I contain multitudes
I was catching up with a friend during my little farewell tour of Toronto and told her the news of my impending move. Before we went on our separate ways, she looked at me and said that the next time she saw me, I would be a different person. She looked at me sadly, and we separated, either of us turned back. Well, I guess I didn’t, and don’t know if she did or not. I was caught up in her words.
As much as they were a meaningless bromide, worn thin by frequent usage, the sincerity of its delivery struck me. I had an out of body experience of sort, the type that happens when one attends too many TIFF screenings. I could see the moment, starting from my point-of-view, then moving to her point of view, close-ups mixed with medium shots. As inconsequential as this moment itself was in the grand tapestry that is my life, I don’t doubt that I’ll remember it for many years to come. It’s a farewell quote that evokes Bill Murray and ScarJo, Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy, Casablanca, Sam and Frodo, Spike and Faye.
I grew up with this friend, but after different high schools, colleges, and lives, we no longer knew each other as well as we used to. Still, she had just returned to the city after a breakup, and we had a good time catching up. Her observation was astute: she had no idea when she would see me last, and it would likely be closer to five years from now than to one. But was it a meaningful observation? Wouldn’t we be different every time we saw each other à la Heraclitus? Not for the last five years of my life or so.
Since graduating from college, I haven’t had any big changes to my life. Sure, I’ve moved downtown, quit drinking, found a partner, and decided that I like my job, but these were all steady and eventual developments of someone who graduated college and was slowly settling down into adulthood. There were no longer any big milestones or exciting updates to give to my friends who I caught up with infrequently. For those that I saw regularly, a recent book, movie, or trip are all worth talking about, but for those that I see on an annual basis, it all feels trivial. In my youth, it seemed like I had worldview-changing events every year or so, adventures that would shift my paradigm.
But this time, it wouldn’t be that way. I’m standing at the precipice of a big change in my life that will undoubtedly shape how I perceive others and them me in the next few years. Next year at this time, I will have a lot to tell someone, no matter when the last time I saw them was. This version of me, Chris in Toronto, will cease to exist. Sure, some parts of me will persist, folding into my new identity and perception, but this version of me that I’ve come to love and accept will no longer be there. As with the ship of Thesus, I will simultaneously be the same person and a different person. I can already feel the changes start to take hold: a growing tolerance for disorder and change, a willingness to pick up the bottle again, and an even greater penchant for sentimentality and nostalgia.
That night, I said goodbye to my friend, but it was as though I was bidding this version of myself farewell and welcoming a new me. She said that it was sad that perhaps, this would be the last time she ever saw this version of me. And that made me sad too, knowing that this chapter of my life was at a close. I immediately filed away the thought for use on a future short story. Who knew what I would be like in a few years? Overworked and chronically cranky? A clout-chasing alcoholic expat?
Later that same evening, I watched a screening of The Life of Chuck, the TIFF People’s Choice Award this year. It was a good movie, albeit a bit slow and not as commercial as I had expected from an audience vote. Perhaps Toronto is becoming too sophisticated for me. In the movie, Walt Whitman’s A Song of Myself is a core plot element, and it’s used to illustrate the inner lives of people, the simulacrum of reality that they’ve constructed around and of the world around them and themselves. The movie specifically focuses on Whitman’s line “I contain multitudes”, which in the context of the movie (and poem, I imagine) refers to an expanded self-awareness that encompasses everyone that the speaker interacts with. Though I attempted to read it, I’m unfortunately not literate enough to understand the poem or this complex interpretation of this line.
Yet the movie, about the life of a man in three acts, as well as this line, seemed appropriate for my current thoughts and concerns. Because it seems to reassure the viewer and reader that all these distinct versions of myself, both actual past iterations and possible future iterations continue to live on within me. Just like how high school Chris and college Chris continue to impact what I do, conferring their experiences onto present-day Chris, Toronto Chris will also be a checkpoint in my life. Though I’m slowly saying goodbye to the life I am leading, this version of myself will persist. Though others, like my friend, won’t be able to easily see my past lives as clearly, and who I was during those times, their impact will endure.
My friend wasn’t wrong in the end. It’s her that’s saying goodbye to this version of me, and she won’t meet him again. But as for me, I will always be in touch with Toronto Chris. It isn’t wrong to be sad about leaving Toronto, but it would be improper to mourn my passing, because Toronto Chris will always be a part of me. A new chapter of the book of my life doesn’t erase old chapters, but merely progresses the story. And if I ever forget what Toronto Chris was like, it will be easier than ever to remember, because high school Chris and college Chris barely wrote, but Toronto Chris has an immense repository of essays and short stories to remind everyone of who he was. Chris is dead. Long live Chris.
