time is gone & the song is over
gerascophobic reflections from the past year
Written in November right before my birthday.
Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood by William Wordsworth
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind.
As I stare into the AWC Academic Library bathroom mirror, I think of childhood. The bright hospital-like light hits the top of my head and catches all the strands of silver, and I am reminded of the severity of time and how quickly things slip by. On rare and quiet moments, there is comfort in the idea that my twenties are nearly over, as if, by some miracle, the things that bother me now will slip away with age, and the grace I so desperately seek is waiting for me kindly in the decades that follow. In this life, I imagine a softer world filled with card games, wheat fields, and children’s laughter — it is a tender place that can only be obtained through age. However, when this daydream dissolves, the idea of getting older often terrifies me. I mourn the days I will no longer recognize myself. When my skin wrinkles and my body betrays me, and the music and memories become muddled. I understand this dread as equal parts narcissism and fear of things out of my control. A doctrine that echoes through generations — heroes search for the fountain of youth, Narcissus stares into the water, the woman is banished to the attic, Fleabag sits in her bath. Artistic representations meant to reflect how age and beauty afflict us, but it isn’t just the loss of youth that scares me but the other things that have vanished with the turning of the clock.
I needed a graveyard for the missing, which took the form of a list of all the things I had lost in my twenties. It started simply: Both sets of car keys somewhere on my college campus, my mom’s old jeans out of the back of the truck in Texas, my favorite ceramic mug unintentionally gifted to my Uber driver in Manhattan, several half-finished coffees on bookstore shelves. With each of these items, I had the feeling that sits at the base of my stomach — a deeply rooted understanding that I would be unable to hold onto them before they were even gone. My sister believes my mother and I share the gift of prediction, the ability to anticipate the inevitable. I have often wondered if it is partially a manifestation of our fears that lead us to these conclusions. I treasured these objects and dreaded losing them, which is why they went missing — a life lesson about letting go.
On my drive back to California, I watched a young boy reach his hand out of his mother’s red sedan in an attempt to touch the sky. I speculated about the moment childhood wonderment slipped from my fingers, and suddenly this imagined graveyard changed. I thought of the love stories lost in the plains of West Texas, poetry offered to the tides, and works of art stuck in attics — and I mourned for the mortality of things. I feel the weight of this absence most intensely when I return to where I grew up. The familiar air settles over the vineyards and I understand time more acutely. I drove past my old house and caught a glimpse of the terracotta shingles and remembered the box I once buried when I was nine years old. I filled it with keepsakes and dug a hole under the tree in front of the backdoor. I remember wanting to plant the things that mattered most to my adolescent mind, and I dreamt of someone else finding it or me returning to it when I was much older. I understand that it is much easier to come to terms with the loss of tangible things — objects my skin came in contact with because it is easier to recognize their temporality. But, there is another kind of casualty that does not have a corpse or a price, things that disappeared before you even realized they were gone.
I tend to let the weight of lost things haunt me, and as I have gotten older, I find I am quicker to bury hope and let pessimism settle. But then I remember that I was once the child reaching toward the sky and running on the beach with my mother. I remind myself that I have stumbled upon love nestled in a corner booth of an LA diner, and I live knowing a stranger is enjoying his morning coffee in my favorite mug. Hope is attached to these misplaced items because they remind me that I was once present on the busy streets of New York City, among yellowed pages on various bookstore shelves, settled beneath that childhood tree. I’d like to believe that optimism takes root in the valley of the missing and one day we will find those lost things again.
Some things before you go: I changed the name of my publication (props to anyone who gets the reference) in an attempt to try and post on Sundays. I am going to write more consistently this year. I hope to see you all soon with a letter containing the things I loved: movie lists and albums that got me through the year or whatever else is on my mind. But for now, welcome to a new year.
xx
tash.