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08.29.02 - 12:39 a.m.
i am no match for time. i surrender my belief that i can wrestle the pulse that beats over my day. i submit to the red digital rhythms pushing me out into each morning, which carry me cresting, bump and flow onto my first destination. come evening, time shores me into bedroom folds. steady still. no longer perculating and yet persisting, time's waves flatten and stretch prickly morning peaks into languid evening hours. my fight with time changes then, just a little. i am still the loser, so foolish to prop my eyelids on wilting lashles, like a fruit stand vendor who refuses to yield and lower his canopy shut when business has ceased hours before. i think back to my earliest wrestling matches with time. then, i latched onto a brown-rimmed plastic kitchen clock painted with a faux face of yellow bronwn harvests. squash and pumpkins and acorns, i believe. their proper names scrawled in latin, lackadaisical 'cross its face. thin decorative cryptic locks understanding unbreachable.
popping the clear plastic cover of that clock like a contact lens, i stick my right hand intersecting corners 12 and 3. time is a game of three pointed sticks racing. the second hand, the thinnest stick of all, trots quickest around the numeric track. my open hand slices its round the corner. a certain catch?
the clock will stop i think, if i but grip just this second, a wooden baton beheaded. do i not now conduct time accordant with my life? how surprised i am when the clock does not stop, not really. i've muzzled the meter, but with a might that belies my understanding.
the hours tremble. time will not stand still. the spindly thin hands pushes stubborn against mine,insisting "off we go." hands shake. time splits. wacking my hand harder, time beats "let me go. there is no time. can't you you see? time's up. i must go!". i test time again. i lift my hand out of time's way, then drop it in again. like dropping stones in shallow creek waters, then watching these sheeths absorb stone's intrusion, and yet bubble onward. does time absorb human hands, when we invade its stream in the same fashion? time did not quibble with me then. and time refuses to quibble with me now. like jacob's fight with the angel of god, after the night of my youth, i've awaken at last to realize this:
i'd been fighting with myself, not time, all along.
MUSIC: mood
READING: music
FEELING:motion
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