As long as I can remember, I’ve always been calculating the time-span of things. I work out when things are halfway through, when the second half has begun, and when it will all be over.
I used to do it in relation to my weekends, when I
was in school and perhaps occasionally didn’t like the school as much as I
should have. The calculation used to go something like this. School finishes at three o’clock on Friday, at three o’clock on
Saturday, it’s still not ever nearly halfway until I have to go back again on
Monday morning at nine. All is well. Nine o’clock on Saturday evening, though,
and now the halfway point has been passed. When the same time passes again, I
will be back in school. It’s not a crisis or a calamity or anything. It’s just
a gently discomforting 'knowing' that the first half of something good is now over and the
slightly-less-auspicious second half has well and truly begun.
This subtle practice rather came to
the fore when I started in college in Dublin, having just turned seventeen. I
had never left home before. Remarkably enough, I had never even slept in any bed but my
own, apart from a couple of hospital stays. So, although Dublin and college was
great, the first year did see its share of homesickness. I would travel home on
the bus practically every weekend, getting on the bus at 6.00pm on Friday in O’Connell
Street and arriving back at about 10.00pm on Sunday evening, outside the Pro Cathedral.
Here the weekend counting would obviously continue but it was the weekday
counting that featured more. In my head, of course, only in my head. Nobody
knew about my calculations or about how earnestly I pursued them.
Sunday night in Dublin,
Monday night in Dublin… but, once Tuesday night was done, I then had only two
more nights to do, before I would be into the day that would eventually see me
on the bus back home again. Again, this was not a life altering calculation –
nothing like that – it served as a small consolation for the bad things and a small
anxiety for the good things.
As an grown-up person,
parent, etc, it doesn't happened so much anymore. I’m settled now and there’s been less
things to dread or to look forward to. Life ticks on. The only time in the year
where my little habit would surface in any meaningful way would be at Christmas
time. For many years, my only holiday from work in the year would be Christmas
and I came to look forward to it a lot. More for the break than for any measure
of festivity. When Christmas comes, and work finishes, it offers a clear vista
of a lengthy, extensive holiday. The opening moments of the holiday are always
great, partly because the proportion of holiday to come is huge in relation to
the proportion of holiday expended. As you might expect, the joy of the holiday
diminishes as the midway point of the Christmas break is reached, passed, and vanishes
in the rear view mirror. December 23rd is the start, January 2nd
is often the end. December 28th is therefore the midpoint, the zenith. After
that passes, the perception tends to be one of a good time that is rapidly running out.
It's not a very positive
game to play. Holidays seem shorter than they are, as the final days seem
slightly devalued by the proximity of the looming end. It’s something I would
rather not do. But I am hard-wired to do it. It’s just a small aspect of who I
am. Deal with it.
So why am I writing about it
now? It’s not a new subject, I’ve alluded to it before in a number of posts
over the years. Why is it this week’s topic of typing?
You might almost guess. Something
bigger than a weekend, a working week, or a holiday is looming and the calculations
in relation to it, muted quite successfully until now, seem to be getting a
little louder and more insistent.
Life.
This year I will turn sixty.
It’s not going to be any crisis or calamity. It’s just a year, a number, I’ve
done thirty, and forty, and fifty. I’ll manage this one too, if I’m spared.
But there is a sense that
the calculations are beginning, just like they always began for the weekends
and the holidays. Except this time, it’s a bigger sum… and the sum is not going
to add up very neatly.
I’ve never tended to do the calculation
thing for my life before but my intuition tells me that I am in danger of doing
it more as this next milestone gets passed. It’s a slightly different sum. Because
the end point is unknown, it’s not possible to get a firm feel of where the mid-point
was or when it was gained. Instead, the sum takes the form of a look back at
how very quickly the last twenty years have rushed by and a low level wonder at
where I will be, or what I will be, after the next twenty have passed. Twenty
years ago, for my fortieth, we had a party in the old tennis club. Lots of old friends
came, some new friends were made, a band played, there was food, I made a
little speech. The tennis club is long gone and is now a municipal car park. A
lot can happen in twenty years. A lot of it can happen very quickly.
