Things and nostalgia

It's strange sometimes how we desperately hang onto material things, even the most trivial things we can be sure we are never going to find use for again in our life. It completely beats logic. Or does it? Well, I think we unconsciously are counting on these objects as mnemonic aids. We are aware of how fragile and ephemeral our memory often is. These objects may be important links in our intricate memory network, and the most insignificant object may trigger associations and marvelous trips down memory lane. So those objects may not mean anything to us per se, but we may be aware of there importance in keeping some souvenirs intact or their potential for bringing back memories we think are long lost.

I am a sucker for remembrances. Not because I don't like my life right now or because I would like to return to the past. Rather because I see myself as nothing more, nothing less than a human body with a sense of identity that is based on an accumulation of life experiences. And if traces of some of these experiences are to be found at the back of my mind, others have shaped me without me being able to recognize them anymore. And I would like to understand all of them, the best I can, in order also to better understand the present. Then, some of them are of such nature that they still warm you.

This is the only reason I can find to explain why I have been storing:

• A receipt for the payment of my rent from 1990 where my name is atrociously misspelled. When I look at this receipt I am reminded of my not so dear landlady of the time, all the drama involved with that flat where the roof used to leak every time we got a good rainfall, the toilet would overflow each time it encountered bowels of a good consistency, and the door could be peeked through. That lady, Madame Félix, stole my money, stole my belongings and screwed me in every way, but it was a very valuable lesson for me to stop expecting strangers to be truthful and honest. I paid her 26 months of rent and got just as many receipts. Each of them had a different spelling of my name, none of which however was ever correct. This also taught me that it’s not because people don’t give the appearance of being smart that they won’t have a nose for business.
  
  
• A faded registry slip from the supermarket INNO. On the back of it, I had scribbled the menu of the party I threw for my 30th birthday. And I am suddenly reminded of my preparations, the people I invited and friends who used to be.
  
  
• An announcement letter for a conference I took part in. The letter reminds me not of the lectures or of the venue but more of a couple of people I hooked up with there and became close friends with.
  
  
• A study book of arithmetic for children, that I had when I was 4. No, such a book does not serve as a reference for theoretical matters, but when I open it I am vividly reminded of how much I enjoyed filling it out and how thrilled I was by all the discoveries made and how exciting my first contact with the world of mathematics was.
  
  
• A program of activities for the students of the CAVILAM language center. And I think of the social center we used to have, where we would do buffets, dances and other social gatherings, the excursions we made in the French countryside, the “Petit Robinson” discotheque right on the beach from where I would once climb out the window to go flirt with a boy, the English, older lady, Mary, who went to class with us and whose eyes would not stop pouring tears when we came back from seeing “Au revoir les enfants” at the cinema, our football club that we once accompanied to a little village to cheer it, and Tour de France was passing through.

I could go on. But how can I justify not getting rid of these insignificant, worthless things. And how can I actually justify throwing them away, along with everything they engender.