Saturday, November 05, 2005

The Sphincter of Time Puckers Around My Neck

Time = Asshole Fuck you, time. I wish you would show yourself to me so I could punch you right in the face. Nope, that's never going to happen. I'll never see your face, yet I'm still going to fight you every day.

I didn't always hate you, you know. In the past you were okay to me. Back when I attended grade school, summer vacations lasted forever, and then not so long ago, before my domestic situation changed, I had a lot more of you. Now I'm literally stealing a moment of you to directly address you:

What the fuck?

I know you're an abstract construct, yet regardless of what name and definition we thoughtful apes gave you, I know you exist independently of our definitions. What's that cliched quote? Time exists to keep everything from happening all at once? I know you're just doing your job. If you didn't then nothing, not one ounce of matter, would have any place to do anything . However, because I now have so little of you in my life let me now add a footnote to your definition: You're an asshole. Yes, you're an asshole because it just isn't right that there isn't enough of you in my life.

I have never been so possessive of anything, not money, my own safety, or even a woman as I am of you. You're killing me. I want you, and I protect the times I get you all to myself like a mother bear does her cubs. I savor you more than a smoker's last cigarette before quitting. In fairness, I will concede that it's not completely your fault. Technically, you're still doling out the same amount of temporal opportunities today as you did two, five and ten years ago. The big problem is that just like my paycheck is already spent before I even receive it, every second you give me is already nearly completely used up by "have to's." The face I don't show to the world is staring in wide-eyed shock with mouth agape at this. I'm stymied. How did this happen? Still, this doesn't get you off the hook completely, oh no!

Listen dickhead, why not throw some cosmic luck my way and help me figure out how to take time back, to devote more of you to doing things I want to do. You've got contacts. You're a big honcho in the cosmos. Can you help a brother out?

Even the snippets of you where I am free to use you are not pleasurable at all. If I get a free hour of you, there's always something else hanging over my head, a schedule to keep, a place to be, a thing to do, a drama to deal with. If these free snippets of you were farm-fresh deli meat, then the bread surrounding you is made from manure, making the entire affair unpalatable and difficult to digest. Because the unrestricted version of you only comes to me in snippets, I'm thinking of just not trying to do anything with these snippets anymore. Can a seamstress make a beautiful, unified dress out of snippets and scraps of cloth? No. Dresses made from snippets look like the things that I am able to produce with the "free time" in my life, disheveled and ugly things that are never completed nor unified. I can't relax and enjoy the small amounts of you that I dedicate to me. Could Tolstoy have written War and Peace on a gum wrapper? Hell no! Can I accomplish anything with the same sized temporal equivalent? Hell. No.

Take right now for example. I'm sitting in a coffeeshop furiously scribbling down this little note to you. I have just enough time between getting off of work and having (having I tell you!) to do something else to sit down with a cup of coffee and relax. This is not relaxation. I used to treasure these moments, probably because used to be longer than a "moment." Maybe people like me just function better with a schedule that allows meandering to a goal rather than needing laser-beam precision. Maybe I am a Meandrethal. I used to think I was focused. This still sucks. Instead of enjoying this moment I'm inking words to you on this page in the same manner and with the same precision that a caffeinated monkey flings shit (see Neal Pollak's art for a human example of this phenomenon).

And guess what? Two assholes just sat down next to me. They are dousing the last spark of fire in me to even continue with this ranting plea. These assholes are the ones who go out with the goal of being seen and heard. They talk from the diaphragm and perform a conversation, rather than "talk," like they are auditioning for the next big, short-lived reality television show. Not only did I just pull out my headphones and plug myself into them to block these guys out, but I also shoved the buds into my ear canals to a depth that may require medical assistance for removal. The volume is loud enough to justify the hearing loss warnings that came on the headphone package, but I still hear these fuckers!

This is where I give up, time. I've lost my grip on the topic of chewing you out. All I really know now is something has to change, and the change will most likely have to come from me because you are, still, an asshole. I'm tired of fighting with you. I know someday you will ultimately kick my ass, but in the meantime I'd prefer that we danced with each other instead, with me leading.

3 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

2:46 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

4:30 AM  
Blogger Mona said...

Speaking of time, I'm running out of it myself and having to adjust accordingly.

What I hope for you, my dear Rant, is that you get your wish, without losing your main source of income, or something in your life that you hold dear. I wish you longer moments to return to your Meandrethalic ways. I wish you laziness, inertia of the still kind, slothery, even lethargy.

All my best wishes to struggling with the asshole.

12:46 AM  

Post a Comment

<< Home