Abandoned Lun- ... Lakehouse

Frozen.

The lake is frozen.

Well, I say lake – it’s more of a pond, really. But I suppose “pondside cabin retreat” is a bit less enticing as an advert. A bit harder of a sell; “pond” kind of strips away a lot of the romance, doesn’t it?

It’s so grey here. I’m not really sure what else I was expecting, to be honest – it is January. Although, I’ve never seen it in January so I suppose I can be forgiven for not having a clear picture of the scene ready in my mind. It was spring when we were here so obviously there was less grey. And less ice. Seeing it now it looks… I don’t know, like the underside of the place I remember? Like the photo negative or something? I don’t know.

The water’s frozen. I’m sorry, but that part is really getting me. That is just so, so different from before. When we were here in spring, we swam in that lake for hours. Dipping of the skinny variety, mostly – so there was a definite lack of ice! Now I’m back (emphasising ‘I’, me; not ‘us’, we) and the lake is frozen.

The metaphor is perhaps a tad on the nose, don’t you think? Maybe I should roll with it though, wallow in my grey surroundings for a bit. The cabin has a record player, that much about the place is constant at least season to season; maybe I should kick back, throw Abandoned Luncheonette on the turntable, skip straight to track 4 (look it up) and have a good old wallow. And yes, feel free to call me pretentious for going specifically for the vinyl. God knows I would have called me pretentious not too long ago. But I’ve had my awakening; there is genuinely just something intangibly better about an actual record.

Especially with the emotional songs.

The sad songs.

Maybe analogue just resonates with the frequency of misery. Who knows?

Am I miserable, though? I’m not sure. I’m definitely…something. I think. I’m not frozen, like the lake. Sorry, pond. No, not frozen. Not quite. I’m not sure what it is, I can’t pin it down. There’s got to be an element of misery. Maybe it would be easier if I was just outright devastated. Distraught, inconsolable. Or hateful. Yeah, hateful would be good. I would actually quite like to hate her, I think. That would be much easier. Yeah, I want to curse her. I want to call her every name under the sun, then make up a few of my own for good measure. I think that would be pretty cathartic.

Unfortunately, I can’t because really there isn’t a lot to hate her for. We just had a disagreement on one particular point, that’s all. One basic difference of opinion. I wanted her, she wanted… me to want something else, in the end. Anything else that wasn’t her, because our affections weren’t quite on the same level, it turned out. That’s basically it. Almost a verbatim quote, in fact.

And the sad truth is that even with that disagreement, my life is still better for having had her in it. I am still so much better for having known her, no doubt about it. A bit sickening really, isn’t it? I actually need to resist the temptation to thank her for letting me get as close to her as I was for the time that she allowed.

Fortunately, there’s still enough bitterness and resentment that she called an end to that time, otherwise I would be feeling pathetically conciliatory. And even better, there’s another man involved! So even if I can’t quite muster hate, there’s still a good bit of anger kicking around. So that’s nice.

But only a bit. And I can’t stay angry anymore that that pond will stay frozen. Is that how the metaphor continues? Whatever the… something is I’m feeling will leave eventually, just as the ice will thaw and the water will be warm and inviting once more? If it is, then I think this metaphor has gone from on the nose to murky as hell. What does the bloody melting mean?! Seasons change, time moves on? But more time without her.

Time.

Time heals all wounds, right? But absence makes the heart grow fonder, does it not? Square that one for me. That’s where this metaphor is really getting away from me. When this ice melts, do I rejoice because life carries on and will be as bright and beautiful as it was before sooner or later; winter is temporary, and spring eventually springs again? Or do I lament that each passing season takes me further and further from that spring? From those hours and hours swimming, from those memories that I know I will always cherish?

I think I’ll have to resign myself to never knowing because I’ll never see this place again. I won’t be coming back to this “lakeside cabin retreat” to see how it does or doesn’t change. It isn’t mine anymore.

That’s not to say it’s hers. I’m certainly not surrendering it! I’m far too stubborn for that, don’t worry. And remember, I am battling hard against any conciliatory instincts. No, I won’t be coming back because this place was ours. And since there is no longer an ‘us’, it's ours no more.

No, I don’t want to see this place again. Especially in spring.

When the ice melts I think I’ll simply let the waters flow to the rivers of my memory. Gentle on my mind. I’m so lyrical all of a sudden! I think I’ll have to get Abandoned Luncheonette off the record player and throw on some Glen Campbell instead.

Right, so does all that square the metaphor at all, or has all the imagery become hopelessly muddled? I have absolutely no clue, sorry. And sorry to drone on with this… well, I’m not sure what it is. Ramblings? Solo therapy session? Screaming into the void?

Ok, definitely droning on now. I will try to finish this with a bit of wisdom, as thanks for your patience and to try and make it worth your time for having read all this nonsense.

If there is one thing I would like you to take away from these ramblings, dear reader, it is this:

Abandoned Luncheonette, Daryl Hall & John Oates, 1974, is a criminally underrated album. So listen to it.

….but on vinyl, of course.