When someone, out of the blue announces, "It is exactly 10:01 p.m. " and gives you the exact time every few minutes, you know for sure he's crazy as a bedbug.
Most of us are too loosely structured to keep our sense of time so exact. And to have some nut announce the time like a NASA computer is enough to drive one up to the standard "will you just f*ck off!" response. Or "Get a life!"
But there is a full moon coming on, and this lunatic is staring at his old French clock, which indicates, exactly 10:01. It is far from mindnight, but I am into an Edgar Allen Poe mood.
"Once upon a midnight dreary..."
I am even starting to test the social skills of my raven.
Quoth the raven, "How the f*ck should I know? You're a goddam lunatic!"
And yet and yet. We stare at the clockface, this symbol of French clock design, symbol of of our identity, I suppose.
We are missing somebody.
And the raven hasn't got a f*cking clue.
How often has a spouse gone off on holidays witht the kids, and you lef alone for whatever reason.
Sitting in the house. Drinking wine. Staring at the clockface.
After a few hours you seem vigilant enough to actually see the minute hand moving.
You really should get a life.
But what is a life all alone, the spouse gone to Florida witht the kiddies. And you having to work, could not get to go.
I am visited by my friend, the off-duty cop. He takes me out to a couple of pubs. We get drunk.
We are eating French fries in the plaza behind the Swiss chalet, in the cop's car.
I suddenly have to pee like a racehorse.
What to do? It is twilight. The parking lot is full of people.
Ah, the cop knows what to do.
He instructs. "See,you get down on your knees under the rocker panel of the truck, see, then you whiff her out and you have yourself a pee. Hardly anybody notices.
"I'm telling, you, Ivan. You don't get out enough!"
Se here we are peeing against the SUV's rocker panel, on our knees, as if we're fixing something.
I probably don't get out enough!
I am back in the house. Staring at the clock again.
Could it only have been a couple of hours since I'd had the drink with the cop.
Time standing still. I am beginning to actually see the minute hand move again.
What if wife and kiddies don't come back.
What if they never return.
I phone my typist. "Oh don't worry. They'll all be back. You just watch."
But I am on a watch.
Vigilant. The clock is ticking. The minute hand is moving. I can see it. I can follow it. Like some maddened computer out of a science fiction movie.
It is exactoly 02:01.
Now, if somebody around me would announce it like that, I would probably think about a good sharp slap to the face. It is unkind of me, but I hate retarded people. Heh. They make me think of myself, make me nervous.
But there is this state of mind, this state of being. It is a sure indication that I am missing somebody.
But I sure as hell can't get to them from here, neither they to me.
Major Tom to Ground Control!
The clockface is a symbol of ones identity
The clock face is starting to blur.
Einstinian fantasies that really are not.
The line out of T.S. Eliot is a bit church-like, but somehow a' propos.
"Leave us not be separated.
"And let my cry come unto thee."