Telling Time 1

Tonight, I was driving.  Some music came randomly onto my stereo that I grew up with- music that really helped me at a moment of transition in my youth.  And I noticed something that I have been noticing more and more lately: that much of this music, while still full of meaning and despair, triumph and heart, is gaining another level in my mind.  It is becoming cemented; inextricably tied to the time period it came from.  The song retains some of its effect on me- but through memory, not directly.  It sounds like a '90s song.  

In my case, it's the '90s, but I'm sure this is what Dr. Gonzo felt sitting in a Vegas casino in the mid-'70s, after his revolution had fizzled and sputtered out and some "rat bastard" put "Mr. Tambourine Man" on the PA.  

Does this mean that I've changed?  That the world has moved on?  Or both?

I think I'll start a new series...

I've been thinking a lot about time, recently, and how we mark it.  Yes, there are days, weeks, and months... seconds tick on the watch my wife gave me for our anniversary; hours loom large and ominous like shadows or pass in quick, silent groups like Fall geese.  But those of us who think about these things (namely, everyone) know that time is subjective.  The calendar is decidedly not.  So how do I mark time?  Change, probably.  I am not the same person I was 10 years ago, 1 year ago, or yesterday.  Change is not, as I once thought, an accumulative process.  Some things are added to, but others are replaced.  Other things fill previously unknown holes like quicksand traps, and others still are switched out.  Harrison Ford with his bag of sand eyeballing the idol.

I want to keep thinking about this.  I propose to start a new series- to think each day about at least one way in which I mark the passage of time.  At least a sentence.  We'll see how long I can keep it up before my capriciousness (read: horrible ADD mated with incredible, Dude-ian level laziness) distracts my attention to the next, nearest shiny bauble.

When You Get Home

V.

Disengage. 

For now, cars pass beyond. 

A child and his friend shout in the distance. 

The birds make their chatter:

the sounds of a late afternoon in summer. 

When You Get Home

IV.

Know contentment:

it is not the same thing as happiness

or ease. 

Part of it is knowing

that you are where you should be. 

When You Get Home

III.

Rest. 

Let the people on the highway rush;

it's their turn. 

(Some people spend their entire lives on the highway.)

When You Get Home

II.
Drowse.
Love and laughter
and noise will come soon.
Now is the in-between time.
Now there is no one else here.

When You Get Home

I.

Open the doors;
rain will come soon.
And warm winds will push hazy notions
like the child changes the course
of a toy boat in a stream.
Breathe deep.