Hidden memories

As I have no doubt gone about many a time on this blog - memory is an extraordinary thing, in particular, why and how certain moments in life are preserved.

Mark recently borrowed the entire works of Pink Floyd (box set the size of . . . well, a small shoe box) from the music library. I am not au fait with the earlier works apart from a rather super-ly titled song, 'Careful with that Axe Eugene' that featured on an album Mum acquired at some point called Relics. But of course I am very familiar with all the later stuff that was so commercially successful - Animals, Wish You were Here, and of course Dark Side of the Moon.
It was a joy to hear this re-mastered version: somewhat different to my old creaky, ash-stained vinyl edition.
Going back to the memory thing . . . On hearing this part of the album, I suddenly had a vivid recollection of sitting with Mum (think I would have been about twelve) in some velvet-clad basement in the centre of London listening to this track as it zoomed in and out of four speakers, and a be-suited man leapt about telling her about the benefits of Quadrophonic Sound. Something, that Mark pointed out when I told him of this recollection, in fact lasted for a squintesimal amount of time once people realised you had to sit stock still in the middle of the room rather than doing the washing up.
The really odd thing is why we were there. Mum was poverty struck enough that buying a pot of marmite was a very serious consideration.
Anyway, I was left with a desire to go and buy the album and play it to death on our very old and crap record player - which I/we did.
Well worth a re-listen if you haven't heard it for years, especially for all the marvellously morose lines such as 'Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way' or 'ten years have got behind you; no-one told you when to run'.

Being on the planet

For the first time in eight years I am not part of the Carnaval in Limoux.
I quit my band 'Les Droles' last year as I could see the year was going to be busy. I was there, as Mark was, when the band formed and we always felt honoured to be in it as 'etrangers'. I think we might have been the first English folks or possibly any nationality other than French to be in one of the Carnaval groups of Limoux.
I've just been down to the town to witness a couple of 'tours'. How did I feel? Misplaced? regretful? Not really, more of a witnesser than usual though, but the connection was still there. I was humming the tunes, doing the dance internally; pleased to be covered liberally in confetti and even more pleased to be told that the band missed me.
The Carnaval of Limoux really is for the people of the town. Tourists come and go; people new to the town go religiously every weekend for a year or so, and an occasional TV crew turn up to film the proceedings for an end slot on the national news. But it's the locals who are there, year in year out, whether they are part of a band or not.
On my walk home I started thinking about roots - our connection to the planet. I can imagine living here for the rest of our lives, but possibly elsewhere too. The sea is always a temptation . . .
Where are my roots? I've moved so many times it's difficult to say now. I have great affection for London, where I was born, but to live there now . . . think I'd miss the hills and open space too much, despite the plethora of galleries, theatres, and other wonderful distractions.
I've lived here longer than anywhere else now. The house is too full of stuff, the garden too full of our hours of work to contemplate leaving. So are these now our roots? I wonder when Ezra leaves to go and do whatever he eventually chooses, will he look on this town as his home town, having spent his childhood here, despite being English by parentage.
I can't imagine a life of being in the same place always, but it must be comforting in many ways to feel you utterly belong somewhere; not needing so see new horizons - January = Carnaval. All the traditions and rituals held in place, same as last year and the year before; the same as it was in childhood, same in the parents' childhoods, back in time, generations of Limouxines.
I can remember when Mark and I were sitting in the Grand Café about ten years ago, having recently moved in. I said, "Can you imagine living here forever?" His reply . . . "God no . . . " Ten years on we are happily established here and the thought of moving on seems unlikely. Life seems to go like that: what's the phrase in Dark Side of the Moon . . . ten years have got behind you . . .