I do not wear a watch on vacation.
It is no deliberate measure, no time-stretching device. I should
wear a watch, O Best Beloved, for without it time has no meaning at all to me. I am enfolded in a rhythm of doing what I like
without regard to time or thought, and I will be startled to discover that I have lost lunch, or dinner, or bedtime, or the entire day in playing around. I should wear a watch, like my father, with programmable alarms and many many of them - alarms to remind me to eat, to sleep, to shower, to wake. My world does not require these mundane things.( Collapse )
My father lives in a different house now, the house in which we built an upstairs apartment and lived for over a year, a rambling structure from the early 1900's with murals painted into the plaster and a kitchen he is still completing renovations on, a rambling house too big for just himself, two cats and a dog, but my stepmother followed the dictates of sociology and my sister is almost twenty-two and I am twenty-five and my baby sister is nineteen and has a baby of her own and we do not come home as often as we should. But there is a Ford Probe in pieces in the garage that my brother, youngest of us, has taken apart after it was totalled and he spends Wednesdays and weekends there and I come to fix the computer and pick up my mail and yank on the strange creeper that grows up the brick walls and pet the cat. And Michelly comes to clean up and keep company and we come because our father is a man of infinite interests and he will listen to us talk about anything and mean
it. And he is a busy busy man, always at a deadline or working on a last-minute project and things go wrong, but he has time for us and he always has.I wear a watch with alarms and carry a PDA with a schedule and what matters is not the time you have in this time, what matters is the memory that time becomes.