The past’s a convenient fiction. That’s all it’ll ever be. It lets us learn from mistakes and feel nostalgic for lost loves, yes, but memories about it’re malleable. They slip out and down like an erosion. We make of the past what we want. We’re constantly creating and forgetting where and what we’ve been.
The future’s pure fantasy, made solely of what we intend for it. The future’s never happened in the history of man.
So, today’s all there there is. Our lives are a series of todays.
In another week of todays, my today will begin with a summer study session in London. Anticipation fills me with dreams of Big Ben, Parliament, the Tate Modern, Tate Britain, the Saatchi Gallery, an endless procession of place after place. I’ll be taking two courses: Museums and Galleries, and London and Its Literature. I’ve done the pre-reading, and I’ve looked at all the websites.
The thing about today is, though, there’s no knowing what’ll specifically happen until that specific today comes. In London, there will be new friends never dreamed of, new places, new problems, new smells and sounds. Tomorrow’s todays’re unpredictable, and that’s their appeal. As much as I plan, plot, and look forward, each new today will offer something unexpected. And that – beyond the museums, galleries, and places – is what I can’t wait for. Tomorrow’s todays’re lined up in a row, ready to offer up the unexpected. That’s what I excitedly anticipate. That’s what I’ll be jittery about when I get on and off that plane in a week.