And time seems to be moving
blindingly fast now. Already the Christmas holiday, the subject of all the usual
calculations, is weeks back in the distance, very nearly a month. I got my hair
cut last Tuesday… except it wasn’t last Tuesday, it was the Tuesday before that.
If time is speeding so hard, and I’m so far beyond the halfway point, so far
beyond the best years, how will the rest of my life go?
Don’t worry. I’m not going
to explode. I’m just trying to describe a calculation, a niggle, a feeling, not
an all-out collapse.
I find comfort in odd places. For instance, in the film ‘Arrival’, which I think is quite profound in a particular way.
In it, the main character gets to know quite a lot about the measure of her life. Her response
to this is encouraging, for me at least.
“Despite knowing
the journey... and where it leads... I embrace it. And I welcome every moment
of it.”
That’s the spirit. That’s
how I’ll go forward, head held high, for there is much left to do and even more left
to enjoy.
It may already be quite a few days
beyond December 28th, quite a few hours beyond nine o’clock on a Saturday
evening, but there’s still New Year’s and there’s still Sunday to come. I might as well just enjoy it all.
Monday morning, when it comes, can take
care of itself.
5 comments:
I thought it was just me that had that perspective, it mainly affected my school & later working life. I worked 3 shift cycle, which in theory meant a short weekend ,a long weekend & a regular weekend. In reality my short weekend was from 2pm on Saturday til 7 pm Sunday evening, as a Supervisor I had to take overtime shift on Sat & open factory for nightshift following day. The long weekend 1 day or more would be taken up by getting used to regular sleep after nights.I was literally counting down my free time, til the grind returned. Eventually took redundancy package, better for my health & wellbeing in the long run, as regards the passing of life I'm happy taking it one day at a time, hope you're keeping well Ken
GH
I do that too. The first time I noticed I did was with books. And it wasn’t like nowadays with electronic books where you don’t know where you are and you can’t truth the percentages it gives you, we’re talking about a book I was holding in my hand but I would still count the pages till the end of the chapter before I started reading it and, of course, one of the first things I did with a new book was look to see how many pages it had and was always relieved when the last few were taken up with ads; x number of pages less to have to read.
I remember turning sixty. I expect to die by the time I reach seventy-five because longevity does not run in my family. 60/75. 80% done. 20% left. It’s a sobering thought. Of course, I may life to eighty or longer. I live quietly, don’t smoke or drink and manage my weight. Eighty’s doable. But anything after seventy-five is a bonus. Although twelve years older than me my wife’s convinced she’ll outlive me, and that’s not inconceivable because her parents slouched on until their nineties.
What I have been realising recently that some of the things I’m buying now may well be the last item of their kind I ever have to buy. I bought a hot water bottle a few weeks ago. That will most likely be the last hot water bottle I ever have to buy. Same with the pillows. Will I ever need to buy another pillow before I die?
Hi G, It's good to know it's not just me... maybe we caught it off each other when we were young. :)
Hi Jim, I think the last paragraph is rather a profound thought. Is there a poem in it for you, I wonder?
Will this suffice?
Lastness
When, I wonder, was my first last time?
There must have been one and a second
and more to come until the end of all last times—
the last sniff, the last fart, the last blink,
that dying breath masquerading as a sigh—
but when, I wonder, was the first time
I did something I would never attempt again?
The last time I spoke to my first friend perhaps;
that would be a contender, as worthy as any other.
Yes, let’s plump for that for the sake of the poetry;
it doesn't matter how true it is
(an odd thing to say when you think of it
seeing as things are either true or not
or at least that’s how it used to be.
(I wonder when that was true last.))
Of course the truth about last times, about most last times, is
we never know, not for sure, they will be our last last time,
not with absolute assuredness.
That is, no doubt, what keeps us going, cruel hope
which will outlast all logic and feeling and belief.
The end is in the beginning, someone said,
an invisible man or a barely visible one,
somebody, ha!, long gone,
and still we shuffle on, shoring up endings and finales,
closures, codas and catastrophes but to what end?
What is a collection when complete if not clutter?
20 January 2020
Yes, Jim, that'll do nicely. My collection is nearing completion and it looks exactly like a clutter.
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