(image via Andyheart)
How funny and coincidental that just today I read an article on The American Reader about how after seven long years renowned poet Giacomo Leopardi’s diary has finally been completely translated by seven translators and then this wonderful image popped up on the blog of one of my favorite fashion bloggers. Fashion and Death, engaging in dialogue. What a concept!
The article about Leopardi on The American Reader is a bit hard to digest as are most of their articles. I consider myself fairly literate but the writers over yonder at the magazine feel it somehow constructive to provide readers with obscure phrasing like:
He brings also deep feeling and a kind of playfulness, and an acute sensitivity whose rich wine sours into vinegar as time goes on.
I’m not entirely sure if they’re trying to sell me his diaries or his groceries.
Anyway, lest I go on into tangent I’d like to divulge my main point sooner rather than later. But first, despite the awkward phrasing in the article I feel very compelled to read at least a moiety of the translated diaries particularly so if it is inclined to include insight about “happiness, the interplay of hope and desire, nature as unmasterable chaos, the passage of time, the pleasures of memory, matters of decorum, and the way men resemble horses.” Lmfao. Yeah. Exactly.
But can you imagine seven scholars taking seven years to dissect a diary, of all things? Would not their interest wane over time? Or would it only increase? If you’ve already gone so far why not just go all the way? (Sadly, commitment like this is… scarce. Interest is so usually… transient.)
So this brings me unknowingly to the point I originally wanted to make about the the passing of time with regards to interest. It was only by mere chance that I somehow connected the article I read this morning to the topic I will henceforth discuss.
A few days ago I received a message from someone I met only once. Once. A year and a half ago. I still recall the evening in which we met because it was a ridiculously fun time. I was somewhere in the Valley (I think!) with a bunch of people I’d never before met in someone’s backyard as company to my friend Moonie after we had had dinner. Moonie and I quickly parted ways in the backyard as we discovered different people with whom we clicked (and cliqued). Conversation was… out of control amazing. I’d never met anyone with similar interests/passions as mine until that moment, let alone a small groupful! It was like we were speaking the same language. (This maybz topic for another entry… how peculiarly different I am from my friends or my friends from me.)
A couple of us exchanged phone numbers. But really I didn’t know any of them – and Moonie doesn’t really spend much time with these people either, or knew them only through other friends. So suffice to say… I’ve never met with any of them again. To my dismay. But one moves on. I fully appreciate the friends in my life even though they… don’t watch movies, listen to music very much (except for the latest pop releases… which is excusable/understandable/acceptable), go to concerts, follow fashion, or even read classic literature. Obviously these are the things I value and I happen to NOT share any single thing in common with any of my friends. Not a single thing. But let’s avoid this tangent.
So anyway, in the year and a half since that chance meeting… one person has kept a steady form of communication with me. We were supposed to hang out a few times but the person then had to travel to Brazil and then another time suddenly had to go to Texas or some other equally random place (due to their line of work). Separated also by distance… opportunities to hang out just never really quite worked out.
This wasn’t of much import to me because the interest stemmed from the other person rather than me. The person was the one that made effort to engage me in conversation.
So a year and a half later, despite previous failed attempts to hang out… I was once again approached by this person to hang out. What strikes me the most is the passing of time and that interest still persists?
How long after all ties have been severed does a person remain interested?
This question has been plaguing me lately. PLAGUING.
Interest in me gives me anxiety. Disinterest in me gives me fear. Lose/lose?
Is the ‘pleasure of memory’ sufficiently capable of withstanding the ‘passing of time?’ Or must some trace element of a person persist? And in either case, for HOW LONG?
Did this person happen to see my name still in their phone?
Or like how the aforementioned Facebook friend noticed a lack of posts made under my name? (Though I guess this would be opposite of a trace element but instead a ‘missing’ element?)
For how long will I be capable of holding someone’s interest? It seems to me that lately… everyone is so evanescent. In. Out. Gone. Myself included.
I know my love’s expiry date is six years. As in, it took me six years to get over Matthew most likely due to the enormous amount of trace elements of his existence in my life (his facebook, instagram, tumblr, etc. etc.). Must some sliver of a connection remain? And how dangerous are these connections?
Did Matt merely become a memory? Even S. existed to me as some form of connection to Matt, however small. And only in cutting off these trace elements was I able to forget Matt (almost) entirely. (Okay that’s sort of bullshit but I mean to say… I no longer feel anything towards him. Not friendship, not… anything.)
Am I merely a memory?
I’ll refrain from posting any wild existential claims/quotes/or jokes.
Without threatening my own sense of life fulfillment and joy, do I need to remove all trace elements of myself? I want to fade into obscurity even though that is the one thing I fear.
Well. It’s Friday. And that means I should be sleeping the entire evening away. My Friday always consists of pure sleep. Funny though that I’ve hardly slept this week and I’m not finding it easy to fall asleep during my normally scheduled nap time even though I’m incredibly brain dead and exhausted right now.