Now More Than Ever: Entry No. 1
A Project on Our Relationship With Time
Editor’s note: The following is the first in a series tentatively titled Now More Than Ever. Generally speaking, the project will explore our relationship with time and include contributions from multiple Happy Few correspondents.
By Ernst Adams
Darkness and snow descend; The clock on the mantelpiece Has nothing to recommend, Nor does the face in the glass Appear nobler than our own As darkness and snow descend On all personality. Huge crowds mumble—“Alas, Our angers do not increase, Love is not what she used to be”; Portly Caesar yawns—“I know”; He falls asleep on his throne, They shuffle off through the snow: Darkness and snow descend. —W. H. Auden, from “For The Time Being”
1.
Most mornings I wake early. It is still dark. I reach out blindly, fumble for the alarm, fish around my bedside for socks and a shirt. There is an attempt to steal away from the room, but the pocket door is hazardous, loud and rude and temperamental. I approach with caution, slowly inching it aside as if to escape the notice of some unseen beast, dozing away in the dark. There are snorts and grunts. I scurry downstairs. For now, I am safe.
2.
Now is the hour of stillness. Now is the hour of thought.
The floorboards groan and the icemaker coughs. The dog is content to continue going about being a dog, and soon is asleep again.
A house should not be forced to rouse before dawn, so there is no need to hurry. No need to flip every switch or busy about with wares and appliances and the trash. A house has its scheduled off-hours too, which should be acknowledged and respected. Keep it to one or two lamps, dim the lighting if necessary. Drink a glass of water while the coffee pot is brewing in the shadows.
There is no need to hurry. Just wait and be silent.
3.
For what? Is that all?
There are no cows to relieve, no pigs to fatten, no eggs to collect. There’s no mudroom or hall tree or storage bench for you to put on boots or gloves or a field jacket and cap. There’ll be no predawn hunt, nor even a routine walk around the perimeter of the property. If domestic duties are needed, you won’t be tending them. You are not baking bread. You are not scrambling eggs. You are not cooking sausage. You’ve seemingly forgotten about breakfast. You are drinking a cup of over-spiced black coffee, which somehow smells like tea, and since placed on the windowsill, is continuing to drop in temperature.
You need to find a better way to insulate these old-house crannies. Someone should, anyway.
4.
The point is to stay still and think clearly.
It will take a few minutes, a half cup, to catch up with everything. Picking out a half-read book from the side table, it will take a few lines, a few pages, to remember what is happening, to remember who did what to whom, and how and when and where (as for why, the book may not say).
The point is to stay alert and not get caught napping. Because it will not be dark for too much longer. A few hours, maybe less.
Be present, be spare, be deliberate. If the book is no good, put it down. There are more than enough books, most of which are not good.
Try to attend only to what is real.
5.
This is where things get slippery: defining terms. For the time being, better leave it to the professionals: feckless princes, pale-faced doctoral candidates, management consultants.
For now, the silence is sufficiently real.
6.
And the clock on the coffeemaker is shrouded in shadow. And the clock on the microwave is hidden behind a cabinet recess. And the clock on the oven stares straightaway, but from this distance is a only a green blur. Is there a clock on the living room mantel? If not, please note that it would be a nice addition: antique, walnut, the sign of a tasteful decorator and discerning buyer.
7.
Make good on the time that remains.
8.
The problem is not so much that you will fail, which is predetermined, but how you will fail.
Not a heroic failure, the way of the oath-doomed knight. Not an edifying failure, the way of the theoretical physicist or professional bull rider. Certainly not a failure that will facilitate future growth, optimization, and long-term profitability. In all likelihood, it will not even be especially tragic — but an average, general failure.
Day will break at the window behind your back, gray and bluish, and the world will offer up the usual. Messages to check, opportunities to engage, meetings to attend, cancel, ignore, or forget. Products, promotions, paraphernalia. Special offers, final sales, curated recommendations. News to celebrate, news to condemn. News which is not news, or only the same old news. Indigestion, acid reflux, the drive thru. Jokes, takedowns, sandcastle opinions. Desecration, sanctification. Podcasts.
Being only human, you will have all of it.
9.
So what, then?
The usual items (and more) are available: panic, stoicism, despair, zealotry, apathy, hedonism, nostalgia, futurism, evangelism, sadism, sentimentalism, solutionism, or join a club.
So what, then? Shall we continue in sin?
God, no.
10.
The dog pokes her nose around the doorframe, stretches, and paws at the back door. I let her out and empty coffee grounds into the compost bucket. Dirty dishes fill the kitchen sink, clean dishes idle in the dishwasher. I pour milk in a mug, place it in the microwave, then pour the warm milk into a plastic bottle and place it on the counter. The ceiling squeaks and sighs. Upstairs a door opens, followed by another. I put down a fresh cup of coffee, which I will later forget about, and which strongly smells of potpourri, the likes of which may incite headaches and are labeled something like “Cozy Christmas Bazaar.” I go upstairs to get dressed. It’s time to walk the dog.
Love this so much