind of thought, because let's face it 24 year old men can be pretty dense sometimes. So I think in the following sections I would like to revisit and perhaps expand on that particular train of thought.

A wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition. This is the Webster Dictionary definition for nostalgia, you will also find the word "homesick" related to the defintion.

That seems like a fine definition to me.However, I don't think it perfectly encapsulates the overall tone of the post that I was originally attempting to convey. I think the word wistful could more closely attach itself to the post.

I'll admit, that out of context, I couldn't really define the word wistful to myself, but what a beautiful word it is. I'm curious to know what you all picture in your mind's eye when you first read or hear that word. For me I have this kind of blurry grey and green picture of a stoney forest contrasted by wispy silvery sparkles flitting around the foreground. Yes, indeed a beautiful word.

It means full of yearning or desire tinged with melancholy

also : inspiring such yearning

Since 24 year old Benjamin decided to look at these fleeting spaces with a silver lining; I'd like to honor his vow by leaning into the alternate definition. Inspiring such yearning.

Yearning, what a strange feeling. To me it's like reaching out for something that you can't quite see, but you know it must be there. In my minds eye it seems like a blurry image that I'm trying to adjust the focus on. Yet, no matter how I try; clarity is just out of reach.

My first time experiencing this feeling was after the final game of the final little league season of my life. We went on to win that game and clinched first place, that meant that all those gleaming trophies that had been perched on a park bench-table just west of the home team dugout were ours. One of them was mine. All  mine. I felt a sense of pride and accomplishment that I had never felt in my previous 12 years of life. It was particularly sweet because I had the same Head coach during all of my little league career, and my own father was the assistant coach during that entire span. We had more bad seasons than great seasons, we even had a season where we only won a single regular season game.

This year was different, and we knew it from day one of practice. We had the talent, we had the leadership, and perhaps most importantly we had comradery. This team was like a brotherhood, and we were clicking on all facets of the game. Yes. This season was different, we lost a game, but only one.

So after all of the excitement of the trophy ceremony, and roar of congratulations, hand-shakes, hugs, and tears I found myself sitting alone at that very table where those trophies once shown so bright. It felt somehow emptier. As I looked onto the field I realized that my teammates and I would never compete on that field again. I thought of my 8 year old self who once fielded and ground ball in right field, then froze. I had no idea where to throw the ball, so the runners just kept rounding the bases. I eventually threw it in to the second basemen, but the damage was already done. I felt so small.

Then I thought about how this very day I had caught the final fly-ball, for the final out, of the final inning, of the final game I'd ever play on that field. That out clinched first place for my team. Finally! Boy was that cool! It was also the most final experience I had ever had.

I spent a few more minutes contemplating the years. All the laughs and tears, all the triumphs and failures. Then I accepted it for what it was and moved on with my summer.

The second time I had this kind of feeling, my friend and I were 17; we had snuck into this long abandoned house with a cold 30-pack of beer, and a fresh pack of smokes. It was gonna be a good night. As we drank and smoked a few we decided to explore the bottom level of the house.

It was dirty and coated with spider webs, yet it seemed relatively intact. Especially in comparison to the main level of the "once home." I still remember wondering why this place had been abandoned. I mean surely this place once homed people. People full of life, emotion, and personal purpose. Now, T'was but a simple sanctuary for a couple of teens trying to escape temporarily from the rest of the world.

Eventually we were scared off by what we were certain was a ghost; that was most assuredly haunting the house, all though, I'm now fairly certain it was a stray cat.

Later that night I lay awake trying to picture that house when it was very first constructed. What a different existence it must have been then, oppose to what it had become. I had a strange feeling, and that is when I remembered the baseball field.

This piece of writing is getting more lengthy than I originally intended so I'm going to try to wrap it up with another word.

Perception.

Please take a moment now to scroll back to the top of this page and consider the featured image. Take a few seconds, and think about how it makes you feel.

Some may say it's an eye-sore, or that it's scary, I see beauty hiding in the rubble. I picture A woman in a beautiful sparking dress, keying the piano and stunning an on-looking crowd into silence with a vocal display of song. Eventually leading into the type of applauds that induce goosebumps.

Perhaps that's because of the promise that 24 year old Benjamin made to himself. Perhaps not.

Perception is one's reality, but one's reality isn't always another's perception.

As always, thanks for reading.

Average Benjamin,

signing off.