It’s a luxury to wait. It’s even more luxurious to sublimate waiting into existing. To be, without the possibility of not being. To do less to the point of doing essentially nothing. Thus is the essence of to be. This most used verb, typically a moniker for the useful, paired with adjectives. Remove the adjectives. Land in a stationary place. Wait, but for nothing. Godot is not coming and that’s for the best. Playwrights drink too much coffee. Or vodka. I’m not waiting for anything and doing less and less. Time unfolds before me as a dragon that demands to be fought, taunting me to slay it. To engage in a century-long battle and possibly prevail. To become honorable and glorious. I say, relax, dear dragon. We are not going to fight. One day, you will take me from here, swallow me whole or in pieces, and we can shake hands on that. It’s not a negotiation, we both know that. Neither of us like to have our authority over our respective domains questioned, and I do not question your authority. But you do not rule this universe entire. Sequences, causes, effects, you are a pre-eminent charioteer of these vehicles. And one day I will submit all the pieces of wholes of me to you and anyone you’d like to share me with. But for now, you cannot claim territory you wish you had.
Looking in the empty jaws of a calendar unpopulated with meetings, production, or positive scheduled valuations can be disturbing. But being disturbed is important. I suppose horror movies do serve a purpose, even if I won’t watch them. To be unswayed would be the worst possible way to be. Too rooted, even in a windstorm. To be blown by the winds of an empty time is among the best things. To enter into a timelessness, guided by the overabundance of time, it is a gift to all the senses. I’m waiting, but without any prepositions. I’m feeling the flow of time and being moved along with it today. And full of metaphors for the feeling that time tries to instigate and usually succeeds. Clocks are Faust’s reminder of the bargain. But he didn’t read the fine print closely enough. To be unashamed of one’s lot, even if it is to be damned to an eternity of service to the devil, perhaps this is to not look at the clock. Sometimes, though, it’s too clear that one is being watched. Trapped in the Panopticon, awake in the middle of the night. Such is the time to take a breath in, without counting the seconds, and forget to pay attention to the exhale.
June is almost over. It’s extraordinarily humid, not terribly hot. Coffee is flowing through my system and there is a fly finding itself briefly at home on different parts of my arms and legs. My back is a little sore. My eyes are wandering, watching cars and people and shoes. I’m unclenching my jaws after my teeth were grinding on time this morning.
Roman Ryan 