Got distracted by the timeline
Every so often I get distracted by the project of matching a year to a memory, of making a timeline.
There are only a few years I remember off hand. 1984, the year I was born, easy. 2001, I was in 12th grade, 17 years old. 2002, the year I graduated high school, 18 years old. 2005, the year I graduated college, turned 21, moved to LA. And that’s it. Those are the years and ages I absolutely know. Any others, I have to revert to counting up or back from those years, do some timeline arithmetic, check the archives.
There are several files on my computer where I’ve attempted the timeline: docs, email drafts, spreadsheets. These aren’t that satisfying to look through or even to compile. On the screen, it all feels like so much blank space, the empty cells and lines a condemnation of my terrible memory. On paper though it feels better, looser; we’re just jotting a few things down, triggering a few memories. The pen can quickly jump all over the page, first with years and ages, then schooling, graduations. Cities, apartments, roommates. Friends’ weddings, birthdays, concerts, trips.
Cultural touchpoints. Elections, Bush one and two, Obama one and two, the latest one. Flashes of memory, how I fancied myself a politics wonk during Bush one, threw in the towel after Bush two. Obama one, standing on a bench with my brother at the Doug Fir in Portland in absolute glee, calling my parents, can you believe it, no I can’t believe it. Obama two, more fuzzy, the timeline says New York, but how I spent it, I have no ready memory. 2016, I found out on a plane from LA to Austin, everyone turning on their phones as we landed, crickets and shock. (I was shocked, too, but also had just gotten together with my boyfriend, so it’s all colored by bliss. People reference the year of that election a lot, often with horror; I’m always reminded, oh yes, that’s the year, then, that we went from friends to more.)
Often before job interviews I’ll do an abbreviated version of the timeline, just of jobs and cities. Tell you about myself? Oh right, yes, well, it’s all been moving in an upward trajectory leading to this exact position, actually. Virginia, LA, San Diego, Portland, New York. Writer, florist, editor, manager.
Sometimes I do it for fun. On airplanes, it’s nice to revisit the timeline, passes the time. It can be a distraction in waiting rooms, coffee shops. Friends. Haircuts. Trips out of the country. Pixie, bob with bangs, long hair, pixie. Germany, Hong Kong, Ireland.
The early years are harder, the memories just aren’t there. I have a friend who remembers everything, who can say, in June of 1993 I was 10 years old and my grandmother stayed with us for a week and here’s what we did each day. I cannot do that. I had a very happy childhood, and can remember flashes of it, but not much beyond. Because of that, maybe, childhood seems timeless to me, single memories represent whole eras. Ballet lessons and soccer games and summer camps and late summer evenings at the beach. In middle and high school things start to firm up, school years and school friends providing anchors by which other memories swirl around.
At some point while compiling a timeline, I always give up, abandon the project. Completion is impossible. What is time anyway, months, dates, years. It all happened whether I know when or not, whether I remember or not. But I always return. Not to the old lists, but to the blank page. Start filling in the years, pulling together a narrative, making sense of it all.
Watercolor by Matt Davis