Nevermore

Last Friday, I looked out the window into the dark expanse of nothing as the car carried me further out into the sticks. The husband and I went to visit friends we only ever see a few times a year.

I took this time to think of the letters I occasionally write to myself not to be opened until several years later. My reasons for doing this comes from the desire to pinpoint snapshots of time, but I invariably leave disappointed when the letters are finally opened. I suppose I find myself too unchanged.

The car ride provided its own lull of time and I wondered if I would fair better writing to my past self, being able to read letters of my future. But now that I've gone over the idea more thoroughly, I imagine it would come with the same disappointments of my past.

I just finished The Petting Zoo by Jim Carroll. Billy Wolfram, a celebrated painter, begins to question his identity when he attends an exhibit of Velasquez paintings. The reaction evolves into an emotional breakdown that has him communicating with ravens, checking into a mental facility and taking up pool. His memories scatter throughout the story and the conversations he has with his best friend, Denny, sound like conversations with himself.

Billy's success and the inheritance received from his late mentor have freed him from temporal constraints, but he is hopelessly mired in the emotional.

I think a way not to lose yourself is finding footholds that can keep you present. Keep you sane. The letters to myself didn't quite fulfill the kind of reflection I was hoping for.

The footholds need to be stronger, a measure of support that holds you together or that you can clasp like a talisman until it's safe again. I know even those might not be enough, but I'm hopeful I'll always find myself again when I get too lost.