Striking Another Match
Patrick Mulligan
A self-proclaimed poet and writer from Brantford, Ontario. An all around enthusiast currently living and working in Ottawa.
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When I was in the process of reading for my undergraduate degree, I had the good fortune of working as a historical interpreter in my hometown of Brantford, Ontario (for those of you not in the know, "Historical Interpreter" is industry jargon for a tour guide clad in period apparel). Outside of wearing moleskin in the dead of August, the job also allowed for me to engage with the public in the capacity of a bona fide educator. It was during this time that I first began to embrace my love of public speaking, and to really understand it as being an embodiment of my love for connection.
In a nut shell, that's what historical interpretation really is: it's a connection between the interpreter and the audience, and the conversation being had and the past. Serving as a link between eras, relaying nostalgia for a time that was altogether foreign to me, I really began to understand the concept of temporal occupancy. Or, as was often the case, indifference.
Time is a restless current, and it's easy to catch yourself adrift thereon without heeding just where you might end up. Such is the case that one day, a plucky teenager not unlike myself might find himself waxing poetic about the early Twenty-First Century to crowd of intrigued onlookers. And who knows; he might even find himself clad appropriately in skinny jeans and flannel, just to sell the whole thing.
And just like me, he might cautiously guide his audience to consider the mundane "objects-turned-artifacts" of years gone by. Antiquated iPhones, rotten Macbooks. That is the fate of us all, perhaps - to have our effects first become garbage, and then treasure long after we are gone. If one thing is certain, it is that nothing stays the same. Our ways of being, our attire, and even our perception of all things pertaining to such are equally subject to change as we ride down the ardent stream of time.
And that, I think, is the most salient point that I was able to pick up on during my tenure as a steward of history. That in the grande scheme of things, even the metrics by which our successes and failures are ascertained will necessarily topple against the winds of change.
And there's something freeing in the thought, don't you think? That what binds us now will come to be viewed either inane or archaic by virtue of simply existing for a certain amount of time. That, as all things must give way to change, the only reliable metric to assess success is the one that you choose for yourself.
It's a pretty thought.
When I sat down to write the poem below, I had the subject of time fixed within the forefront of my mind. And what started as a lengthy treatise on the perils of popular taste ended up becoming a much shorter piece (you're welcome), reflecting more succinctly my thoughts on the perils of preponderance. That is, all things must come to pass, and more often than not, all that wills something to flourish will just as well will it to flounder. There is a completeness innate to endings, I think, and I also think that time takes upon itself the duty of tying up every loose knot. I can't complain, however - a sunset is generally held in higher regard than high noon, isn't it?
| there will come, as
summer forestalls for having
been loved, a
flatness to the world.
whose color is stripped;
no more taste of
this season unending,
no more
shall we conclude
that these epochs
must end.
only subsist, and
made stale for having been
left for too long
in the sun.
- Patrick Mulligan
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