object permanence
on memory, history, past selves
If I ever get lost I have no doubt you’d find me again. People leave traces of themselves wherever they go. These traces have infinitely long half lives. A song will float on the radio, and you’ll inadvertently begin mouthing the words. Just the other day I reflected on how many decisions I’ve made with your voice in the back of my head.
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In old paintings, you might find what is called pentimento. A pentimento is an artifact of an earlier version of an artwork, covered with a fresh layer of paint. It could be an object, a color scheme, a hidden motif. Sometimes these original forms are buried inside of paintings forever. Other times, as the paint wears off and erodes, you might begin to see spectral inklings or contours of what used to be. Every piece of art is its own insular archive, just like every person contains a museum for the people they used to be. Certain experiences, memories, and ideas from your past remain deeply embedded within you, even, and especially when, they are not obviously interpretable to the outside world.
It’s a paradox. To move through this world with velocity, you have to be willing to start over again and again. Throw yourself into novelty, hungry and willing. Yet, you’re bound to the debris of past experience. Every ailment, every victory. Every yearning, every blameless mistake. Every great love, every little wound.
What is invisible is the most important source of internal legibility. You wrote the drafts, revised them even if no one read them. You hurt people when they didn’t deserve it, forgave yourself for being careless. Learned from your mistakes, vowed to live with more honesty. Those lessons are pentimento: they’re stored somewhere within you, giving you grace and strength in subsequent experiences.
The limits of our ability to communicate these past layers to others is one of the main challenges of closeness and intimacy. I find it easier to interrogate others than to allow myself to be totally comprehended. You can fantasize all you want about the shape of what you want to say, what it means, but it’ll take a really long time to find the right words to properly express it.
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The alchemy of time rewires meaning. It just does. I used to hold on so tightly to what I thought would last forever. Now I have more humility around why and how to let go. The word pentimento is Italian for repentance, from the verb pentirsi meaning “to repent,” to change your mind. May new flowers grow over the silt of memory.
I could go on about how certain experiences live in us forever. Or I could claim that moving freely, unencumbered, necessarily requires some form of historical reconfiguration or auditing of past meaning. Both would be partially wrong. Preservation and transformation occur together within us all the time.
Speaking of traces, pentimento is an idea I learned from Justine via our shared substack from three years ago (which only proves that some conversations have infinite lives). Thank you Justine for your wonderful mind.
PS: Thank you for reading - if you feel inclined; please like or share this post. Starting from Nix is a labor of love. Your support helps me curate more posts and reach more readers.
PPS: I’m trying new styles of writing as we go into the new year. Excited to hear your feedback and thoughts.
Perfume testing in Noe Valley to find a subtle my-skin-but-better perfume; Hosted a little grill-out with friends featuring burrata salads and an (unpictured) almond, wild rice, pomegranate salad that was a huge hit; Sake tasting bar (Millay in Duboce), perfect spot for a girls night out or… ~romantic date~; watched Anora on a random weeknight.
We also celebrated A’s birthday where we all shared poems and snippets. Here was the one I shared via Christopher Alexander:
One of the most moving moments in my life, was also one of the most ordinary. I was with a friend in Denmark. We were having strawberries for tea, and I noticed that she sliced the strawberries very very fine, almost like paper. Of course, it took longer than usual, and I asked her why she did it. When you eat a strawberry, she said, the taste of it comes from the open surfaces you touch. The more surfaces there are, the more it tastes. The finer I slice the strawberries, the more surfaces there are.
I love this quote for it describes an attention to detail for all things, that the simplest things have many surfaces and angles for us to savor and appreciate. I’m reminded often to widen my aperture of perspective to include moments when mundane or ordinary is infused with beauty.
This poem by Amiri Baraka via Tom Snarsky
Books
I started Haruki Murakami’s latest book The City and Its Uncertain Walls - book club anyone?
Essays
- ’s excellent latest essay, on deception:
In Jean-Paul Sartre’s definition of bad faith, we have a great deal of freedom of choice in our lives—but we often deny this freedom, and the responsibility that comes with it. We say we can’t do something, when what we really mean is that we don’t want the consequences.
Amulets Against The Spirits of the Age by
on lines and sentences that are charged with power/meaning.An Evolving Index of Rhetorical Forms by
THIS ESSAY on Cormac McCarthy’s 16 year old muse is as crazy as it sounds!
If you live in SF, you might want to read
substack Discussion Candy on underground culture reporting on the city - she also shares upcoming events to go to.
French Song of the Week
underground vibes
so gorgeous! I really relate to that idea of not being able to communicate past layers of yourself to other people. it can feel so refreshing to know that people only know you as the person you are now, but there's also something kind of sad about knowing they don't really know you
ur essays — slim and deep — always prompt a sense of living soulfully. they are such a pleasure to read.