I’m sitting on my couch, just finishing up this book I need to write a marketing plan for, my window open just a few inches to keep the air flowing. Not enough for any real breeze to interrupt my surroundings.
Do Everything in the Dark, aptly titled, follows a group of artists and their downward spiral. The page I marked with the photograph describes an old snapshot. The last lines struck me: I don’t mind sifting through Jesse’s treasures. But I wish he’d throw them out. Whoever said the past is another country didn’t know the half of it.
I suppose it’s true for some–the past is another country. Though I wouldn’t describe mine as simply one country.
My past feels more like thousands of disconnected island nations floating around…some sinking and fated to be lost forever, others unclaimed and waiting to be discovered, others growing and spawning new islands.
As I stare at the picture of myself as a toddler, I recall nothing. I’m obviously happy. Posing for probably my mother who was and continues to be a relentless photo snapper. I’m guessing I’m in front of my childhood house in The Philippines. The red sandals I’m wearing maybe belonged to one of my older sisters. Maybe not. I’d have to rummage through old photo alums to see if the sandals were on their feet before me. Am I hiding something? Was I dancing? Do I need to use the bathroom?
I might ask my mother if she remembers anything about that photo. Though I’ll likely forget to ask and she probably wouldn’t remember anyhow.
It may be that I’m not a past dweller. My distant past, while certainly not bucolic and pristine, recalls more light than dark.
So who knows what the universe is trying to show me by throwing the book down. I guess I’ll have to wait and see. Maybe nothing. Maybe something.
If you know something, enlighten me.