And as you talk, politely, adult-like, over coffee you can’t help but notice the gray in her hair, and the wrinkles in her face. Which you would have never noticed had you been growing old together. Like you promised each other.
All instruments by Max Frost
Source: SoundCloud / Max Frost
It’s Gonna Take An Airplane by Destroyer
“Undocumented Hours,” Rebecca Parker Payne, Kinfolk Magazine, Volume IV
The past few years have levied a strange burden of proof upon our backs, a burden to account for our hours and days, to prove to all who care to watch from the screens of their phones and computers that we are doing something worthy with our lives. In the meantime, we have forgotten how to be content in being present. We have not been transfixed and emptied since we first believed the lie that all of our experiences must be shared.
There is a chain of command here: we are at the bottom, and we glean inspiration where we can. We do not own our time, but stand under these whirling dervishes, hoping for a moment that is safe to share without removing us from the experience, and without imposing our own demands for the moment. Time dances brilliantly above us and around us. We only bestow the hems of her skirts for our tiny artistic visions.
Let us all remember, now in the presence of one another, that our memories are enough. May we live to remind each other to partake of dinner without pause for a clicking shutter or a scribbling pen. Stay here, drink more wine, and let the memories of a time exist by themselves within you, and between you and others. And may your art be a sincere reflection of what already exists, not a post projection for what we desire.
Keep your hours close, and keep intimacy and trust closer. If we give this a chance, we will surely realize that being present is powerful enough to burn and consume our hearts, minds, and memories with fullness unparalleled.
I think that once you get over the age of 20, you begin to understand that there’s a lot of places where you can fall in and they are just locations of stases. Locations of paralysis. Places where there’s no growth. And whether it’s a job, whether it’s a way that you decide to pursue your life, whether it’s a philosophy, whether it’s a politic, we all know in our hearts when we’re choosing paralysis. When we’re choosing the dead zone over life.
When we’re incomplete, we’re always searching for somebody to complete us. When, after a few years or a few months of a relationship, we find that we’re still unfulfilled, we blame our partners and take up with somebody more promising. This can go on and on—series polygamy—until we admit that while a partner can add sweet dimensions to our lives, we, each of us, are responsible for our own fulfillment. Nobody else can provide it for us, and to believe otherwise is to delude ourselves dangerously and to program for eventual failure every relationship we enter.
Mom’s in town.