May 16, 2014--Stopped Time

An unusually observent niece asked, "What is it with you and all the stopped clocks?"

"What do you mean?" I was confused.

"Well, here in your New York apartment, on your dining table, you have that big Art Nouveau clock, the one with the gilded doves, that's stopped at 6:47 and then there's the Tramp Art clock near your desk that's stopped at 10:42."

She folded her arms across her chest and stared at me, seeking a plausible explanation.

While waiting, since I was not forthcoming, she pressed on, "And up in Maine you have that Regulator clock opposite your work place that's also stopped. As I remember it, it's always 2:25. As they say, it's the right time twice a day." She smiled.

"I hadn't thought about that, but I guess you're right. I don't see it, though, to be a . . ."

"Sign of anything or meaningful?"

"Not really," I shrugged.

"I'll reserve judgement about that," she sighed. "But then there's one more--at least as far as I know only one more--that big clock down in Florida, the one in the kitchen over the stove."

"What about that one?"

"It's not stopped, but it's . . ."

"It's what? If you're seeing a pattern the fact that it's not stopped sort of breaks it, no?"

"Literally, I suppose so. But it's always either an hour ahead or behind--I forget--the actual time." Again, she looked at me, waiting for an explanation.

Still I had nothing much to add, so she said, "It seems to me that you have issues about time."

Nothing will make one feel older than to hear that from someone her age.

"It's not because I'm as old as I am. I mean . . ."

"I'm not suggesting that. But you do have this strange--OK, interesting--thing about time that I'm wondering about. Time of day more than time of life. If that distinction makes any sense."

"Maybe it does. I do see the differences."

"It's not as if you have dozens of clocks. In fact, other than the ones that are on cable boxes and satellite radios and microwave ovens and . . ."

"Stop right there. The ones on those--microwaves and stoves--are on all the time but need to be set and then adjusted twice a year when we switch to daylight savings or standard time. You can't stop them or shut them off unless you unplug the appliances altogether. And they aren't beamed in via cable companies or as a result of being connected to the Internet so you have to pay attention to them after power surges."

She nodded, saying nothing. "By why am I rattling on like this? About stoves and power surges and daylight savings time? I'm sounding defensive even to myself. But what I'll admit is more interesting is your noticing all the stopped clocks. I'll give you that."

"So?"

 "So what?"

"I think it's fair to say you're quite a compulsive person. You like everything lined up--like the books on your bookcases and all the stuff on your desk. Your notes, pads, pens, your yellow stickies. And as far as I can tell, all your stuff works properly. You take a lot of pride making sure that's the case. So . . . ?"

"Obviously you not only noticed this but also have thought about it. So what's your hypothesis?"

She shrugged but said, "One thing I noticed is that all the stopped clocks are near where you set up your computer to write. In New York and Maine. In both places, while working you have line-of-sight with stopped clocks."

"Go on."

"And you can't see any others that are working."

"Could be."

"So if that's true, what's the story? When you're working, if you're inclined, all you can see are stopped clocks." Her foot was tapping as she looked at me.

"You're making a connection between my writing and the clocks that are stopped?"

She nodded, smiling slyly.

"Are you suggesting that I see my writing as a way to stop time?"

"Could be."

"Not uninteresting. There's lots of commentary about how writers and visual artists see their work as living on after they are gone. Composers too. A sort of egotistical attempt to live beyond time."

"This is sounding right."

"But to tell you the truth I've never thought my writing good enough to withstand the test of time. If I can use that cliché."

She didn't say a word, holding me in her line of sight. "I think of my stories as amusements, not literature much less art."

"Really?" She raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Yes, really." I paused to give it more thought. "At least that's what I think."

"From the evidence of all these clocks you might think some more."

"I'll do that. I'll give it additional thought."

"Sounds good. And be sure to let me know what you come up with."