I adhere to my plans for three days, then I wake up late on two days and I am a total waste. How much do I read? How much do I write? What about emails and networking on social media? Also, I may write about other artists and thinkers but would I ever be able to produce something of my own? The time behind my calendars and to-do lists is impervious to pleas. Nauseatingly dominating. It is only now, in the capacity of an emerging independent blogger, that I have had the chance to confront time’s other, darker facet – its sheer tyranny and incorrigibility. I panic and hyperventilate on a daily basis. Timekeepers: How the World Became Obsessed with Time by Simon Garfield (2016, Canongate) A mysterious aspect of reality that graciously accommodated and contained everyone and everything. All was contingent upon it but mostly, it seemed like a generous unfolding. Until last year, time, for me, was a strange phenomenon, simultaneously linear and cyclical, that impressed a sense of order upon existence. I remember almost all of the major clocks and watches I’ve encountered in my life – at home, in school, in college, in every temporary room in the few countries in which I have lived. I have always been too conscious of our dependence on time.
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