Across the wall are tiles. They are white like piano keys or the teeth of a slain giant from an era long gone. They reflect light, circles of light formed within their rounded surfaces. The lighting of a subway station has a peculiar way of feeling both bright and dim; time of day is incomprehensible. I wait for my train and admire the tiles. They shine, even though this station is old as hell. I look up how old. It opened in 1936. That’s older than my grandmother, older than high fives, older than ciabatta bread. But the tiles still shine. Do they clean them regularly? Or did they replace them somewhat recently? Who do you think decides how to maintain the stations? If I were a tiler in the 1930s, I would’ve scribbled my initials on the back of a tile before grouting it, a desperate attempt to leave my mark on the world.
My mind wanders. I think about the TV show I’ve been watching, an anime called Frieren. It follows the eponymous elf who travels around a fantasy realm decades after she saved the world with her human comrades. Her friends are long gone and mostly forgotten by the world, except as statues and stories that are more myth than reality. She hears these secondhand accounts and remembers the messy realities of her companions — their vices, their vanity, their fear, and their friendship. Only she still remembers these things, but she values it more than anything, even as the world only cares about their valor and accomplishments.
The subway station isn’t a statue, but today the tiles feel like a sort of monument, the accomplishment of some unknown being who probably had a distinctive laugh and a favorite hat to wear on special occasions. Does anyone remember them anymore? Does someone remember them for the white tiles that conquer my mind, or for their humor and their conversation?
My mind moves again. These are the things I think about when I’m losing faith in myself. They are pretty thoughts, artful and soothing, bromides for existential anxiety. Maybe it doesn’t matter that all of my work is digital, more or less footprints on a sandy beach. There will be no monuments, imagined or real, from this digital life. There will be memories until there aren’t, but that will have to do.
I’m still waiting for my train and I’m wondering if my writing would be better if I wasn’t always writing about myself or what the meaning of my life is. I think about the book I’m reading, White Noise by Don DeLillo. There’s one exchange between the narrator Jack and his friend Murray that sticks in my head:
“I’d like to lose interest in myself,” I told Murray.
“Is there a chance of that happening?”
“None. Better men have tried.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“It’s obvious.”
“I wish there was something I could do. I wish I could out-think the problem.”
Me too, Jack. It hasn’t worked yet, even after years and years of writing about myself, trying to out-think in front of an audience. I only dig myself deeper into a hole, vaguely attempting to shape how I’ll be remembered when it’s all said and done.
The funny thing about it is that I can never really define myself for everyone else. I can continue to try through never-ending introspection, drawing comparisons to all of the characters and art that I encounter, but the people in my life will always see me the way that they’ve always seen me. A reader will remember who they decided I was when they first encountered me. I’ll always be a child to my family, always be a nerdy student to my classmates, always be defined by the most emotionally charged moments I shared with friends or acquaintances.
My attempts to out-think my interest in myself only make me think of myself more.
There’s rumbling, screeching. My eyes move from the tiles to the tunnel. The lights of the C train grow bigger as they approach. Soon, I’ll be on the train hurtling towards my apartment. The weight of all of these thoughts feels lighter when I focus on other things. At home, I will clean the tiles of my kitchen, of my bathroom. I will try to turn my attention elsewhere, to what I will remember, whose stories and quirks I can keep carrying and hope to hold onto them when no one else will.
💧 Drops of the Week 💧
PLAYLIST - june 25 - where do the months go?
POEM - “Early in the Morning” by Li-Young Lee - before / the salted Winter Vegetable is sliced / for breakfast, before the birds
this was delightful - I could visualize your mind shifting from things to scenes to people and back.. "who/what gets remembered?" is such a fascinating question, especially in nyc. you should read Kasra's latest piece "How to remember everything and feel nothing" - similar notes, but from a different angle.