Time and Other Illusions

I made this collage in 10 minutes.

I walked home to “It Never Entered My Mind,” Miles Davis slowly crafting the perfect accompaniment to my train of thought.

I remember saying I feel like I have more deep conversations with people who aren’t in the same age group as me because there is no added layer of anxiety about a romantic connection. Anxiety came up in this conversation several times, a reoccurring theme. The reason I said this is to punctuate my declaration that I don’t have deep conversations very often. If this conversation partner had been 40 years younger I know I would have been more nervous and more stand-offish, questioning motives. Instead I found myself conversing more openly with this 60 or 70-something-year-old author than I do on average with my own mother.

“Wow, you’re so interesting!” he said on multiple occasions. Truthfully, I felt it was the fact he was quite interesting that made me an interesting conversation partner, and I told him so. He told me about growing up in New York and opening a vegetarian restaurant in Toronto, then moving to Vancouver, life as a guitarist and teacher. Now, listening to them as I write, I’m reminded he mentioned Wes Montgomery and Joe Pass among his favorite guitarists — that’s a name I’ll know well now. I love how certain songs hold memories.

After working as a musician and restaurateur, he took up writing, which led him to his latest endeavour to write a novel: a blend of fiction and non-fiction, focused on Christianity and esotericism from a first-person perspective; he had read a hundred books so far in researching for it. I would argue the man is a philosopher in the sense that he is insatiably curious about spirituality. He spoke like a teacher, confident and decisive.

He helped open my eyes to the areas and directions for growth in my life and at the same time, he affirmed the growth I have made already. The whole thing felt overwhelmingly productive. I told him about my anxieties as an artist, my fears of rejection, people I’ve lost and the lingering effects of a childhood spent carrying my life back and forth between divorced parents.

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“Mmm, definitely,” I replied.

This exchange took place sometime after we discussed the illusion of time and the interconnections of the universe. I was bothered briefly by the fact that I wouldn’t remember every part of our conversation, and that in writing it all down, I’d certainly forsake the chronology of the topics — this fear being justified by the organicity and the rhythm of our conversation which may be lost here. However, rather than treat that as an excuse to file this evening into the cabinet of the seldom remembered I have to write it down. Even if the product is somewhat disjointed, Joan Didion would approve of my lies.

At some point, surprisingly early on, I was asked whether or not I’m afraid of death. I said “No,” because I don’t view death as the end of our selves but the beginning of our belonging fully to something greater, but also because I don’t feel threatened by it’s presence. The only folks I’ve known who died passed at an impressive enough age or at a reasonable social distance for me to not find myself overly distraught. Occasionally I wonder how my answer might change if I were to be lethally injured or declared terminal. The real fear would be dying before I create a legacy for the children I hope to have one day. I suppose I’d feel like it wasn’t quite worth not being able to pass along the little bits of wisdom, tips & tricks I’ve collected, but if asked, I’m sure I would say I’d do it all over again. Certainly for interactions like these. I never asked if he had kids.

The sun went down around 9:30, and although it was still light out and warm enough, the bugs came to chase us away from the lake; stomachs began to find their voices. We parted abruptly, neither one of us really wishing the conversation would end, both of us quietly rejoicing in the fulfillment of our chance meeting. I have to wonder, how many conversations with this amount of depth do people have in their lifetimes. Was this simply a right place, right time experience? If we met again I fear it would feel forced. To be fair I was floating along in a daze when he approached me.

With the spirit of a newborn child, I made my way up the hill, immediately feeling that I must relate this experience to another person. I asked my mother to remind me of it next time I see her. I sent a voice memo to my friend. As I crossed the last street on my way home, I looked up at the twilight sky where the radiant moon smiled at me, and I realized she had been watching all along.

The moon the other night…