Some people walk down memory lane when they go through their boxes of old personal letters. Or even business letters. Some people go through their boxes of toys and discover among the dust and popped out screws memories of screaming little kids, friends long lost. Some people make it easier for their brains and go through photo albums, relatives who no longer are around, maybe even that photo of a long lost love they haven't torn up during the breakup.
I went through some music, with no intention of going through any memory lane, fast or slow, through the country side or bumper-to-bumper traffic. I just wanted to pick some music to play in a few days for the dance party. But lo-and-behold, some songs bring back memories. You just need some songs, and each could spark something new using something old. And it's so automatic. The sound just unlocks some cobweb curtained door somewhere in my mind. It's like looking at a photo, or more subtle, like smelling some food that takes me back to a pointed event, in a restaurant or someone's kitchen. But sound is even more subtle.
But when I played this Polish song, like how they should in a movie, I felt my surroundings disappear and I was taken back to a few years ago in the same old place where we always dance. The floor was the old one, before they replaced it and dirtied it again. It was a dark brown, as opposed to the current dirty yellow, pinewood floor. This was the official ballroom for graduate and professional student events. When it was used, it was normally raucous, lots of alcohol flowing, but when we used it, it was just music. It was used on a Sunday so that underage dancers could come too. The lighting was dim, giving it a romantic feel. There were sofas on one side, where the heating was, and benches on the opposite side, where the wall had a big mirror too high up for anyone to see anything from it except the wall of the sofas. The arrangement had no reason behind it; it was either this or something else equally haphazard. The farthest end of the ballroom was where the alcohol would normally be dispensed, but on a Sunday it was where precious water was released for the thirsty dancers.
On the side closest to the entrance was where all non-dancing things were happening. There was where the DJ would ensconce him- or herself, watching the crowd, brooding over the effectiveness of the music compilation. And next to him are the couple of steps up the stage where more sofas were lying in wait. The stage was where most people leave their coats and change their shoes, from street shoes to dance shoes, for those who needed to change. Some people just do so on the bench at the wall with the useless mirror. Here on the stage was also where people often socialized, especially if they don't wish to dance at the moment. But since most people came for dancing, the stage was often empty, populated only by the temporarily shed coats and scarfs of the dancers, along with their bags and purses.
My memories were, of course, not the little details of the place I go dancing nearly every Sunday, and DJ from time to time. When this Polish song started going, I remember the Polish woman. I remember her face next to mine as we danced, her voice as she begun to sing along the music, and while I couldn't understand any words sung, I felt moved. It was a beautiful song, and being with her, listening to her, moved me in ways only those who dance to this sort of music could truly understand. I could remember the embrace, how her body felt, its warmth, softness, what her scent was, but above all, already mentioned, her voice. And the memories flowed in and out of my mind, as if they were dancing with one another too. I remembered the unpleasantness. She wanted to dance with me, but then a song came up and reminded us both of the bitterness we were both going through, it was the words, and they irritated us both, and I could remember how bitter the dance felt, how I wish I didn't have to swallow it, how I wish I could just stop and let us both separate.
Somehow, these memories haven't come back in a while. They've been superseded by other memories, more recent, by other feelings, even more recent, by all the things I do to distract myself from all these memories, recent or distant. And yet, the moment the music started, and especially when the Polish voice, so sweet and sad, so delicate and fragile, came on too, my surrounding became dim, my floor turned from tiles to that old cracking wood, and my body wasn't alone, and the only thing that remained the same was the music, the music that linked the present to the past. And it wasn't just a past of a single person, but the general context too of dancing there. Back then when I wasn't so confident about my dance, when I was even more enrobed in the usual anxiety of social dancing. All the fears, all the uncertainties. And in that dim light, on that dirty floor, all my diffidence, all my worries, resurfaced.
But also all the comfort of making new friends, this feeling was present too. It was on this dance floor that I made friends, made connections, however long or short, that defined my life the past few years. And while this Polish song reminded me specifically of one person, the environment where that pointed memory resided was equally important. So many stories have happened in that ballroom and many many more spanning from it.
When the song was over, I came back, on my cold tiled floor, in my salmon color walls, in this brightly lit kitchen, and alone. And while in a few days I will be in that dance floor again, churning out music that I like, the picture put together by these fragments called memories looks very different from what I will see and experience next.
