Clocks

I have recently taken to liking watches. Not because I want to tell time, but because my wrist needs company to brave the cold as the knuckles stay snug in my pocket. I prefer the analog ones, simply because of the simplicity and the imperfection it has in telling time. Therein lies its perfection. Unlike the digital watches, which are precise to the second, I like that there is a margin of error to these watches. The reason I like them is more than meets the eye, the classic nature and geometry of the analog watch is a beauty, one that few people can ever appreciate, it is more than meets the eye. It is a story, it is a lesson; it is life.

I like the ticking symphony from its three arms; the ever rushed seconds hand that rushes through every minute, going back to origin every single minute. Going back to the same thing, never tiring, never stopping. Every couple dozen steps or so, it pushes the minute hand further by a tick. The tick is small but noticeable; the minute hand puts some consideration in its steps. Taking its time (sic) but not too much, moving only when it is necessary and pausing to think, and to consider its steps. Every couple of dozen steps, it puts a caring hand on the hour hand’s shoulder and stares into its eyes, and smiles pitifully at its lethargic motion.

The hour hand, nods and agrees to move but a step at a time. Each time pausing to think. Each time pausing to consider the possibility of what was left behind. Each time considering the uncertainty of where it is headed. Each time creating and savoring new memories of where it stands. The height and weight proportion of the hour hand grants its lethargy, an occupational hazard since it has to carry its weight around. But not so much for the lean and nimble minute and second hands, nope. I assume that even in terms of age, the hour hand should be more advanced in age. Wisdom rests on its length just as carefree’s definition lies in the definition of the second hand. The minute hand sits on the fence, neither hot nor cold, in calculated motion.

Strangely, they are synchronous. Even as the second hand zooms past the minute and hour hand, there is a time they are all in stride, each in different states of motion but in stride nonetheless. Despite their difference in pace, when the battery runs out, they all stop in their tracks. The hardest hit is probably the second hand, being caught in mid sprint and the least hit is probably the hour hand… at least that’s what appears. I tend to think that perhaps for the hour hand it is harder to move because its cog takes more effort to move. Perhaps the strain is much simply because it had waited for so long to move, for so long to progress to the next big number … so close yet so far. However, they stay there. Stuck and helpless to wait for a recharge and a reset… because as much as time moves, they are stuck in limbo.

The good thing with watches and clocks is that they are precise and imperfect. As long as they are set right with enough power pushing their motion, they will work and they will move. Remove any of this and it is manipulateable to say whatever time it is set to. If it breaks or stops, you can always pick up where you left off with a bit of tinkering. It will be like nothing ever happened or changed, like it had been before. Same pace, same vigour, same urgency to each hands’ experience. Not so much for the wearers of watches.

I have lived long enough to see just how people live behind masks. Like the circular (insert geometric shape) faces of watches, it all looks like it’s the same on the surface. That’s before you look again and realize that it’s still the same time as it was the last time you checked. The veneer of happiness and nonchalance as glass, paper and metal with emblazoned numbers glued to cover up rusted cogs, fallen cogs, missing cogs, improvised cogs, replaced cogs and impaired cogs behind them. If you peer closely into those smiles, you will see the outline of clenched teeth. You will notice the conflict between the eyebrow and the smile. You will notice the eyes pushing back against those cheeks trying to give significance to curved lips. Because the veneer has a dog ear at the eyes; like a string pulled from a cloth, a lot can be unravelled when the veneer is peeled back.

Yet we walk past each other, not hearing how many ticks are audible… but if you listen closely, very few working clocks are moving. Unlike clocks, there is no reset, no recharge just forever broken clocks … which no one knows when they stopped.