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20 January 2018 @ 04:59 pm
this is a crisis i knew had to come  
my relationship to time is wobbling, shaking the matrix, not centered quite right: a matter of some import housing a matter that cannot be discerned. after all, how much is even in here, and what is the quality of it?

is it mysterious, gleamed with obsidian: well outside my current understanding, thought for the thinking, thinking to grow on? does it glow uncanny, long with shadow? or is it aisle after aisle of normative big buy nothing stacked to the rafters under a sickening fluorescent strobe?

how much time do i have, i wonder, what will the quality of that time be, i wonder, and that un/certainty is often what makes my potential alliance with time feel strained and antagonistic.

(listening to records as i write: at that line, the record dropped out. spiraled out slow, like a cartoon shock. spiraled out slow and then nothing, nothing, 5:29PM, “taphead,” two dead seconds two minutes from the end: it’s a record, i’m spinning it out as a record, laughing stock, laughing stock: whether or not it started up again with a phonographic echoing warble, i don’t like how that felt at all.)

hard boundaries. mortality. limitations. tick, tick, tick. men always seem to get more of it. more time to think things over, more time to have kids, more time to have a second thought. men always seem to get more time: like they get more of everything good to get. more power, more money, more employment options. more readers. more privacy, more fabric to more comprehensively cover more parts of their bodies, more leniency when they cannot make it on time.

it’s supposed to be okay that he’s got more, at least we’re not supposed to talk about it too much or we will get slapped with undesirable labels. that’s why we don’t make it into some kind of big thing, we cannot. it’s a man’s world. it’s a world for a man. as such, men can trick themselves into believing they don’t have a relationship with time. they do, but they can pretend otherwise: quite a number of them even get away with it, for a time.

the cultural idea of a woman, you see, is that we are made of cycles. women count time. women run time through their bodies and their daily activities: women are made to be time pieces. men get all our time. all our work and our waiting. all our best words. all the time we put in to make ourselves presentable: to men, for a man, for other women who judge us with the standards set by men.

my relationship with time is dictated by men’s relationship with time: sloppy seconds, the raw deal, the load-bearing necessity. abandon us for a dog’s life and then complain about how much cuter we were before, how much more energetic, optimistic, fertile: tell me again. tell me again how much time i have left to go back to school! the problem there isn’t with time, the problem is with coordinating my resources. the time, the money, the resilience, the social network. the capacity to demonstrate my talents when a better future is on the line.

my relationship with time is confusing. will time take me to the prom? is time expected to call me first, or should i just bite the bullet and make the first move? first, last, always. always about time. always about time.


music: joy division - twenty four hours