March 9, 2015--Bending Time

Twice a year we have our own little experience with Einstein's Theory of Relativity. When in the fall we fall back, turning our clocks back an hour, and as we did yesterday by springing forward, losing an hour as we turned our clocks forward.

Some say this semiannual ritual is outdated. That it is a vestigial product of the agricultural era when men and their sons plowed and worked the fields from sun up to sun down and wanted to make the work day more productive by adding an hour of daylight as the growing season began in early March. And thus 100 years ago Daylight Savings Time was invented. But now that few work on farms, many more in offices, we should just leave our clocks alone, they say, and thereby reduce the confusion and crankiness that inevitably occurs whenever an hour is "lost" or "gained."

I put quotation marks around lost and gained because strictly speaking there is no time lost nor gained--all we do is change the clocks, which, in Einsteinian terms do not in reality keep track of what he would consider time. Time to him, and now to anyone who has even a rudimentary understanding of his work, is independent of our ability to measure it and even if we figured out how to do that in absolute terms, the reality of time would elude us since there is no such thing as time that is immutable. It is relative, shifting as circumstances affect it.

To complicate matters further, there is that supernova we've been hearing about lately that "seems" to explode over and over again, with seems this time in quotes. In quotes because supernovas do not explode repeatably. At the far reaches of the universe, when they explode they do so only once, often leaving residual black holes. But as scientists reported last week about the Supernova Refsdal, approximately every ten years the Hubble telescope picks up images of its billions-of-years-ago cataclysmic destruction.

Einstein taught us this is because gravity has the capacity to bend both light and time. So Refsdal was "seen" to be exploding first in about 1964 (actually this was the visual image of its explosion billions of years ago finally reached us) and then we "saw" it explode again and again in 1995 and 2014 and we will be "seeing" it again, Groundhog Day style, some time around 2020. Not multiple explosions but the same explosion over and over again because the image of it gets to us at different times as the result of gravity's awesome light- and time-bending power. With light becoming a lens through which we "see" cosmic events and experience time.

So rather than grumble about having to fool with our clocks semiannually, why not enjoy participating in Einstein's universe by spending a little time then thinking about the "new" physics, which is now about 100 years old and thus not so new.

I like springing forward and falling back for another reason.

With my mother nearly 107, we have been living the past seven years in her time zone. Traveling up and down the I-95 corridor between New York City, Midcoast Maine, and South Florida. This is in large part to be available to get to her as quickly as possible in case we are needed and also to enable us to live with the guilt that we do not spend all year down south with her. We can say that though we are not here all year at least we won't have to cross any time zones to get to her in an emergency.

This may very well be a rationalization to cover with socially-acceptable denial the probable fact that over time whatever adventurous spirit we have has waned. We tell ourselves that living this way is only for the time being (time being being another Einsteinian concept), that we are eager to resume traveling, to make our long-deferred trip to India, to spend a year living in Rome, to wander through the Greek Islands, but while waiting for the inevitable, the passage of time to contribute to reclaiming whatever wanderlust can be revived, this twice-a-year ritual of adjusting our clocks and watches stands for what travelers are required to do when they "really" cross time zones, with really in quotes.

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."