Photo Credit: Image by Gustavo_Pires_Bertaco from Pixabay
One hour, twenty-six minutes to sunrise. Eleven hours, fifty-one minutes until sunset. The numbers are precise, but the experience is blurred at the edges — a consequence of the human veil thrown over a celestial guise. We’re not wrong, but only because we made the definition. I looked it up.
“The time when the upper limb of the sun appears above the horizon as a result of the diurnal rotation of the earth”
After I got over the use of the word “limb,” I shrugged. Made sense to me. Wait… what’s this? sniff sniff I smell pedantry. Rushing to the four corners of the internet (Reddit, Wikipedia, Netflix, and psychiccrystalemproium.com) I began to pile up the semantics.
First off, the internet does a good job of shaming my mildly educated ass. The light from before the sun pokes its “limb” (weird) over the “ideal horizon” is referred to as a false sunrise. My chagrin attempts to launch a “nuh-uh”, but my brain knows what refraction is and is loath to make an enemy of Wikipedia.
“OK, fine,” I say, having been outmaneuvered by hundreds of years of science. “But it’s not perfect.”
I chide the internet, showing it the woefully insufficient time zone divisions. “See! Even you know there’s a four-minute difference for each degree in longitude change.”
The internet is not a great conversational partner. All queries must be input in an algorithmically useful way. With a sigh, I clack away and begin reading about time zones. Within moments I’m upset. So much of time measurement is about work. Wasn’t I talking about sunrise and sunset?
Before I get a good rant going, however, I read that train crashes are a big reason for standard time and I decide raving might be in bad taste. I don’t feel too bad, though. Apparently, Detroit wasn’t sure what to do with time zones either. While everyone else adopted the one that made sense for them, Detroit had to try Central Standard, local mean, and Eastern Standard time. They switched for 15 years before settling!
That’s the sort of pig headedness I can respect.
In some disappointing news, I’m nearly ten years off the centennial celebration of US Standard time, formally adopted by congress in 1918. I don’t recall any celebrations in 2018. Seems like a real oversight. Does time not get a birthday?
“OK, fine,” I say, having been outmaneuvered by hundreds of years of science.
Fine, so we need time zones and had to draw the line somewhere. I have to admit, changing my watch every forty miles or so would be time consuming in more ways than one. With a deep sigh, I step back and wonder what the hell I’m on about. Arguing with the internet about time…
I guess I’m just projecting. I’m obsessed with time. Not because I like it, but because I’ve been trained to observe it with the upmost scrutiny. Of all humanity’s inventions, few have shackled us more than time.
On time is late and early is on time. Are you familiar with the sentiment? It feels etched on my bones, and yet just over a hundred years ago it would be an impossible task to accomplish. Sunrise was a mark of time, now it’s marked by time. I’m on deadline for this essay, a self-imposed line in the hourglass.
Time is a measure of efficiency, productivity, efficacy, and thus of societal value. Time is so ever-present that I say I’m 20 minutes from town rather than 20 miles. How long does it take to earn $100? You can answer easily. How much time will paying $100 earn you is a much harder question.
How long does it take my coffee to brew?
How long to draft this essay?
How much time did you lose searching for your keys?
When is my next appointment?
My watch feels like a noose. I take it off, toss it on my desk.
What if the universe were as precise as we wished? God flicks a switch and the twinkling constellations disappear behind the brilliance of the sun in an instant. How convenient, though you’d need to be sure to look away from where the sun will be when it turns on.
But something about it feels more than silly, it’s wrong. And I’m not just talking about the god part.
My wrist breathes without the silicone watch band as a cool morning air caresses the pale skin. The tan lines outlining the watch’s home aren’t precise, they’re blurry. I fill my lungs with the same morning air and notice false sunrise stealing starlight. I wait for today to arrive.
From the Rift,
I have few memories before 15 years old. Maybe that’s why I’m so consumed by time. Still, IU argue that Life Isn’t Short.
Thanks for Reading!
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