The Tenacity of Time

As an early philosopher, Saint Augustine pondered many concepts of the universe with much success; his writings have very heavily influenced the progress of western Christianity and philosophy. There seems to be one concept, however, that he could never understand, and that is the concept of time. Augustine once said that he knew exactly what time was until someone asked him to define it, at which point he was at a loss for words. It would appear that to him the concept of time was like the concept of being. It is impossible to define what being is, because the very definition includes the concept itself. To be is—it just is. Time is—well really it just is. But I, being me, have attempted to “define” time. 

I've noticed that people who like to think tend to enjoy venturing on journeys such as "defining time" all to end up close to where they started—with still no definition but even further confusion. I'd still like to take this venture because I believe in the importance of thinking about things that effect our lives so very acutely, as time clearly does. Time, at its most simplistic and childish definition, is thought of as the ticking of a clock, the hour of the day and p.m. versus a.m. But, based on how much we value, plan according to, and yearn to fill time, it is clear that it means much more to us than a clock; time itself still exists in this world, regardless of how we choose to or choose not to measure it.

Everything we do centers around time; we are constantly talking about time. We talk about "spending time" and "having time" and "giving time" and "taking the time," as though time is some physical substance that we can spend, have, give, and take. Time is obviously not a physical substance. We talk about other physically non-substantial things in a similar manner as well. Take love, for example. We talk about "giving love" and "having love," as though love is a type of physical matter. The difference, however, between love and time is that love has emotional substance, and therefore may at least feel like it has physical substance entering the soul as well, whereas time doesn't even have that. Time is neither a physically or emotionally substantial form of matter. So why, then, do we think of it as such?

My answer to the question above lies in the tenacity of time. Time is persistent. Time is determined. Time is constantly gripping upon us to be felt, heard, and filled in such a way that generally speaking only something with physical or at least emotional substance could. Time is perhaps the root of all insanity (tick, tock, tick, tock); time demands to be filled with rational, emotional, physical, or spiritual activity and if it is not filled with those things it will be fill itself with anxious and eventually insane activity. 

Ironically enough, as we fill time with activities, time itself governs our activities. We plan everything from when we will eat and sleep to when we will fall in love and get married according to the governance of time. When it is the appropriate time of day, we sleep, just as when it is the appropriate time of life, we fall in love. We hesitate for seconds or years to do certain things because we think and/or we plan that we will have time or it will be time later.

It is as though we can't decide for ourselves when things must happen and must be told by time so we don't jump the gun or fall behind. For this reason, I would propose that time is laughing at us. Ticking on, dreadfully and carelessly, time tortures us by captivating our actions and consuming our thoughtful need to plan, all the while perhaps chuckling at our obedience, waiting for us to do something about it. We far too often remember to follow set schedules simply for the sake of following time and far too often forget the beloved advice from the movie We Bought a Zoo that “Sometimes all you need is 20 seconds of insane courage. Just literally 20 seconds of embarrassing bravery and I promise you, something great will come out of it.” I would propose that actions performed in a random 20 seconds of unplanned, unprepared, embarrassing bravery are the soulful man’s way of stealing 20 seconds away from time—exactly what time itself has been waiting for us to do all along.

Blood and Watermelon

I spend so much time analyzing the depth of the universe (as though I have any sort of qualifications to do that) with no way to explain my thoughts except through the ink on the endless pages of my various overpriced Barnes and Noble journals and letters to a lover. It is only recently that I realized the potential problem with this limited form of release and explanation. Hence, me wanting to start a blog as a way of sharing my thoughts to at least a slightly broader audience is a very recent development, as my far too often closed heart tends to shy away from sharing the things that are important to me with any audience for that matter, let alone any audience anything close to "broad." I have always admired people who are brave enough to release their souls into such a great state of vulnerability by releasing, particularly through written word, what they hold precious and dear to any sort of even remotely broad audience, who very well may simply laugh and scorn at the vastness (or shallowness) of what to them is their beautiful expression. 

It's interesting that we tend to admire most in others the things that we ourselves lack. Instead of further indulging in the safety of my own admiring inactivity of personal thought sharing, I've decided to start this blog as a way of at least slightly publicly and (if I may point out) very bravely sharing what I analyze of things like literature and human nature and the universe.  I think it is noteworthy that I have come to the conclusion of the importance of sharing such thoughts publicly through pondering the concepts of, believe it or not, blood and watermelon. 

Earnest Hemingway, in what I would imagine to be a very nonchalant tone, said "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." On a similar note, T.S. Eliot eloquently pointed out that "The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink." Friedrich Nietzsche, another casual scholar, said "Of all that is written, I love only what a person has written with his own blood. Write with blood: and you will discover that blood is spirit." Obviously, Hemingway, Eliot, and Nietzsche were much more keen than I on sharing the most gorgeous things of their heart and veins, (that is, assuming Nietzsche had a heart...?) making up their life-flow, with an extremely wide audience—something, that as previously mentioned, I've come to greatly admire.

With my only knowledge of anatomy coming from a human biology class I was required to take in high school, I know little to nothing of the biological workings of the heart, but I would respectfully presume that neither did the scholars previously mentioned, all of which seem to be fascinated by the organ. And despite my lack of knowledge, the organ has always fascinated me as well. The concept of particles, like tiny vessels (Death Cab for Cutie, anyone?) carrying oxygen through our bodies in order for us to continue living, all made possible through the musical, spiritual, and physical beat of an organ no larger than our fist is simply stunning. Hence, to give of one's blood is the ultimate sacrifice and to be blood related is to be naturally bound together in love, adding great significance to the fact that, as shown above, brilliant minds have compared writing to bleeding. As a person writes, or creates in any manner of fashion for that matter, they give a great part of themselves, even a part of their life, for the sake of creating what to them is beauty. 

With that in mind, in my far too metaphorical way, I'd like to talk about watermelon. In the summer, my Mother will cut up entire watermelons and place the slices in a bowl to bring to every family gathering. Said watermelon slices are gone within minutes. In fact, I remember half of said watermelon often being gone before my Mother had even finished cutting up the other half, as my siblings and I would sit on the counter and slyly take slices as our Mother finished cutting the rest. In one particular summer afternoon instance of counter-sitting and watermelon-eating, my little brother, who was about four years old at the time, looked at the watermelon and starting talking about it, with the few words he knew how to say passionately, as though it was the most beautiful thing in the world. "It's just so big!" he said, "big and bright—and it's...and it's big and bright and bright and big and big and bright!" This was quite beautiful to me, because it reminded me of the big and bright beauty of the human heart and the artistic expressions thereof. What to one person may be a simple seasonal fruit could be the biggest, brightest beauty another has ever seen. Similarly, what to one person may be offensive, overly tactful, simple minded, overthought, blunt, or reserved writing, to another could be the writing of a human mind and soul that I would call magic, as such words could be just what they needed to say to someone else or themselves in order to start anything from a generational to personal revolution of healing, brilliant, raw, vulnerable thought.

The cutting vulnerability of writers such as those mentioned above, as well as the passion of my four-year-old counter-sitting little brother, is something I've come to greatly admire. I realize that my intellect is not on par with either Hemingway or a four-year-old child, but please do bear with me as I attempt to persistently, perhaps offensively, honestly, and wholeheartedly incorporate my own unapologetic cutting vulnerability and passion in this blog by writing of what to me are the biggest and brightest ideals and inspirations of all—the things I believe to be beautiful.