August 6, 2009

I've written a lot about change and the sensation of feeling young again these past six months. And I know they must be getting tiresome to read because as I click about them here I too am reminded by just how much I've referenced this connection to my youth. But, still I sit compelled to illustrate.

I equate youth with energy. The burden of bills and love loss and knowledge can eat away at that energy. That is why I celebrate these moments where I am truly carefree. When my troubles subside. Those moments, damn, how I feel young.

They continue. Perhaps this is what nostalgia is all about. Tapping into the electrical currents that long stopped transmitting signals. That went dead. That forgot how to charge.

In sequined pants and matching sequined vest. Wearing heavy eyeliner. Caked on even. Martin L. Gore stood in a spotlight commanding silence in a room filled with over ten thousand. He delivered a strained, yet emotive reading of one of my absolute favorite Depeche Mode songs, Home. And he looked weathered and frail. Yet in control. Wise. Beautiful in his decay.

Dave Gahan, on the other hand, who had a recent cancer scare, looked amazing. I work out at the same gym that he does and he lost a lot of weight since the last time I snapped an iPhone pick of him without his knowledge. His body is amazing, trim and toned. He strutted like a peacock and spun around like a top let loose from a child's hand. While on the treadmill this morning, my friend Joe, who shaved DM's logo into his head, remarked about Gahan's lack of connection with the crowd. And he was right. It was as if Gahan was performing in front of a mirror. He had fun and hit his notes and was full of energy. But it felt as if only he was in on it.

Gore, on the other hand, was there. Visible. Bruises. Wrinkles. Cole on his eyes. Sequined. Not, even after all these years, giving up on being the troubled songwriter. The lover of the dark and the light in equal measure. The art fag who writes poetry to blips and bleeps. Reminders of a time when it was cool to be effeminate. They're not even gay. They've just never left those times behind.

Those times I grew up in. And I stood there and danced there with Alireza and for two hours I was transported back to my childhood where the excitement of my first concert was as great as any rush that's come since. Merriweather Post Pavilion. Depeche Mode with Nitzer Ebb. Violator tour. A turning point in my musical education and another step towards growing up. I was back there again after all these years and it felt good.

While Depeche Mode's musical catalog has remained in my life some other relics of my childhood are long gone. Forgotten. Then I spoke to my friend Matthew briefly at the gym about this weekend's GI Joe movie. I worshipped GI Joe as a kid. I had every action figure. The comics. The cartoon. Obsessed I tell you. And in 1987 I put those toys down and have not really thought of them since. Until now.

It seems odd to me that I am just starting to dive into the toys I collected as a child. I have a toy collection for christ's sake, yet for some reason, I have not collected those toys. I am more concerned with obscure stuff. The artist dolls and kid robot one-offs and the toys I get whenever I travel. But last night online I spent hours looking at all the GI Joe action figures that I ever had. And again I was taken back to this place, a place where I would go to the toy store with my father every week to get a new figure.

I have few memories of my father. I remember the day he died. I remember some very clear moments leading up to his death. I remember his loud voice that carried across rooms unintentionally. I remember the way I was embarrassed and horrified by his voice and behavior. I remember my mother's tears. I remember wanting to escape.

So last night as I sat on my sofa looking at all these toys I remembered the happiness they gave me. I remember the joy it brought my father. I remember that my dad was loving and generous, at least for a time. And it made me miss him and think about him and remember him, which is something I do not do a lot.

I bought a GI Joe on eBay last night. The first of what will assuredly become many in yet a new obsession. It was Zandar. He has bright red hair. A pink scarf. Gold and electric blue clothes. Basically, he looks like I did through much of my twenties. And this collection of GI Joe action figures I am about to start obsessing over is going to be a way for me to remember my father. He wanted me to have these toys in 1983. Something tells me he'd still want me to have them now.

And Georgi is going to Bulgaria tomorrow. 12 days without my best friend. We've forged a unique and powerful bond in the last few months. The most intense friendship I've had in all my 33 years. Explosive. Charged. Full of currents and subtleties. So we're both sad about the separation. Like two high school girls. Pathetic. But in that cute way. At least I think it's cute, Probably makes you want to puke.

Songs of faith and devotion. Trinkets and dolls of the past. Teenage girl infatuation and love.

All part of my own very special fountain of youth. Finally I've found that I belong here.