nick hornby is grand, just grand

I’m at one of my favorite places with two of my favorite things. I’m at a coffeehouse with a book and an espresso. I planned to come here, to this coffeehouse, to read this book while drinking this espresso. It’s a simple duo of actions in a setting I’ve engaged in and valued for years. Except, right now, I don’t want to read this book. Instead, I’m typing on my computer.

Backtrack.

A few weeks ago I watched I’m Not There, the movie based off of Bob Dylan’s life/songs/mythology. The plot of the movie jumps around six different vignettes, each one featuring a different actor playing a figure or a theme derived from the grand spirit of what enthusiasts and historians consider the Bob Dylan. Each one is different, lives a different life, tells a different story, but it’s all Dylan.

In a way, it’s kind of like the different lives we have, separate segments telling the story of the same person. Who you were in high school is different from who you were in college, the you with the first post-college job, the restless period you might have, all the way up to you now, the you who likely won’t be the same person you’ll be in three years. You have different goals, different values, opposing outlooks, separate ideas…but in a way I guess you are the same person. Who you inherently are never changes; you just lead different lives from here to there, dropping off your old life for the new one, hoping it will hold out until the next one comes along.

The thing you occasionally do is look back on your past lives as if you just bit a lemon. You sometimes cringe when you think about your old clothes, how you cooked, the music you listened to, the things you’d laugh at in another person today. Then again, you look also look at your past lives as what you knew and experienced, the things you learned and how you interpreted them, the culmination of your “everything” of that day and how it made you you.

Back to now. I’m not reading my book. I’m not reading it because I don’t want to. I’m not reading it because I know it’s too loud here for me to really appreciate and fully grasp what’s going on. A few years ago I would have soldered on, likely missing bits here and there while I subconsciously picked up on the conversations and clanking plates around me. Today, I know I can’t really do it and enjoy it. So, I turn on my computer and type. It’s what I’ve learned.