New Zealand entomologist G.V. Hudson first proposed the idea of Daylight Saving in the 1870’s. The vernal equinox lies this year on the 20th of March, 17:32. 5:32 somewhere. The Saving hour has its effects on business, on harvest, and on Ben Franklin, who proposed to wake Parisians with bells and canon fire at sunrise in order to lessen the economic strain of candle burn at night. The hour effects, most of all, the circadian rhythm of humans, and mostly then in the negatives. We adjust, after a time.
1980’s 7-eleven Stores and Clorox, owners of Kingsford Charcoal, lobbied hard to maintain and extend the reach of today’s North American Daylight Saving. But 7-eleven and its boon of Kingsford doesn’t conjure in me thoughts of being involuntarily pushed into a different day, depending on my location in the world; it evokes a clear image of you sweeping in front of a store I’ve never seen. Automatic. So let the clock be turned by who it will. I’ll adjust to its tempo.
There is no adjustment, despite encouraging thought and talk-yourself feelings, to the half-loss of a perfect time-step. I can’t say no to the chance to meet with my quickener. There are those to greet, to laugh with, to yawn at, to question, to shake, and to answer. But while they and I happily hold our temporary attentions my focus is fixed on a single point and it is you. What of habit? Nothing. What of an instinct that while other ones crack in varying speeds as age cracks me remains so that it knows as much of age as I know what to say? It is there to be fought with. It is there to be thought of too long. It is there to be remembered. It is there to be forgotten. It is something that can have anything done to it because nothing changes it.
I saw that girl, too. The one from the bridal party. The lady who looked exactly like. And she saw me. I don’t get looked at much, but I know what it is when I am. She’d seen enough of my face and had moved on to the visible rest, to shoulders and hands and arms, protected by their crossings or their clothes. Right there in her land of drunk was that seconds-only genetic sizing up; miles of history checking off what mine might be. She looked exactly like. It odded me out. It turned my head, passed rails and noses and arms and glass and spikes that made one of the better frames for your face. A shifting frame for something that moves most when it doesn’t. There was my inner peace, my tension, my calm, my rest, my hyper-note, my sun and moon and stars, my standing in line, my staring at concrete, my light, my muse, and your smile, its ends tipping to shatter my my’s, happily asiding them, not to be missed. They can be what they are. Nothing changes them.
There are other rhythms in the world. Ours tend to slide along the outside of the millions in between. From here we can look in, and also turn to see the empty space beyond. Peering back, may we be caught in a slip-gap. May we meet in the middle. And may that rhythm marry its courses, circle round, skim the surface, or carve paths through the others. Occasionally we’ll stop, just to watch them all go by, or to tap our selves to their time.