November 24, 2014 § 3 Comments
As a fiction writer, that’s easy to say.
I make my own hours.
If I want, my Monday can act like your Saturday (although usually my Monday and Saturday both come down on the Monday side of things).
But it isn’t Monday’s work-week baggage or rep I’m responding to, it is the newness, the feeling of a fresh beginning.
Give me a Monday and I have a whole new week in front of me!
I feel the same about New Year’s Day—squared. A new year is a snowfall no one has yet tracked with footprints, a blank page begging a story.
I know the markers we pin to the twisting ribbon of time: today, tomorrow, Christmas, three o’clock are human conveniences.
We measure time so we can coordinate our comings and goings—imagine planning a committee meeting if we had no common Tuesday or 10 AM—but how we perceive and manage the passage of time is personal.
I can handle time, but only in small increments.
If I had to navigate time as one long flow, I would drown, so I swim from marker to marker, filled with anticipation as each appears on the horizon.
Time is like that, personal and circumstantial, even its speed a matter of perception.
When passing through the sludge of boredom it slows, when electrified by excitement it races.
Look around. For the guy reading the paper on the bench time is ambling. For the harried woman who has just dropped her kids at daycare and is late for work time is rushing so fast she can’t catch its coat tail–and yet both are experiencing eight AM on a Monday morning.
I sometimes think time is conscious of us; time is an expert at Simon Says. You speed up, time speeds up. But the converse is true. Stop and time will cross its arms and stand at parade rest until you move on.
Each leaf is a moment I then hand to Ray when I go back in the house.
A couple of hours later it will be dull, curled, and brittle, its moment past, but both Ray and I will have pinned that moment down in the act of studying it, made time wait.
When I feel time whirring, I stop it by stopping myself; stopping and observing something closely.
And when time seems too vast, my accumulated mistakes overwhelming, I look for a label that allows me to start over.