Going back to your past in dreams comes closest. Dreams are always different than the past reenacted, but sometimes the emotional context can be approximated. Indeed, the memory of an emotion experienced in a dream is something more profound than the memory of the mere event.
In my case, it was the emotional intensity of dreaming being back at the campus at Notre Dame seen through the eyes of a freshman. The immensity of it. Of course the feeling is shrunk now even in a dream. Desiccated. The dream of my past emotion at Notre Dame was the sensation that the other students had so many more answers. Whether I was in the dining hall, in the small parties in rooms that were permitted by the rigid alcohol policy, or in the back of cars, I was a spectator in awe of all the conversations around me. As if I were living on a planet where everyone was privy to a secret agreement that I was not part of and could not participate in.
I don't feel that way anymore. And probably haven't felt that way in years. Now I live on the same planet as everyone else. And the only secret agreements are those that are kept secret from everyone. There are no more mysteries--at least not with people. I'm more of less just like everyone else. Yawn.
Back at Notre Dame, I heard about the story associated with the dude whom the residence hall I stayed in at Notre Dame was named after ("Howard Hall"). Howard was his last name, I don't remember his first name. He lived in the 19th Century I think. The story went that Mr. Howard was socially awkward and into poetry. One day a woman shook him out of his revere. As if he were living in an isolated upstairs bedroom and the chick was down in the front yard throwing rocks up to disturb him. After she did that, he evidently took to her and they married and lived together happily ever after. I'm sure there was more to the story. Likely, she was just coming off a bad relationship and he was a nice safe guy. Or his family had a lot of money. (Clue--a residence hall at Notre Dame was named after him). Still the story resonated with me at the time--as if I were waiting for a headstrong girl to overcome my shyness and show an interest in me. Unless I misremember, no one ever did. At least not at that time. I was still living on another planet. A planet that lacked artificial raspberry flavoring made from desiccated beaver anal glands.
And indeed, maybe it was the lack of beavers during my formative years that caused me to be so alienated. Just when I thought that I was biting into that piece of raspberry flavored dark chocolate, it turned out that was I was really biting into was beaver anus, or specifically, raspberry flavor extracted from the gland next to a beavers anus. For now I know that beavers mark their territory by secreting pungent scents from their behinds. But unlike Fido's odors, the fragrance of beavers has been prized by perfumers for centuries. Extracts of its secretions are thought to have put the punch in many famous eaux de toilette, from Chanel to Shalimar. And, as the urban legend goes, are used to mimic the flavors of raspberries and other fruit berries in candies and chocolates. I think this explains much of my salad days with raspberry vinaigrette dressing.
Mr. Beaver drinks too much wine a the rotary party, the hot bag of what?, and the new berlin winery which is becoming increasingly accessible by bike
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