Time, that man-made element upon which we rely so faithfully, helps ground us. It is a dimension upon which we judge people (you're late. you're early!), determine eligibility (deadlines) and suppose worth (we've been friends for over five years...).
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And that is why, when I wanted to "get lost" in the Rebecca Solnit way, I decided to shut off, or at least avoid, anything that could determine time. That meant I avoided my phone, covered the red analog clock in my kitchen, didn't look at my e-mail or the news, and didn't ask Danny "what time is it?"
In this limbo period, I found myself yearning to do activities that involved immersion: the type of activities in which you need all day to do anyways. I took out a sculpture I've been developing for months now: a sculpture made of discarded cigarette boxes. I played with the boxes, formulating a new structure. I took up the entire living room floor and was completely taken. When I hit a stopping point, I watched a film, blinds drawn. I was in that dark, womb-like state of immersion, where time and location, and self and other, float in a strange suspension.
I suppose that without the numerical system of hours, minutes and seconds, we still find ways to locate our sense of time and place. I could still see the change of light in the sky (though it was raining, so it was difficult to determine what a change of light actually meant). I knew that the end of a movie meant that a few hours had passed by. But while the passing of time usually yields some sort of emotion, whether it anxiety or joy, on this day, it did not. I accepted that I was in a different time. I found myself saying, "Okay" and nodding my head.
Getting lost by losing time was a valuable experiment. I imposed less structure on myself without time to validate my urgency. I moved more slowly than usual. I got less done. But the lack of urgency allowed me to spend time with a project I had retired for a while. Getting lost lets me float. I can focus on the current, not on the past or the future. To get lost is to immerse myself: in a project, in a person, a an image. And that sense of loss is actually what will lead to an organic focus.
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In this limbo period, I found myself yearning to do activities that involved immersion: the type of activities in which you need all day to do anyways. I took out a sculpture I've been developing for months now: a sculpture made of discarded cigarette boxes. I played with the boxes, formulating a new structure. I took up the entire living room floor and was completely taken. When I hit a stopping point, I watched a film, blinds drawn. I was in that dark, womb-like state of immersion, where time and location, and self and other, float in a strange suspension.
I suppose that without the numerical system of hours, minutes and seconds, we still find ways to locate our sense of time and place. I could still see the change of light in the sky (though it was raining, so it was difficult to determine what a change of light actually meant). I knew that the end of a movie meant that a few hours had passed by. But while the passing of time usually yields some sort of emotion, whether it anxiety or joy, on this day, it did not. I accepted that I was in a different time. I found myself saying, "Okay" and nodding my head.
Getting lost by losing time was a valuable experiment. I imposed less structure on myself without time to validate my urgency. I moved more slowly than usual. I got less done. But the lack of urgency allowed me to spend time with a project I had retired for a while. Getting lost lets me float. I can focus on the current, not on the past or the future. To get lost is to immerse myself: in a project, in a person, a an image. And that sense of loss is actually what will lead to an organic focus.
