On Time

Thinking about something I’m telling myself that Fay Wray said of Erich von Stroheim (I cannot, for the life of me, remember the source of it nor am I now, thanks to that mental slippage, certain that she said it at all though I will continue to credit the corporeal her regardless and update this posting should the memory return): 

“Time was his, he owned it…He used it as it should be used by an artist: He ignored it.” 

Each day, my own efforts at owning and igoring time, at unraveling its tendrils and the self-perpetuated expectations (of others, of myself) I ascribe to it: be here, do this then, do this now; one eye always on the clock or a clock, have to be somewhere at such and such a time, have to do this… constantly trying to live not only Wray’s alleged words about Erich von Stroheim (my inability to remember where this comes from is of ceaseless annoyance to me) but Shunryu Suzuki’s in ZEN MIND, BEGINNER’S MIND: 

“We do things one after the other. That is all. There is no such time as “this afternoon” or “one o’clock” or “two o’clock.” At one o’clock you will eat your lunch. To eat lunch itself is one o’clock. You will be somewhere, but that place cannot be separated from one o’clock. For someone who actually appreciates our life, they are the same.” 

And so it goes. Tick tock, ignore the clock, ignore the clock.