Tag: Time
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Not so close, eh?
I have this thing about spaces between stuff for some reason -maybe it’s because my only sibling was ten years older than me, and I hated sharing a bed with him when I was young; he rolled around a lot at night. One of my first comments on personal space in writing, though, was an…
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Some relish the saltiness of Time
There are some things that have always filled me with wonder: the flash of colours in the garden as a hummingbird hesitates in a sunbeam, then disappears leaving only memory in its wake; the slow patient lap of waves from who knows where arriving as guests at the door of a tiny beach; the worried…
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Give me a staff of honour for mine age
It’s interesting how we can find ourselves immersed in Time, isn’t it? We ride in it as if we were on a bus, looking out of the windows at the world going by. We are all on a journey I suppose, but some of us at different speeds and from different locations. Well, at least…
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When is Then?
I am sometimes amazed with the outlook that Age affords. Maybe it was there all along, and I was too busy to give it much attention, or maybe as the years wore thin and the leaves began to fall away, there was a better view of things around me, but whatever the cause, I started…
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Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
What is Time, if not a river flowing ever onwards from now -or from an ill-remembered ‘then’ to the same now? Of course, we all know the quotation attributed to Saint Augustine: What then is time? If no one asks me, I know what it is. If I wish to explain it to him who…
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Is Everybody a Petard?
Sociology is certainly interesting; it turns out that none of us are normal -well, perhaps more revealingly, there is no normal ‘us’. We are, at best, data points spread out on a rather amorphous Bell curve, vaguely generalizable depending on the homogeneity of the group chosen, but often unrepresentative of populations further afield. And yet,…
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It’s About Time
‘What then is time? If no one asks me, I know what it is. If I wish to explain it to him who asks, I do not know.’ So wrote Saint Augustine, bishop of Hippo in North Africa, more than fifteen hundred years ago. And we’re still confused… Okay, I’m confused. When considered philosophically, you’d…
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She wears her faith but as the fashion of her phone.
Everything is a matter of time, isn’t it? Everything changes. Like the apocryphal monkeys typing away infinitely, everything will be written. Everything will be transmogrified somewhere. Some time. Somehow. I suppose that should be a comfort, but I can’t escape the nagging feeling that there is something unrequited in all that: an imbalance between now…
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