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Time is an illusion
Feb. 14th, 2002 10:33 pmIt's 30 minutes before I get to leave work for the week and enjoy the weekend. Just 30 minutes. That's not long, is it?
Yesterday there were a couple of times when a mere minute stretched into eternity. The moments hung, suspended in midair, waiting for some odd breath of what passes for reality to shatter the stillness that held the moment there. And there was always some breath there to keep the moment from hanging there too long.
Sometimes the breaking of the suspended moment is far more painful than the moment itself.
I am a man who prefers laughing. I'd say that I like to laugh, but it's not strictly accurate. I enjoy laughing, I enjoy laughter, I can't say that I always like it. The point is that the alternative to laughter is far worse. An uncomfortable silence, a strangled moan, a shrill scream - those all get on my nerves. A lot. As I've gotten older I've noticed that my acceptance level for those has gone down at the same time that my acceptance level of pain in the world has gone up. It could be some news item about politicians grandstanding at the public expense, it could be someone else's life going down the toilet, it could be a funeral. Unless I know I have the ability to affect the outcome in some reasonable timespan (and reasonable varies from event to event) I simply shrug my shoulders. Nu? What do you want I should do about it? Should I haul a mountain of snow here for you to ski on? Maybe you want I should buy you a chocolate factory?
20 minutes to go.
I think I know why work is such a pleasure for some people. They have a job that fits them, they earn enough money to at least keep solvent, but most of all they have the ease of being able to know that there are certain rules which are kept mostly-fairly for everyone and that the structure isn't going to change overnight. Even if it does, they'll get some training in how things are changing.
This does not happen at home.
At home there are children and pets underfoot, needing love and attention and food. There are lovers whose mood you don't understand at the moment, or that you understand too well and wish could change. There's programs on the television made by combining the best in focus groups with the worst in scripts and censorship, most of which are only fit for flipping past or flipping off. There's dishes to clean, meals to cook, clothes to launder, tables to wipe, floors to sweep, rugs to vacuum, groceries to purchase, books to move, things to take out, things to put away, and if lucky neighbors to not yell at.
If very lucky, there's some chocolate too.
10 minutes.
One of the most amazing things to me about home is that I get to relax, at least part of the time. I get to leave my face by the door, leave my clothes at the foot of the bed, leave my work at work, leave the world and its cares outside. Outside, you see, is not Inside. Inside is a place for my stuff. Inside is a place for me. Inside is a place I sometimes share with other people, but that is by my choice. It's a very important choice, sharing Inside with someone else. And sometimes it's a pain - but I've never heard of anything which was always a pleasure and never a pain. Not even sex, chocolate or music.
("Is it in?" "Was that all?" "God that's too big!" "Beige...")
("Ugh, white stuff!" "Ugh, dark!" "Ugh, Hersheys!" "Ugh, waxy!")
("You call that music?")
Yesterday there were moments that stretched for hours. Today the hours passed in seconds. Tomorrow? Only time will tell.
Time to go.
Yesterday there were a couple of times when a mere minute stretched into eternity. The moments hung, suspended in midair, waiting for some odd breath of what passes for reality to shatter the stillness that held the moment there. And there was always some breath there to keep the moment from hanging there too long.
Sometimes the breaking of the suspended moment is far more painful than the moment itself.
I am a man who prefers laughing. I'd say that I like to laugh, but it's not strictly accurate. I enjoy laughing, I enjoy laughter, I can't say that I always like it. The point is that the alternative to laughter is far worse. An uncomfortable silence, a strangled moan, a shrill scream - those all get on my nerves. A lot. As I've gotten older I've noticed that my acceptance level for those has gone down at the same time that my acceptance level of pain in the world has gone up. It could be some news item about politicians grandstanding at the public expense, it could be someone else's life going down the toilet, it could be a funeral. Unless I know I have the ability to affect the outcome in some reasonable timespan (and reasonable varies from event to event) I simply shrug my shoulders. Nu? What do you want I should do about it? Should I haul a mountain of snow here for you to ski on? Maybe you want I should buy you a chocolate factory?
20 minutes to go.
I think I know why work is such a pleasure for some people. They have a job that fits them, they earn enough money to at least keep solvent, but most of all they have the ease of being able to know that there are certain rules which are kept mostly-fairly for everyone and that the structure isn't going to change overnight. Even if it does, they'll get some training in how things are changing.
This does not happen at home.
At home there are children and pets underfoot, needing love and attention and food. There are lovers whose mood you don't understand at the moment, or that you understand too well and wish could change. There's programs on the television made by combining the best in focus groups with the worst in scripts and censorship, most of which are only fit for flipping past or flipping off. There's dishes to clean, meals to cook, clothes to launder, tables to wipe, floors to sweep, rugs to vacuum, groceries to purchase, books to move, things to take out, things to put away, and if lucky neighbors to not yell at.
If very lucky, there's some chocolate too.
10 minutes.
One of the most amazing things to me about home is that I get to relax, at least part of the time. I get to leave my face by the door, leave my clothes at the foot of the bed, leave my work at work, leave the world and its cares outside. Outside, you see, is not Inside. Inside is a place for my stuff. Inside is a place for me. Inside is a place I sometimes share with other people, but that is by my choice. It's a very important choice, sharing Inside with someone else. And sometimes it's a pain - but I've never heard of anything which was always a pleasure and never a pain. Not even sex, chocolate or music.
("Is it in?" "Was that all?" "God that's too big!" "Beige...")
("Ugh, white stuff!" "Ugh, dark!" "Ugh, Hersheys!" "Ugh, waxy!")
("You call that music?")
Yesterday there were moments that stretched for hours. Today the hours passed in seconds. Tomorrow? Only time will tell.
Time to go.
