Christmas in May

Time to face facts folks. I’m starting to get old. Not that I’m feeling too decrepit or anything. Physically, I’m still in my prime.

👌

It seems, though, that I’m moving further and further out of time.

What do I mean? We’ll, it’s my hobbies, my taste in music, my politics – they all mark me out as a bit of a dinosaur, apparently.

Nossir, neither rock music, nor arcade video games, not an unstintingly egalitarian and social democratic approach to equality and fairness appear to be en vogue at the moment. Urrgh. Can you imagine the black and white tragedy of my formative years?

Well, yoof of today, I’ve got news for you. I grew up in 625 lines of colour, not in the past, but on the edge of the future. Things were exciting, with the promise of getting better. We had 2000 AD, Zzap 64, Star Wars, Star Trek, action hero adventures, New Romantic music, heavy metal, Citadel Miniatures, and the Video Arcade. How about you put that in your vape and ‘smoke’ it?

I have some surprisingly vivid memories of those early years – of people, places, stuff that I did: things that happened almost half a century ago! If I can find a calm space, I can conjour up the world from when I was three. I don’t remember that I was three, but the detail means that I must have been.

If I’m honest with myself, what I’m actually channeling are memories of memories from a long time ago. And they survive, in my head, as isolated vignettes – a bit like wee reels of film.

Inevitably, I suppose, some of them are getting a bit worn and faded. But sometimes, a scent or sight will bring them springing back to life – extending the scene to the world outside the frame.

In terms of my recollections of The Before Times, that’s basically where I’m at: Shelves full of film. My worry is that as more and more of them get added at one side, others will get pushed off the other!

I’m not the first person to think about memories like this. A slightly more paranoid version of my story was brought to the big screen by the director Ridley Scott in his 1982 adaptation of Phillip K. Dick’s novel, Blade Runner. In between wowing us with its stylised, dystopian cityscapes, Blade Runner explores the question of what it is to be human.

Cherished memories play an important part in our conception of ‘self’. In the movie, those feelings are externalised, with the replicants clinging onto memories like polaroids. They feel these are what makes them human. But their memories aren’t real. In some cases, all they have are the polaroids.

It doesn’t really matter, though. Regardless of whether we’re dealing with actual polaroids, or a series of brief video recordings, the replicants’ repository of memories have been curated by their creators in the Weyland Corporation.

I’m pretty sure I’m not a replicant. And I reckon I can sleep soundly in the knowledge that my memories are real. But I do have a few that burn suspiciously brightly. I’ve written about 1976 before. I have another recurring memory from 1977, or maybe the year after. Either way, I’m fairly certain it reflects an early morning in May – a day when I woke up so brimming with joy and excitement, I was convinced that something special was about to happen, that it must have been Christmas. It wasn’t. But more about that later.

I’m not a religious person. I have issues with organised religion, which not so long ago would have been seen as progressive. Not so much now 😢

What I am happy to indulge in, however, is a bit of spiritual speculation. What if this isn’t our first paper round? What if we’ve spun round this mortal coil before? Maybe dozens of times? Maybe hundreds? And if we do slot back in again after we’ve taken our allotted spin round the block, when does it happen? Right back at the start? Somewhere a bit further down the track?

For me, the point of re-entry would have to be that ancient May morning. Why? I’ve written a poem about it. Enjoy!

Awake!

Rich, bright sunshine glows through the curtains.

It’s early.

Everyone else is asleep.

I’m not. My senses are alive.

They attune to the patterns, to the colours –

With a growing sense of joy.

Why?

Is it a special day? Is it Christmas?

Excitement grows.

It must be Christmas!

Maybe there’ are presents downstairs?

I must find out.

Downstairs, there are no people.

There are no presents. Just the usual things.

Peeking through the heavy curtains I see,

It’s just another day.

Excitement fades.

Parents appear, tired but smiling.

The day begins.