TimePieces

By Salvatore Difalco

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Time Is Not Fundamental

I don’t think walking backwards would change anything. I don’t wear a watch. I mean, I stopped wearing one long before smartphones made watches unnecessary. My friend Ira, who inherited some money from a rich uncle, collects watches—Rolex, Patek Philipe, Omega, and then rarer watch brands like Urwerk, Enicar and Sinn. My father wore an old Omega his father had given to him back in Sicily. My father died of lung cancer when I was twelve and he didn’t exactly leave the watch to me, but it came into my possession. Too busy losing her mind with grief at the time, my mother didn’t care much about the watch. What did I do with it? I have to think about that. I never wore it. The leather band was distressed and smelled like sweat. That was a few decades ago. My memory is cloudy. Misremembered details, timelines, emotions. I mean, that’s why I was thinking about walking backwards and somehow turning back the clock, not as an actual thing I believe is possible, but more as a thought experiment. Imagine if you could turn back the clock merely by walking backwards—I mean like backtracking in the block universe, if such a conception is true. I guess there are a few things I’d like to remember more clearly, or change, that I would change given a chance. But maybe it’s stupid of me to torture myself by thinking about what could have been. We can all wallow in the foggy bogland of what could have been, but it accomplishes nothing. I’m late for my poker game. Lost track of time doom-scrolling. Scientists are concerned. The James Webb Telescope has revealed the universe may be older and bigger than we ever imagined. Also, dark energy seems to be losing its spunk. In which case the universe will suffer the big crunch in roughly thirty three billion years. At the poker game Ira is wearing a cool watch. He extends his wrist and tells me it’s the Ludovic Ballouard Upside Down, very rare. It re-conceptualizes the way the dial displays time. I don’t quite know what to make of it. I tell him I had an Omega once. What happened to it? he wants to know. I tell him I can’t remember, but right at that moment I have a sudden recollection of being as jammed up as I had ever been and pawning the Omega, along with everything else I owned of value. I recall feeling no shame about it. I wonder if the shame I’m feeling now, in the present moment, with the other poker players squeezing their cards, smoking, chatting, and laughing—I wonder if the shame currently burning my ears makes up for it.

The Illusion of a Moving Present

How did it get so late so soon? Don’t waste time with explanations. Time is not the issue. Time is a feeling and feelings don’t tick. This isn’t to say time is meaningless or that clocks lie. Yesterday hastens away from us. But tomorrow marches toward us. And that is always the case. Let’s not forget this. But when you stop keeping track of it, time becomes something softer, more flexible. So really, it’s never too late or too early. The moon is out, the moon is out. Go with it. The sun rises, so be it. We are talking scenery and lighting. Just do your job, remember your lines, and play your part. Yes, you can stop whenever you want. You can start whenever you want, too. But remember that as the past adds pages to its book, the future recedes. Possibilities decrease. Regrets mount. The gnashing of teeth becomes a default setting. Here we are, trapped in the supercool liquid of the present, looking back wistfully and looking forward with weak knees, but scarcely looking closely at what is at hand. For this exercise, I will sit still, let my thoughts slow down, my breathing deepen. and exist in the world before me as it is at this moment. What do we have, then? Radio Deluxe on the jazz station. Tony Bennett. Lukewarm coffee. The radiator clanking as it does in winter. Distant sirens racing to flood or fire. My fingertips are blue. What does that signify? Poor circulation. Low oxygen to the extremities. They have a pretty name for it: peripheral cyanosis. While often benign, it can indicate serious issues with the lungs and heart. Yesterday I didn’t notice this condition. The sun is rising like a dragon in the east. So be it.        

A Movie Playing Frame by Frame

What am I going to do with this? If I sit here all day with my head bowed, observers will walk away. And yet the only way to achieve my end is to sit here all day with my head bowed and grind away. Plow trucks clean up the street below my eighth floor flat after a heavy snowfall. I let the snow dissuade me from putting on my parka and Kodiaks and heading out for a breath of air and a leg stretch. Now I have this nonsense at hand and it offers nothing visually. I am wearing my Black Sabbath Volume IV T-shirt and black jeans, but I’ve been wearing them for three days. That’s easy to visualize. Moreover, in its present condition, my hair would induce extreme envy in Albert Einstein or Dr. Frederick Frankenstein. These names, these names. Simply knowing them lifts my spirits. Even better if someone were to point and say, Why, yes! No need to say it twice. The ears operate well despite waxy setbacks. Also, the funk in here is easily remedied. I strike a match to light my sandalwood candle. The flame looks like the face of Vincent Price. The candle offers soft and powdery fragrance not to be diminished by anyone believing sandalwood to be a dated scent. There is nothing dated about it. My place will smell better than it does in short order. This is a good start. I took a chance and it worked out.

