Article by Tasha Finkelstein Art by Talia Cardin
If I could find a way to make the days last longer, where would I begin?
1. I could try knitting a scarf long enough to hold everyone I love. This way, when it gets cold, we could all be warm together. This way, no one could ever run too far from me. They’d be wrapped in this scarf, the one I knit for them, the one I still haven’t finished yet.
I like to pull the thread out long — twist it between my fingers, get tangled in it, search for a pattern of braiding that will turn all of my tangles into a piece of art, something nice to look at at the very least.
Sometime later I will resurrect the thread, find it hidden at the bottom of a basket full of yarn, peeking out silver, shimmering through to me. When the thread is glistening and alone, I will be reminded of a scarf I never finished knitting. I could try to start the project up again but we both know I’m not going to finish it before the year ends.
I like to speak in metaphors and riddles and say things I don’t really understand, but I promise I have a very real relationship with a very real scarf. The scarf is purple and teal and maybe I will add the orange yarn in soon. I started the scarf about a year and a half ago. I went to the yarn store with Ruby, who is good at finishing projects. She’s made a small chair out of yarn, and a crochet case for her vape too.
Ambitiously, I thought I could make a scarf. I even thought I could finish it. I’ll pick this scarf up every now and then, knit a couple of rows, and eventually spend enough time with it that I’m on to the next ball of yarn. The trouble is I have no actual stopping point.
I’m starting to think my lack of design is its own genius design. If I never have a stopping point in mind, the thread doesn’t have to end.
2. I could take inventory of all the loose threads I never picked up. They’re scattered around my room and sometimes I trip over them. (By now you should know that this essay is not an essay. It’s my attempt at another scrappy scarf that I will be forced to finish half-complete because the ending could never be an actual ending.)
Sophomore year, I had an idea for a Cipher piece about making friends and melting wax. My mom would tell me about her college days living with roommates — the light fixtures they made by melting candles over empty wine bottles, peanut butter noodles for dinner, the doors of their house painted all different colors. I live with my friends now too, and we did make some of our own wine bottle candles, but that’s about it. I never became an amazing cook or anything else I thought I would be when I lived in a house. I still get stressed out every time I try to make a proper meal. Instead, I like to sit on the couch with my roommates and watch music videos for hours. I suppose thats it’s own kind of heaven.
Last year, I had an idea for a Cipher piece about parasocial relationships I’ve had with celebrities — Leonard Cohen, David Beckham, etc. I didn’t want to know anything about anyone except people who had no idea I existed. At the time, I thought it was funny. Now, I read what I wrote and it is so very lonely. I don’t think it’s something I could finish anymore.
This summer, which I now realize was last summer, I had an idea for a Cipher piece about driving instructors. I was learning how to drive in the Springs and, to my surprise, it was more of a wonderful experience than a stressful one. I wanted to write about Keith, my favorite instructor. I never wrote about him but I think I’ll remember him and that July anyway.
This year, I had an idea to make greeting cards. I like to fill my notebooks with doodles that don’t make sense and pair them with words that might help them make more sense. I like to turn these loose lines into creatures I can tuck away, talk to on another day. We have a room in our house that gets flooded with sun that I wanted to turn into an art studio and I have all the materials but I never made the art. In the version of this Cipher issue where I am writing an essay, the sun room is an art studio and I am making something new everyday. It’s never a scarf; it’s always something I can finish.
3. I could join the intramural water polo team.
I joined partly so I could keep my mind and body busy from thinking about the future and dreading all the things, things I have no idea about, things I like to imagine in their worst iterations.
I don’t know if joining the water polo team is working in the way I hoped it would. I still go to the library and get so nauseated from anxiety that I can’t do any of my work. But for about an hour last week, I got to smell chlorine and forget about everything that lies ahead. I got to see people I have known for years committed to an activity that is pointless and beautiful, beautiful because it is pointless. Something about all of us making the conscious decision to bring a towel, jump into the pool, wear an ugly swim hat, and paddle backwards — something about it makes me want to stay in the water forever.
Then, of course, I tell myself I should’ve joined an intramural team earlier in my college career. And then I remember there’s nothing I can really do about that. I’m glad I’m here now.
4. I could start vaping. I’m not sure it makes the days last longer. Really all it does is make me count the days.
I got a Geek Bar (California Cherry) over spring break after making it to 21 without ever owning a vape. It makes me way too out of breath when I try to do things like play water polo and is arguably too sweet, but I don’t regret buying it. I am trying to make it last until the end of the school year. It still has 79% of its juice left. I don’t use it often. Just when I am okay being out of breath, or when a friend wants to hit it, which is sort of all the time these days. I have decided to breathe in all the sweetness until I no longer can.
5. I could add on to a never ending list.
Over second block break, me and my roommates made a list of all the things we wanted to do while staying on campus. We had a huge piece of paper and put it up on the pantry door. We had so many things on there, pumpkin patch picking, making banana bread, cleaning out the entire house. I don’t think we even did half of the activities on the list. It was more of a point of reference for us throughout the fall and into the spring — something we could look at and think of all the things we could do, how many things there were left for us to do.
Now, the list is nowhere to be found. I think the paper got ripped up during our last party. Someone must’ve thrown it out when we were cleaning.
Making a new list — one I could hang somewhere other than our pantry door, one I could bring outside of the house — sounds like an impossible task. There isn’t anything new I’m looking forward to. And besides, there’s too much to do together in the days we have left. Instead of more things, we’re all just trying to conjure up more days.
6. I could end by telling you about March 24th. A Monday.
Sitting on the porch. Waiting to watch him find me in the rocking chair, grinning wide like he’s holding in a laugh. Sprinkled in light green shimmery light green dragonfly light, airy honeysuckle dew beginning of spring. The most magic time of day. The air is always dry here, but this evening it is dew. Earlier, I remember how to give myself a gift of small things. I come home, watch an episode of TV with Maddy and Ruby, eat a piece of cheese, take a shower, shave my legs for no other reason than I like to waste time. I cannot do the things I should do ever. When I make my way over to the Cipher meeting I feel open and airy and alone. I move the boxes of the new issue from the Pub House into the Canoe Room and then people trickle in and someone says it smells good. I think it could be me because I just showered and put on body oil. I remember that it’s good to have secrets with yourself even if they are small. And it is so nice to be in this room surrounded by people who choose to be here every week and we laugh and talk about nothing and then I think maybe the job search is tough because I feel as though I already have the best job in the world. And I guess in the back of my mind it also makes me hopeful because at least there’s something I know I like doing. I walk around campus and place copies of the new issue in places I think people go to. The magazine always seems to disappear anyway. I hope people take it home. I hope someone somewhere is reading a story they like. I circle the quad. I take the long way home. The light is shining, illuminating the grass, creating sparkles and no one seems to be anywhere. It is alone and beautiful. It is about 6 p.m. Maybe everyone is at dinner. Sometimes it feels stupid to write about the light and then I think it’s all I can do.