PANDEMIC DIARY

in

TIME
SEPTEMBER 13, 2021

TIME
Time is the essence of everything -
the backdrop of existence, the
hum of universal evolution, a parade of
creation and destruction. Time has no direction,
no inference, does not seek to achieve or accomplish.
There is no persuasive purpose to Time.

Time knows not [nor anguishes] of our existence.
It is detached from any claim of its presence.
It is not sympathetic, congenial, apathetic, or
antagonistic to life. Time need not assert its
impartiality. Time is neutral. Play with time as
you will; it is the ‘Play Dough’ of space.

Time is not measurement. It possesses no forward or
backward. It embodies all but takes no accounting.
All is free to interact. Time asks no questions, pursues
no answers, and bothers not with results, calculations,
outcomes or resolutions. Indeed, time allows capable
beings of manipulating it. A deception time would
laugh at…if it cared at all.

Time is blind to the condition of humankind
or for that matter Earth, our solar system,
our Star, the Milky or any other ‘Way’.
Its indifference is a feature of a
loving Nature. It isn’t phased if you are
with it, in it or out of it. Time has already
mastered Endlessness.

Time is constant - not moving ahead or
getting behind, not speeding or slowing down,
is unawares of seconds, minutes, hours,
days, years, centuries, or eons. It does not
parse even as we are free to order time.
Oh, the tick and tock of folly.

Time seeks not to overseer, control or
dominate. It is neither wasteful nor efficient.
It will not ‘leave things on the table’ or rush to
get things done. Time does not allot,
estimate, calculate, or total. In fact, do with
Time as you will. Time is disinterested.
Have at it.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————He laid there, his body like a bloated shipwreck, his breath causing an ever so slight rising and falling like faint waves keeping him afloat. His great white and gray beard added to the allusion of the sea as if he arose from its depths to command the surface - a passing Poseidon - taking his place one last time at water’s helm as all sea creatures awaited his last words. Will was not a god; he would soon die.

There were no words as I entered the vacantly occupied room of scarce life - white walls, white sheets, wires and tubes and white machinery counting time in persistent, nagging beeps. I am not sure why the living approach the dying slowly and with care, as if a misstep might trigger an early death. Maybe its out of some strange regard for the moment, how we step forward representing the somber, serious and austere mood. I moved to his bedside at a funereal pace not wanting to wake Will if he was sleeping.

Will’s body was a bulwark of masculine volume - his barrel chest enormous; his arms set apart lying atop the sheets were the remains of his primal muscularity; and every exposed part covered with woolly body hair. His presence a testimony to his youthful force. It made me immediately think of those times when we would argue over the meaning of art. Our disagreements were always a quarrel, friendly but contentious, the memory initiating a regretful smile knowing I would never sit over coffee quibbling with him again.

I leaned over him and just above a whisper said, “Will, it’s David”. He lurched. I stood leaping backward in that moment not anticipating he could hear me. Had he actually responded. I knew he was present. By god, he was in there, somewhere deep inside of him was consciousness. I turned toward the door to see if anyone witnessed this arousal. No one was present and I thought to myself, “I cannot speak of this. They will think that I am crazy. He was comatose. I felt like I had just witnessed a fleeting UFO, sure of its presence but not willing to testify because I would never be believed. His reaction would certainly be attributed to a reflex of the nervous system and not awareness. It certainly didn’t change anything. He was not going recover. He was not ever going to pick up a brush and paint another scene or fashion another sculpture.

I only had a few minutes with him before I was to be asked to leave by the members of the family who were waiting on the other side of the door. So, I began to talk to him. “Oh, you’re awake. Do you remember the time…” Will’s body moved, heaved at times like a paltry laugh. I began to cry believing he was responding to me in some distant way. His mind somewhere in the remote cosmos of time. His message seemingly communicated over the scratchy interference of space. I felt privileged to be by his side. But, I did not want his last moments to be one of dread. I wiped my tears and contrived a cheery demeanor.

It was almost time to leave. What are the appropriate parting words, I wondered? How does one say goodbye? I took his hand in mine. I told Will I love him. I expressed what he means to me. It felt so banal and inadequate. There was more to relate, more to tell, but the words were buried by the immensity of feeling. Finally, “Your family is waiting to see you, Will. I will leave now, my friend.” He yanked my hand with an assuring, near undetectable strength. Will gestured his final goodbye for me.