Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Times Three Seasons

What do you do with your time?
Sometimes I hide mine in the toe of my shoe, to keep it safe at night from asshole vandals who would like to take all my time. Other occasions, I would tie it around my neck like some lace or a cross, as it helps remind me of how precious every slice is, times warmth pervading my skin and bones, flowing straight to my heart. The beat can slow and details can sharpen, and I witness people thinning and glowing strangely, their eyes glinting like church glass. Or birds will rocket across the sky and cars just miss each other, it seems, by milliseconds and millimetres, as each object will have grown in tandem with its speed, almost immeasurable by relative standards.

The time I keep exists as one dot on the rolled up red carpet of space, on which it occupies a position existing from way back then to the far future when. It exudes the same glow, undimmed, and contains the same mass, undiminished, as when I first found it with a smack on the ass. However unchanged it may be though, my time has a beginning, middle and end - a first, second and third act – with which to value it.

Though always in the now, time once existed in the then – The Past.
In the before, when this sentence was yet to exist, every breath was in queue for exhalation and the planet was but a ball of burning liquid rock, the past shone a light over everything that was. Forever it remains alive for science to poke and prod, every inch solid and unyielding yet growing and accumulating. Pieces are captured in a photograph exhibited in a museum or imprinted in a rock in South Africa. One cannot deny it as the past touches each of us in ways which make us giggle and squint or toot and hum. It blows smoke in our faces and lights up our eyelids when we sleep. The past is a great foundation on which the present is erected, without which knowledge could not balloon or children could not stand straight. It is the great educator offering 20/20 hindsight and an arms length of mistakes to avoid. The past is our mothers and theirs, buried in boxes, smiling at worms.

Dancing on one spot, clapping with one hand – The Present.
The double-you in now, the present is a bullet never hitting a target, or a bottom less glass, or a baby foot kicking a womb wall. Whereas the past is humanities stain, the present is the moment between two beats of a beautiful woman’s heart and the heat of her mouth on your neck after brief awkwardness. It is soul, sensation and sex without the weight of thought or the cynicism of a surgical eye. It is the most pure version of existence flip-flopping, head-over-heals into itself like the kneading of dough. The present is the reflection of the past squeezed into a rubber ball the size of a child’s fist, bouncing down San Francisco streets. Forever a moment in time, but the greatest moment that ever is.

The imagination of a child, on cocaine – The Future.
After right now, with a blank slate, the future is a rainbow swirling in a pool of pure nothing. It is a tree whose branches wrap around the globe in a wrestlers embrace, or the head of a dear severed in the passenger seat of your Lexus or the line drawn in the sand crossed over and erased, forgotten with a smile. The future consists of possibilities and dreams, streaming from a source pure, coloured with the eye of a soul exploding forward. It can only exist in a life with enough hope and optimism to expect better and the best, as the future is always bright and cheerful like a Disney cartoon or a Hawaiian sunrise. It is utopia, distant from the ills of the past and the reality of the present, augmented with enthusiasm and spark, perfect and disconnected.

Why do you stare at me like that? It is mine. My stockpile. You're just jealous. I work hard to hold every second, every millisecond. Each one counts, adds up. Each one is a little extra life with which to collect more minutes. And minutes mean hours, which mean days. None to waste on candyfloss and carnival rides.
I own it all and you just stare like dead meat. A rotting corpse in corduroy, unaware of his own impending death. You don’t even know when it is, do you? Oh, might as well buy the coffin and get yourself measured up for a suit then. No use wasting what time you have talking to me now. I can always get more, but you have one foot in the grave mister. One foot in the wormy dirt. Your loafers are covered in disgusting shit.

1 comment:

  1. I like my corduroy thank you very much.

    Anyway, that's not shit. It's discolouration.