monoceros blogsI've certainly had my share of making a mess of time. There were occasions when my timing was incredibly off or when I missed the boat by just a few days, hours or seconds; and then the times when I was late or too early or just never showed.
When I think of those times, I wish I could go back and re-do it all. I wish I did that something earlier, or waited a bit longer for that other thing or seized that damn day on that day itself.
Oh, well. Tough.
Right now, I wish I could stop time: that the world would be still - put on hold - while I get all the things I need to do, done (and at a pace of my choosing), and then start it up again without anyone or anything noticing the pause.
Oh, well. Tough.
I can see that time can only be dreamed of with longing or lost like a passing lover. And on this day, written about as if it were a muse. Sometimes, it really is one.
Yesterday, Fountain of Wayne's "All Kinds of Time" popped up on a playlist that I hadn't played in a while, and my first thought became a leap back in time, back to the football games I attended when I was at Michigan. After a bit of reverie, I re-played it (at least we can do this with songs!) and focused on the football player in the song, marveling at this guy who never panics. He isn't rushed or pressured; he copes with the situation. And he thinks of his family and fiancee, knowing that all the people who matter to him are supporting him right at that very moment. "The whole world is his tonight" - I heard that line and I thought, I want that kind of feeling.
Then I found another old - quite a bit older - song about time. George Michael has been derided quite a lot, but it's hard to knock "Praying for Time." The lyrics get to me every time.
And now, it's time for the new week to begin.
A seriously cute rodent, delicious cheese, familiar 80s tunes: what's not to like? This ad made Sunday evening pretty damn sweet.
Saturday mornings are often bright and brimming with possibility, possibility of all the things I could and would like to do. Often, I get to do a number of them and then I save the rest for another weekend. I go to bed quite content with that knowledge, though it is not without a sliver of moodiness because Sunday approaches swiftly, a clear sign of the end of my weekend rest.
I try to spend Sundays doing a bit of work so I won't be too frazzled on Monday itself, but I make sure to also indulge in a book or some music, and maybe a walk since it's been so breezy lately. I do so love a good lazy day, or a series of them.
Today, I finished a novel, The Broken Teaglass, a fun novel I began reading last weekend. Lexicographers, definitions, word nerds, a mysterious confession in bits and pieces hidden within the office's citation files: the book was right up my alley. It certainly was a treat this past week. And since it'd been a while since I listened to Bach, I put some on the music player. The grandiose and slightly dark phrasings of "Toccata and Fugue" lent some suspense as I flipped through the final pages of my novel, and then Gabriela Montero's clever and moving improvisation of "Prelude #1 in C" from "The Well-Tempered Clavier" left me thoughtful and yearning for something I could not articulate - I was certainly melancholic at this point - when I closed the book. Without my noticing, the afternoon had slipped by, giving way to evening.
I do wish they'd last a little longer, these Sundays.
A Sunday Kind of Love, by Beth Rowley
A friend of mine said that according to his geomancer, 2009 was awful for horses but 2010 will be brilliant for us. Skeptical as I've always been, I have no expectations that it will be. In fact, I began the new year with mixed feelings. But I do like to dwell in possibility. So I'm putting up two pieces of writing to mark the beginning of 2010, both of which capture these dual - these dueling - emotions.
"Riveted"
by Robyn Sarah
It is possible that things will not get better
than they are now, or have been known to be.
It is possible that we are past the middle now.
It is possible that we have crossed the great water
without knowing it, and stand now on the other side.
Yes: I think that we have crossed it. Now
we are being given tickets, and they are not
tickets to the show we had been thinking of,
but to a different show, clearly inferior.
Check again: it is our own name on the envelope.
The tickets are to that other show.
It is possible that we will walk out of the darkened hall
without waiting for the last act: people do.
Some people do. But it is probable
that we will stay seated in our narrowed seats
all through the tedious dénouement
to the unsurprising end - riveted, as it were;
spellbound by our own imperfect lives
because they are lives,
and because they are ours.
"I was afraid of wanting anything. I figured wanting would lead to trying and trying would lead to failure, but now I find I can't stop wanting. I want to surprise myself. I want to lose and get over it. I want to define myself instead of having others define me. I want to win and have people be happy for me. I want to be the best person I can be. I want to not be afraid of the unknown. It’s not that I think that I'm going to get all these things, I just want the possibility of getting them. The possibility that things are going to change."
~ from "Friday Night Lights"
And I'll be playing this song on the way to work tomorrow, determined to enjoy the show.
The Show, by Lenka