A watch dresses… at least that’s what they say.
In that case, I have been naked for over seven years now, and don’t intend to dress back up ever again. Not with a watch, anyway.
Not with a ticking fashion gadget that would incessantly remind me of how short (my) life is, second after second, with every spasm of its arm. Not as if it has ever led me to anxiety to watch and listen to the cruel mechanism of a dial demonstrate passing time.
As a child I kind of enjoyed the sound of the brass pendulum on long suspension, moving cogwheels high up on the wall in my great-grandparents’ bedroom: it meant hominess and – oddly enough – an assurance of continuity (as long as we didn’t forget to wind it).
Much later, at the times of forming my adolescent self-worth, I fancied a Nomos wrist watch for awhile, with sharply defined Arabic numbers on a puritan dial and a leather strap. I still think it would be a classy choice for someone wanting to juxtapose the products of a digital age, whether cheap or expensive. But not for me. No longer.
As I said, I haven’t worn time on me for good seven years – by choice. Why?
For several reasons:
- I’m aware of life expectancy charts, but I don’t dwell on them – I live in the moment with my eyes directed to the future and as I do so, I realize the future is now
- Since I intentionally work from home, I measure time on the terms of my own Circadian rhythm – actually, more on my three year old daughter’s
- No clock or watch design that I am aware of would fit my stringent sustainability requirements and even if it would, I couldn’t afford it
- I can hack the time anywhere I go from public displays
- As I feel fit I can freely switch between the slow watch of a snail’s slithering on its mucous and the dizzying chronometer of a sunrise
- Most often however I take delight in observing time in its infinite dimensions, like in the scene below:
The sun setting behind the oak saplings sprung up so tall this year, their leaves tremulous from the winding down evening breeze, in the background a partial still life with the tall well and the barren trumpet vine branches, motionless themselves, pointing in all directions of the sky where clouds glide, a jet zips by… and that brings my attention to the big bird in the foreground: a lady one, getting ahead of the plane in a pinch, by foot, on the window pane.
These are my times.
How about yours?