Listening to a song by Michael Kiwanuka, I was struck by the line “dealing in the past.” That line spurred a train of thought that’s poked at me for a few days. It’s had me playing with the idea of card games (dealing) and how gamblers talk about their one big win, or will talk even more animatedly about that time that they almost won big, the hand that fell one card short. It’s had me thinking about how so many of us are (publicly or privately) those types of gamblers, those types of story-tellers. It’s had me wondering about the different ways we live in, share, and represent our past selves and past lives.
Listening to the song, I looked around my apartment. I saw the framed letter addressed to me from the author Don DeLillo and the caricature of Harold Bloom I had commissioned when I was working as one of his editors. I saw the license plates from Pennsylvania and Tennessee. I saw the pictures my ex-wife took on a few different hikes. I’m surrounded by objects that tell part of the story of who I’ve been. Yet when I think about my day-to-day life, these things do not root me in the present moment and I realize how personal the past is – so few people know, or will know, anything about me. I was thinking about the many many stories we collect and experiences we have… and how seldom we share those things with each other. Mostly because, who gives a shit, right? Entire lives rise and fall in complete obscurity. Even a person like Bloom, arguably one of the most well-read human beings to have walked the planet isn’t terribly well-known outside of literary circles.
I tried to write about all of this but got stuck. I couldn’t figure out where I wanted to go with it. Mostly, what I had was a jumbled mess of paragraphs that I couldn’t connect. I wanted to tie in my life as a book editor, because in my personal recollections, it’s the closest I’ve come to that “I mighta been somebody” sentiment and type of story-telling. As I wrote, it felt strange to reflect on that time of my life: how something that was the definition of who I was in the moment has almost no resemblance to who I am now. When I do reflect on that time, it has the feeling of path not pursued or a career cut short. When I think about it (which isn’t often), I get that cliched feeling of the jock who was a star in high school but either got hurt or couldn’t make it to the next level – and well, I don’t want to be that cliche.
Last week, I met a guy at bar (which is how most of my stories start). He had a unique way of telling stories in which he was always trying to bury the lede, hide the surprise, downplay the headline (which was never a terribly shocking headline). He’d talk about a concert he went to back in the 80s or 90s. It had this little singer by the name of… and then he’d lower his voice to a near-whisper and drop some superstar name like Bruce Springsteen or Aretha Franklin. At times, he’d even cup one side of his face/mouth area with his hand as though he were sharing a titillating secret that the rest of the bar couldn’t know about. He talked about seeing lots of big acts: The Stones, the Dead, etc. etc. Talking to him, I got the sense that he doesn’t go to many concerts anymore. Now, it’s far easier to spend time at a bar reminiscing about the good ol’ days.
A different night, at the same bar, a group of guys from Dartmouth (mostly younger with a few old heads mixed in) were there for a get together and celebration – of what I wasn’t quite sure (I think an old football coach had passed away a few months back). At one point, they started singing an old school song. I couldn’t here it and thought it was some Irish drinking chant. One guy in particular (probably about my age or a little older) seemed especially animated, his arms draped over the shoulders of his younger buddies clearly reveling in the camaraderie of their shared experiences on what it means to be a Dartmouth man. I used to see this a lot at the bars on Penn State football weekends: people, mostly men, trying to recapture or remember their younger college selves. In this quiet desperation of lost manliness, I’m reminded of another song lyric: “I done got old / can’t do the things I used to do.”
I had another conversation recently, though not at a bar. It was with someone I’ve known for a few years. The person shared stories that they had told me several times before – usually when they’re slightly inebriated. I think I’m on their drunk-dial speed dial list. And because I want to see them thrive and because they think I give good advice – I take the call. They complained about the same things they’ve been stuck on the entire time I’ve known them: mainly the life they used to live and the person they used to be. When I ask them about their current situation and what they can do to change it, I’m told the same story about this one time when they met a stranger who spoke to them in such a way that it felt as though they had seen god’s plan for them. When I ask them what brings them joy (my attempt to shift the focus to their present moment), I get turned back to when they were living their best life. I usually try to direct the conversation towards “if that life isn’t possible, what is?”
If you can’t tell, I’m still struggling to tie all of this together. What does it mean to be dealin’ in the past? Reelin’ in the years? If there are people out there who live too much in their past, are there also people (aside from the amnesiacs) who seldom, or never, think about their past? It feels as though equal arguments could be made for both: one suggesting that the present moment is all we have and another suggesting the past is all we have. And how can we possibly process the enormity of it all? How fascinating and at the same time utterly dull our personal histories are.
The song lyrics triggered my curiosity about what we share with whom and how. When does telling stories veer into the ditch of wallowing in our past or prevent us from building new stories and new memories? I’m thinking about these things because I’m new to everything (geography, people, job prospects) – yet my day-to-day life is still surrounded by my things, my thoughts, my ego. I’m thinking about these things because I’m fascinated by what seems to be a fine line between breaking free from the self (and our past) and embracing the self (and our past). I’m thinking about these things because there seems to exist a duality that suggests I need to love who I am and who I’ve been in order to appreciate someone else and their history. I’m thinking about these things because in meeting various people, who I am depends on who they are. To the guy in the bar, I’m a fellow music lover who appreciates stories about live shows. To the Dartmouth club, I’m an outsider who hasn’t had that shared experience. To the friend needing advice, I’m a sympathetic ear. But none of these versions of me encompass my totality. I suspect if they did, life would be exhausting. But I also suspect that’s what people mean when they talk about authentic connections and conversations – ones in which you each get a little closer to revealing your multitudes.
On a recent video chat with someone, I found myself saying that I’m finding it difficult to have these authentic, deep, fun, and wide-ranging conversations with people out here. We were talking about relationships and I found myself saying that I struggle to imagine getting to that level of comfort, mutual curiosity, and sharing with another person. I know what it looks and feels like, I just can’t imagine the getting there part. I was trying to explain to this person that many of the conversations I have feel out of balance. There’s no urgency or curiosity and the dance between sharing and holding back feels too awkward or one-sided. In those instances one person seems to be asking all of the questions and the other person is providing all of the answers. In my experience, the solution isn’t about asking more questions but is instead about building momentum, providing richer and deeper answers, and letting curiosity blossom. Good conversations are seldom about the initial questions, but are instead rooted in details and the follow up questions which those details elicit. There’s a natural ebb and flow to good conversations and you sorta lose track of time. Perhaps more importantly, there’s a blend of story, history, and hope: where I’ve been and where I might yet want to go.
When I initially sat down to riff on the song lyric, I wrote, “Life’s a card game and some people are stuck on that one hand that they almost won. They live today dealin’ in the past.” I’ve had my share of good and bad hands. Usually, I play the cards I’m dealt, but sometimes I’m ok with folding and asking for a new deal. I remember the wins and the near wins, but I know not to expect a full house or flush on every hand. I’ve never been good at counting cards, and I’m at a point and place where I’m trying to evaluate what’s come before and what might still be in the deck – all while leaving myself open to the wonder and surprise of pulling an ace or wild card.