Faulkner wrote, “The past isn't dead; in fact, it isn’t even past.” - in observation, I think, of the Civil War or War Between the States or War of Northern Aggression being present in all his writing, even if never mentioned.   The pesky past, it travels with us in dreams and memories, and sometimes in certain, special objects. Also in our DNA. Inescapable, whether known or unknown.

 It’s getting a little clearer to picture, and by that I mean Facebook in particular and the internet in general.  Yes, finding former classmates; hunting down information on old acquaintances or ancestors, all that.  But it’s getting a little close for comfort.  Not just the IM’ing of old pals, girlfriends and boyfriends, but the posting of pictures of our more youthful selves, that we didn’t even know existed. 

In my case, much of this is welcome. I was a peripatetic young person, moving from place to place, all over the country, CT to CA to MD to VT to NY to MA without benefit of camera most of the time.  With everyone on the move, and the art of letter writing mostly dead, I lost touch with many people I had spent time with and had shared some important and intimate times with. Largely my fault, I will admit. Many times I was so busy creating a new present that I hadn’t the time or energy to keep up with the past. It was also a belief that like the early immigrants who left the old country, the past was gone forever.  I truly thought I would never see or hear from some of these friends again.  The earth was flat, and those who sailed too far off would fall off the edge of the world, gone forever. 

There is pleasure in this reacquaintance, and peril as well.  The pleasure of finding out “what happened” to so and so, like a life condensed into a novel, where we see what has happened, “so far”.  There is the pleasure of common interests and common memories.  Perhaps greatest is the photo galleries – old and new, someone’s family, trip, special events, and themselves, generally recognizable as their youthful selves, with different hair and layers of experience and maturity.  The photos of children – and grandchildren – are a delight, almost a scientific study in genes and nurturing; permutated versions of the people you’ve known, and even some glimpse into their own youth and childhood.

 The danger, of course, is that the past haunts – old hurts or unfinished business.  In my case, many partings were of necessity, and infused with sadness; and I was never one to burn bridges.  Funny, how the buffer of years and distance does not protect entirely from feelings that were not so much dissipated as buried deep down.  Not to worry about the temptation to throw over the present and try to recreate the past; that cannot be done.  Facebook is only a virtual reunion, not a real one, and there are filters and controls to keep the past at a safe distance.  Still, there are feelings to deal with, and dreams that become infiltrated with the past, the true past, not the past friends in current time.

 The other danger, for a fiction writer, is that the past becomes revealed as true, a difficultly for some of us who have relied on the disguised past.  In one case, one of my characters was based on a chef at a restaurant where I’d worked twenty years ago.  I saw no reason to change his name, physical description, or aspects of his personality.  When researching information about other aspects of the place I lived, I found that my chef was still working at the same place, and had a line of products for sale on the internet under his name!  I decided some revision was in order. Recently, I plunked characters down at Junior’s Diner in Brooklyn for cheesecake, relying on my memories of the place, when it occurred to me to check on-line – there it was, with photos and description, and mail order business. Anyone who knows it might question my poetic recreation of the place — and maybe other aspects of my writing. So, maybe Mike’s Diner?

My current novel in progress, “Spanish Soap Operas” relies heavily on a couple of people I knew well and then lost during my New York City days.  I have in fact tried to find them on-line, so far without success.  But I know, sure as anything, they’re out there, and somehow, someway, should this story get published, they will know it’s based on events in our lives at that time, and they may or may not like it. 

 The past is with us, always, and may be knocking on the door before we know it.  Be ready.