The moment has come, as it always does: the time to stand still, to take stock. The pause, the intake of breath, hold, then release, a moment so brief and yet...that instant can contain a lot: The beat of a heart, the blink of an eye, the throb of a pulse, nerve or muscle.
tick of the second hand on a wall or mantel clock, and the strike of
an unearthly hour when everyone, regardless of age, should ideally be
BOOM of the sea as waves crash against weathered rocks or its shush
it caresses the caramelised sand as if it were a silk sheet and the
sand a person.
whistle and POP! of fireworks going off with their streaks and wheels
of colour, with oohs and aahs from the crowd as they watch.
that can be pretty or beautiful but never both. Instants that can be
monotonous or irksome but never concurrently. Moments that don't
overlap, they just become something else. Instants that don't last
and yet, don't entirely fade.
anticipatory moment is often one that stays, the feeling of waiting
remembered and not the actual waited-for, longed-for moment. Or the
completely unexpected instant when suddenly everything becomes
glittery yet sharp. And then there are those instants you'd rather
forget but don't because, rather bizarrely, you've made a memory of
them and so, they're forever fixed in that one frame of time, ready
to be recalled, unbidden or at your bidding. Nobody really wants
those, unless for some reason you need to feel. Something. Anything.
And those ill-remembered instants bring release like cutting a vein.
Whoa, there's anger; here comes tears; is that a flash of a fear?
fast paced world moments move so fast. Quicker than is good for your
digestion. Decisions, in comparison, can seem slow, so that the
moment is swallowed, gone, by the time a decision has been made.
You've moved on, other moments have been created, your head space has
might say 'Life is...' moment to moment. A sequence of them, that
unfurls, which appears scripted or random, because what appears is
like genetics coding or some sort of computer programming; it could
even be a musical score: the same grouped moments repeat, pause for a
beat, repeat again, then there's a new, unrelated bar, and then a
string of familiar moments which are somehow still different.
There's lots of shuffling and reshuffling as if this code is being
written as it's played. Each action, reaction accounted for; each
happening internalised, then retained or dismissed. It's fascinating,
this never-ending slip of paper, the width of which is the same as a
till roll, of printed code that goes wherever you go, increasing in
length like Marley's chains.
moments that stop, like when your heart skips a beat when you sneeze,
are precious, similar to a gem that refracts light in a multitude of
coloured spots and rays, or akin to something that's quaint,
something that's usually only glimpsed on rare occasions and is
discussed more than seen, but when actually viewed up close and not
in a image on screen or in a photograph, then... Then time transfixes
itself as if it were an old locomotive huffing-huffing into a
station, its fuel spent and needing to take on more water, its
passengers spilling out onto the platform, and that's when it happens
– when the engine's puffing and panting and desperately trying not
to die – time ceases for the merest interlude. The passengers
almost hold their breath too. It's nothing, no time at all, and yet
more than enough.
person it's occurring to is hypnotised, and everything, everybody
around them seems to travel at a reduced speed, as if they were in a
zone where there were signs telling them to do so, and yet the
enchanted is in a world of their own where things seem to have a
magic cotton-wool quality. Soft and slightly muffled. Just as if old
Marley might put in an appearance himself with his rattling chains.
Picture credit: Time Transfixed, 1938, Rene Magritte