Blog post
Published: 14.10.2010

Now it’s summertime and the clocks have been put forward an hour:  three in the kitchen: one on the oven, one on the microwave, one on the wall; one in the car; my bedside clock; one in my studio; my mobile phone and computer, which both adjust automatically.
Several watches, seldom worn, remain out of time in a drawer.    

What does it mean: to run out of time? To move more slowly than time itself?  That time is a commodity, like milk or sugar, which runs out?  One day we might open the refrigerator . . . oh-my-god we’re out of time. 
(As dead-lines loom, sand pours rather than dribbles through the hourglass)     

Some physicists now advance the hypothesis that time might “run out” in five million years or so.  

The flowers know nothing of this.  They bloom when they must, and their petals are stripped by the wind or rain or merely fall, again, when they must.  

The rocks remain reliable, the stalwart stones persevere in the way stones do — obdurate — worn incrementally — almost invisibly — by the elements, or by my hand, in seemingly infinitesimal increments.


                                                                Petal, passing