Sometimes, five minutes,
minute.
Sometimes, five minutes,
a puddle of muddy water.
Sometimes, five minutes,
brain itch.
Therefore the sage accepts this “five minutes”
even if it feels like twenty-five,
laughs at its absurdity,
weeps at its longevity.
A mere parsleyworm
can it not leave a trail?
Therefore be brief
when it comes to speaking,
be concise
when it comes to writing.
Those who follow this
won’t need another five minutes.
Photo from Kevin Eikenberry
Has time fled? Well, not quite. There were times when I thought it had stopped, that life would be the same every day. Those were the hard times.
I like motion. I like how time works on me.
It is fine to plod along. We all do that to some degree, dragging our tails behind. Some days are more gloomy than others, but it’s OK as long as I have faith that they will pass.
Jeanne Lupton and I talk about tragedy and comedy. Tragedy is egocentric, focusing on the misery of oneself. Whereas comedy allows us to see situations in a larger context. We have to be able to laugh, most importantly, at ourselves. For me, it does take some fifty odd years to get it.
It has a name: the alarm clock. It’s the worst way of getting up. A taskmaster with a whip, the alarm clock destroys the natural rhythm of waking and cracks open the world in a most unsavory way. I surrender to its first note and for the rest of the day I’m a slave of time.
Sometimes my rebellious nature makes me turn the damn thing off and goes back to bed. Under the cover I drift back to sleep (at least half consciously). With enough time lapsed I can pretend that I have a will of my own before swinging my feet down onto the floor. Of course then everything is approached with a great rush.
I remember in college the alarm clocks went off at the dorm rooms starting at 5:30 in the morning. The cacophony of wake-me-ups wound up our little robotic brains as we went here and there and worked till we dropped, until the next morning.