Time, he’s waiting in the wings
He speaks of senseless things
His script is you and me, boy
Time, he flexes like a whore
Falls wanking to the floor
His trick is you and me, boy
It has been interesting to witness how a far greater online life is promoted as the necessary future, during this era of Covid-19 lockdowns. I haven’t the faintest whether I’ve been spending more time online, because my whole concept of time has withered over the past two months. Blogging has been one casualty. Why bother when you can sit in the sunshine, like a plant, absorbing the heat. And letting your soul catch up with the huge mental and material changes twisting our world around.
Most scientists will argue that there is no time without space. Time and space. Never one without the other. But space has also changed. I have been going out of my way to veer clear of others when outside in public, because I hate the thought of distressing anyone fearful of the virus. Without that former proximity, connection and warmth fade. Boundaries change. And time changes.
Because Maureen has lost her nannying job, her daily schedule has disappeared. Our sleep patterns have followed suit. I’m sleeping deeper, sometimes over staggered periods. More delicious afternoon kips. Rhythms and patterns have gone, victims to my emerging Rip Van Winkle. Perhaps they were too frantic. Our lad Rory, back from university, has lost all sense of time, playing his online games deep into the night.
Meanwhile our garden routine has been neglected. Meditation is often forgotten. I’ve discovered that I work most sharply in the middle of the night. In the day, I often can’t be arsed.
The idea of watching TV – with its schedules and insane advertisements – seems ludicrous. Why would you? What for? A different matter when it comes to films and drama series, which stand outside time.
All of which is to say that I intend to finish rewriting the last two chapters of my novel Out of Essex, very soon. Hopefully in the next seven days, for the odd few who might be interested.