9 O’clock bloomer is the common nickname for evening primrose
because the plant’s yellow flowers open promptly at dusk in the
summertime. The flowers seem to unwind slowly out from their center,
and then pop open abruptly, blossoming for a night and wilting by
dawn. The internal clock of the plant is wound to respond to the
gradually dimming light, the purply-blue of twilight. I’m thinking
about this biological keeping of time. Flies live for one month, one
lunar rotation. I wonder what time means to a fly, how long does a
month feel to live a whole life in? What is a single day of living
to a flower?
For most and for me, the experience of time passing changes
heavily depending on what I’m engaged in. Time spent at work drags
terribly, seeming to grind to a halt as I wait for a lunch break, or
wait to go home. At a party, where circadian rhythms are shrugged
off in the company of friends, hours can pass in a single room with
barely any perception. On the highway time moves in and out of
relevance. Boredom at 75 miles an hour seems impossible, but your
body moves through time at its normal speed separate from a vehicle
that’s hurtling through space. It makes me think about hyper-sleep
in sci-fi novels where spacecraft inhabitants are kept suspended in
their age and experience of time as the earthlings they left behind
age and die in seemingly the same span. When I drive on a long trip
my mind drifts through memory, anticipation of the destination, or
possibly dread, observation of the passing landscapes, the
choreography of the cars signaling lane shifts and passing slow
moving trucks.
_______
/______/"=,
[ | "=, "=,,
[-----+----"=,* )
(_---_____---_)/
(O) (O)
because the plant’s yellow flowers open promptly at dusk in the
summertime. The flowers seem to unwind slowly out from their center,
and then pop open abruptly, blossoming for a night and wilting by
dawn. The internal clock of the plant is wound to respond to the
gradually dimming light, the purply-blue of twilight. I’m thinking
about this biological keeping of time. Flies live for one month, one
lunar rotation. I wonder what time means to a fly, how long does a
month feel to live a whole life in? What is a single day of living
to a flower?
For most and for me, the experience of time passing changes
heavily depending on what I’m engaged in. Time spent at work drags
terribly, seeming to grind to a halt as I wait for a lunch break, or
wait to go home. At a party, where circadian rhythms are shrugged
off in the company of friends, hours can pass in a single room with
barely any perception. On the highway time moves in and out of
relevance. Boredom at 75 miles an hour seems impossible, but your
body moves through time at its normal speed separate from a vehicle
that’s hurtling through space. It makes me think about hyper-sleep
in sci-fi novels where spacecraft inhabitants are kept suspended in
their age and experience of time as the earthlings they left behind
age and die in seemingly the same span. When I drive on a long trip
my mind drifts through memory, anticipation of the destination, or
possibly dread, observation of the passing landscapes, the
choreography of the cars signaling lane shifts and passing slow
moving trucks.
_______
/______/"=,
[ | "=, "=,,
[-----+----"=,* )
(_---_____---_)/
(O) (O)