who we once were, who we will be

I have a very early collage I made that I keep stuffed in my college writing scrapbooks and occasionally pull out for amusement. Not from my first forays into artmaking when I was in my thirties, but created probably around age 20 judging from the images. Lots of 90's standpoints like The Cranberries, So I Married An Axe Murderer, and a young Brad Pitt (who was not really anyone I saw as a heartthrob at any point, so I am not sure why that's even there.) Also lots of words detailing my obsessions--coffee (obviously), theatre, books, vintage, Shakespeare, poetry, art. Russia is in there I'm pretty sure because I was intensely enamored of Chekhov at that age. Other random abstractions like "muse" and "mind". Images of victorian ladies and illustrations of girls in black turtlnecks.

If I remember correctly, this found its way into a scrapbook of clippings long since thrown out, but I think may have once been framed above my desk as an inspo or vision board, much in the way I use Pinterest now. I had many sketchbooks--large format ones full of clippings for an apartment I would one day have, clothes I would like to wear. Of course, once I was out of college, it was many years before I had the money to buy the things I so carefully cut out and glued down. And even longer before I properly learned to dress my body and that the fashion industry was smart enough to realize plus size clothes are a good place to invest their efforts. I had some of these sketchbooks in tow when I first lived here, but I suspect I may have tossed them at some point in the past two decades in a cleaning purge.  

Like my diaries and journals, however, they are an artifact to the people we once were, good or bad, stylish or unstylish, tasteful or tasteless. I see this collage and I instantly think of the time I spent in my room while an undergrad, happily introverting between classes and rehearsals, listening to 90's music and making lots of tea and bad instant cappuccino. Those long unencumbered summers I'd stay up til dawn watching my parent's satellite tv and journaling or writing poems cross-legged at the coffee table. That girl was at the beginnings of things in every way.  Every once in a while I stumble on comments on Instagram reels of people certain something sinister is afoot because time goes faster.  It's called getting older. And its sinister as hell.  I think about the time drag of childhood, and even my college years, though scheduled out, still seemed long. But grad school, less so. The work world, even less. 

Even now, with a much less hectic pace to my days, it's still remarkedly fast. Earlier I remembered myself just a year ago happily sitting here enjoying the noise of summer outside my windows. how much has happened good and bad in the past year that moved fast/slow/fast/slow. Not just this year, but probably the last several, though I am not sure if the pandemic has to do with it, the simultaneous creep and speed of lockdown, or just years for me personally in which a lot of things shifted and changed after many years of the same. 

I still keep a vast system of Pinterest boards, some just decor things I want to emulate or write about, or art & design things to inspire me. Clothes and outfits I'd either like to buy or find similar looks. I keep boards for different art and writing projects. A whole board I like to look at when I need cover ideas when working on books. It's probably just more evidence that while things change, nothing really does. I still make moodboards and listen to 90s music. Still write poems and journal, albeit here and not a blank book. I still drink too much coffee and tea and while I don't have a coffee table to sit at, spend my introverting time instead at my work table. I can still can be found watching horror movies at 2am. (though at least I get to choose what they are now.)