My face aches. I don’t know why. Maybe stress. I am stressed about things I can’t control. Wars, stupid politicians, and stupid people in general. I also stress about forgetting my past. Every day a wafer of it flakes off. Without memory there is no past. Maybe I’m stupid, too, but I keep to myself. I limit the stupidity to these things, these notes to myself, these pseudo-feuilletons, or pointless outbursts. I’ve put on my parka and Kodiaks. Walk with me. It’s fresh but bearable out there. Just watch your step. Better talking while you walk. Less likelihood of fists flying. The movement releases that bottled up energy, see, that might be triggered into violence with a wrong foot. You have nothing to say? My hair? What about my hair? It’s a masterpiece, edging toward chaos like rest of the universe. And have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? Not that you look any different from the last time I saw you, but have you of late looked at yourself, I mean carefully? I have looked at myself. I spend an inordinate amount of time looking at myself, and it’s not vanity. When I look at myself in the mirror it’s all I can do not to punch my reflection in the mouth. Yes, that’s the mouth that has led to all my problems. Yes, it’s a big mouth. Yes, it sometimes doesn’t know when to shut up. But this time, I’m going to shut up and let you speak. And if you don’t feel like it, we can just walk for a bit, in silence, heavy with our thoughts.     

Moments Do Not Vanish Into the Past

The distinction between past, present and future may be just a stubborn illusion. I’m not prepared to argue with Albert Einstein. Maybe time is more like a mist than a river. Johnny is picking me up at seven. We’re going to Glinski’s to play some Omaha. Not everyone likes Omaha. But tonight we’re playing it. Anyone who doesn’t want to play Omaha has been told not to bother coming. We’ll play other games some other night, but tonight we’re all in with Omaha. Johnny wants to know if we’re playing pot limit or no limit. Probably pot limit, I say. Unless the boys decide they have a little gamble in them tonight. I have a little gamble in me tonight. What about you, Johnny? You know me, he says, I go with the flow. This is true about Johnny. He’s a mellow dude. Never raises his voice. Always agreeable. He’s driving with two hands on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched. The roads are wet from melting snow. Unseasonably warm today. January is usually brutal in these parts. We drive on the Allen Expressway and exit at Wilson. Johnny glances at me. What is it? I ask. I just had a wave of deja vu, Johnny says. Well, I say, we have made this trip about a hundred times in the last few years, so in a way it is deja vu. I mean stronger than that, he says. I feel like we’ve had this conversation before. You know, I say, Albert Einstein believed that the past, the present and the future are all like one big blob. Johnny glances at me again. You’ve said that to me before, he says. We drive in silence up to Glinski’s house. A number of cars are parked in his driveway and in front of his house. Looks like everyone’s here early, Johnny says. He parks the car a few doors down and gets out. I hesitate before exiting and watch him walk up the stone path to the house. I’ve known Johnny for twenty years. Lots of memories. Memories create continuity. He turns and looks to see what I’m doing. I hold a finger up as if to say I’ll just be a sec. He heads up to the front door and knocks. Glinski answers and after an exchange of words they both turn and look to see what I’m doing.   

Why We Do Not Remember the Future

The arrow of time delivered me to this moment. Of course there is no going back. The arrow only points one way. I don’t know whether to be thankful or not. Perhaps the question of gratitude is a moot point. As with the other sentient apes, the universe programmed me to gaze at itself for some reason. I’ll be the first to admit the entire cosmos is impressive and beautiful, and that Nature here on Earth never ceases making the jaw drop. But I find it difficult to believe that the universe put me—not to mention all the other folks—here to express an emotional reaction to its grandeur or for some kind of aesthetic assessment.

I head out. In the foyer I run into Arthur, the building superintendent, a balding and paunchy middle-aged man who wears skinny jeans. He asks me how it’s going and I tell him everything is just dandy. How about you? I ask. I can complain, he says, but no one would listen. Would you listen? he asks. I smile. He knows I have no truck for idle chit chat. I wish him a good day and depart. The morning is a cool pale blue and tingly. A light snow has fallen and it crunches underfoot as I walk to the nearest coffee shop where others like me gather to brood each morning. Some linger into afternoon, but a dour and wordless morning satisfies most of us.

At the coffee shop I grab my usual double-double from Jackie the whisky-voiced gal behind the counter. I know I should cut down on the sugar but I simply can’t bring myself to do it. A few regulars sit by themselves at tables or by the windows. They all look like they obtained their clothes at the same Goodwill. I grab a seat by the window with an unobstructed view of the street. My coffee tastes nauseatingly weak today, pretty much the way I like it. My cousin Randy used to drink instant Sanka every morning. When I asked him why, he said he liked it.

Do I feel like chatting to anyone today? You know, catch up on sports and politics or discuss why there exist so many more disordered states than ordered ones, or how the Mayans had three different calendar systems running simultaneously. I look around. Everyone is either staring off into space or sitting there with their eyes closed, indifferent to hurry or impending chaos. And I think to myself, this is what the universe has created. This is where the arrow of time has led me. And this is what the universe wants me to see of itself. And I can’t help but ask why?