The Echoes of Time: Reflecting on Past Creations and the Allure of Nostalgia
I no longer have the manuscript for the very first book-length project I completed over the summer of 1993. Yet, the memories of that work linger vividly in my mind. It was, quite frankly, not good—an observation that would be endorsed by none other than Anthony Fantano, with his signature © and ™. Despite its shortcomings, the project was a reflection of its time, heavily influenced by Godflesh's album Pure, which I was listening to on repeat during that period. Occasionally, I've toyed with the idea of resurrecting and rewriting that early work, only to confront the reality that doing so is as impossible as returning to grade school to complete all those unfinished assignments.
Living with a piece of work for an extended period, whether it’s completed, in-progress, or lost, is akin to experiencing time distortion. It’s similar to how decades of marriage can seem to vanish in the blink of an eye. This feeling of time travel, where the distance between the present and the past blurs, is an odd phenomenon that makes me reflect on how much I've changed since that initial endeavor.
It’s taken me quite a while to come to terms with the fact that time travel, as we imagine it, isn’t possible. Recently, I explored this theme in a post about typewriters. My nostalgic yearning for them was, in essence, a desire for psychological time travel—a wish to return to a moment when such a machine could have been my first typing tool, and perhaps to replay my life differently. The success of such an endeavor would depend entirely on how well I could ignore the rest of my life and invest emotional significance solely in that one moment with the typewriter.
This concept of recreating or reliving the past is not unique to me. Stories abound of individuals who attempt to act out a form of time travel by surrounding themselves with relics, settings, and expectations from bygone eras. Patrick Farley’s “The Guy I Almost Was” is a notable example of this trope. In it, a character, disillusioned with the rapid pace of the cyber-revolution, seeks solace in the 1950s by acquiring a typewriter identical to the one used by William Gibson to pen Neuromancer. Yet, despite this nostalgic attempt, the character finds himself pondering which version of himself would regret which choice.
Over time, my own attempts to rewind the clock have become more than just skeptical—they’ve evolved into a deep-seated unease. I find myself wincing not only at my past mistakes but also at my futile attempts to correct them. How can I be sure that any "fix" would have been effective? What am I truly seeking from these exercises, if not the comfort of knowing I was destined to make the right choices?
I’ve previously discussed how the hardest question to confront is, “What do I really want?” This is not about what I tell myself I want or what others perceive I desire, but rather what I genuinely seek when all the pretense and justifications are stripped away. Equally challenging is the question, “What is this in front of me right now?” Zen practices offer valuable insights into asking these questions with the utmost clarity, revealing the often-overlooked reality of our current situation.
My initial engagement with these concepts was more intellectual than experiential. I understood, in a detached way, that we cannot revisit the past or experience the same moment twice—much like the old adage. This awareness was akin to knowing my mortality: a theoretical understanding rather than a lived reality. I believe I have now transcended mere intellectual acknowledgment.
This introspection might explain my enduring fascination with those who attempt to escape the world by creating their own. My most ambitious yet arguably least successful book, Welcome to the Fold, was driven by this notion. It grappled with the idea of rejecting the current world to invent a complete alternative. Such a venture demands an intense and unfiltered idealism, but often, these new worlds end up mirroring the very problems they sought to escape. It’s a bittersweet realization that such efforts, though admirable in intent, often end in disappointment.
Nostalgia stems from the same part of the brain that imagines scenarios and dreams based on past experiences. This part of the brain has been instrumental in our progress, from ancient savannahs to the Moon’s surface. However, it also casts an emotional spell that distorts reality. Our longing for the past is shaped more by our desires than by what truly occurred. Recognizing this requires a great deal of self-honesty and acceptance that what is before us is all we truly have to work with.
In the end, embracing the present and acknowledging our genuine desires might be the key to moving forward with authenticity and purpose.
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