5 posts tagged “life”

The bus journey from the village where I live to the nearest town is a short one.  A mere hop, really, and probably about as efficient a mode of travelling. The buses are reasonably frequent, although they cease to run rather early in the evening to allow for anything other than a daytime flit.  The fares are acceptable and on the whole the service is reliable enough.  A car would be a guilt-laden and expensive alternative, as far as I am concerned.  It would be a mere accoutrement to the pavement outside my cottage for the vast majority of the time.  And, as accoutrements go, that is an expensive piece of roadside furniture. 

I can and often do walk the journey into town, but it's often nice to take the bus, especially if I am just popping to the bank or running a simple errand (the timetabling is such that I can travel in, do a quick pit stop, catch the very next bus, and be home again within about 45 minutes).  Even though it is a short journey, you get a veritable slice of life with extra cream filling coming from the waiting at either end.  Because there are regular bus catchers, usually there's a lot of chatter on the bus, banter with the driver, and so on.  There used to be a Kenny Rogers look-a-like who was a regular.  My lovely friend June used to also take the bus too when she was alive.  There's the elderly lady who I think has some East European heritage who always says "hello".  The average age of the travellers is 60+ I would estimate, at least during the hours outside the school run.  I quite like that.  Despite my looks, I seem to be approachable.  And, because of my looks, I'm readily recognisable even to those whose eyesight has perhaps seen better days and isn't quite seeing the current ones.

Today's little slice of life brought a big smile to my face.  An elderly gentleman was making his way down the moving bus, grabbing hold of the rails as the bus neared a corner.  As he reached the space reserved for prams and disabled travellers, he reached for the vertical rail, and the bus swung around and slowed.   This sent him revolving around the pole so that by the time both he and the bus had came to a standstill he was facing towards the back of the bus and where he had previously been sitting.

"He's practicing his pole dancing", came a quip from a gent who had earlier been talking to myself in the queue at the station (I suspect he may have had a drink or two.)

Maybe you had to be there, but it put a smile on my face, anyway.

Anticipation is a very child-like state of being.  Remember when you were a kid?  There was always something to anticipate, to look forward to, wasn't there?  There probably wasn't a time when you were a child that you weren't looking forward with anticipation - even if that anticipation was only from the current moment to the very next one to come along.  As we mature, I wonder whether we tend to lose this state of anticipation, this state of child-like being.  I don't know what takes over from it, or at the very least dents it: cynicism borne from responsibility or tiredness, a sense of having heard/seen it before, or a reduction in the value of momentary novelty because awareness is so heightened by knowledge and experience? 

When I was younger and getting into music in a big way, I would clutch my latest music purchase and rush home, eager to hear what I had in my hands.  There was a delay between holding a mute sliver of plastic and placing it on a turntable and giving it voice - but this was all a part of the anticipation, that sense of what might be, the frisson of the unknown but familiar.  I would absorb the packaging whilst listening to the music.  I would allow the music devoted space and time - doing nothing but listening to it, taking it in and letting it absorb too.  I would often listen to it many, many times over. 

Over the course of time, I have like many others, experienced musical disappointments, but that sense of almost apprehensive anticipation is as strong as ever.  I have recently been listening to the latest album by one of my favourite bands, Hocico - a dark electro band from Mexico that I have liked for many years now.  Times have changed somewhat from those days of bringing home a precious cargo of music in my school rucksack or in 12-inch square shopping bags with the name of a record shop emblazoned on them.  The new Hocico album appeared as a downloadable album on Napster before the physical object that I have ordered has arrived through my letterbox.  It didn't feel quite the same, but it didn't change my sense of eagerness at being privy to their latest offering.  I did briefly consider waiting until I could actually place the CD into a tray and hold the case in my hands, but I decided to download the album.  Whilst I downloaded it (I waited until its entirety was on my hard drive so I could play it from start to finish in the manner in which it was intended) that sense of nervous anticipation was there again.  It was almost with a tremble that I clicked on the "play" button and let the reality of it replace the hope and anticipation.. 

There's always a fear associated with following an artist or a band over a significant period of time.  It's the downside of forming attachments, of building relationship, of feeling loyalty. Will this latest album resonate with me?   Has the band retained those elements that appealed to me?  Has the band or have I stayed in the place or at least moved in parallel to that which first attached us and caused a relationship to form and grow over time?   I am sure all music lovers have at some point experienced the fear and the reality of answering "no" to any of those questions.  The answer that often triggers a sense of detachment and lessening of the resonance between an artist and a follower, and ultimately leads to a breakdown of the relationship.  Without over-dramatising it (!), a disappointment of that nature can almost feel like a relationship that has soured, like a rejection from a potential partner, the disloyalty of a trusted friend, or the unravelling of a strongly-held bond or belief.

Just for the record (ha!), the Hocico album didn't disappoint, far from it.  Long- and highly-anticipated, it delivered in a way that exceeded my hopes and expectations (I can only hope and trust that it met their hopes and expectations too, since that also, is part of the equation).  I hope to never lose that sense of anticipation, as challenging as it can be at times.  I hope that it continues in music as it does in other fields of my life.

Being some random, rambling late night thoughts on time...
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Aside from our well-bring - our health - time is perhaps simultaneously both our most precious belonging and our most highly-valued asset.  It's also our greatest gift.

In terms of time as an asset, time is fundamental to us as a resource.  We are aware, possibly, that our time is limited, that our time is finite, that it is constantly being used up no matter what we do.  We are also aware, possibly, that our time resources are exchangeable for other resources (e.g. money) when we have a job or are self-employed or that we sacrifice those when we choose not to exchange our time in an occupational capacity. 

The relative value of time varies of course - based on the accepted value of the occupation, skills, experience, expertise and so on - but the fundamental essence of the money exchange is that it is based on usage of our time by another person or entity.  Time is the unit of measure - an hourly rate, a day rate, a monthly salary, our career earnings..  Our time is what we sell when we present ourselves to the marketplace of buyers - our employers, our customers, our clients.  In most cases, we are not able to name our price, or if we are then it is within limits.  On the other hand, how do we value our own time?  How do we balance up the monetary value of our time with what our time means to us?  Do we even do that?  Do you?.  When we "spend time" do we know what that actually means?  How do we "waste" time if it is constantly ebbing away from us anyway?

There are occasions when the exchange of time does not have a monetary rate attached to it.  We offer our time resources for other reasons. When we choose to offer assistance to someone when they need help, choose to engage in a conversation with a stranger or a neighbour or choose to give attention to family, friends or a relationship.  All of these activities represent the giving up or giving out of time as a resource without anticipation of any fiscal reward.

When we make such choices, we are also exercising judgments about how we could or should use up this valuable asset.  It sounds basic, but this notion of time is absolutely crucial.   To put it bluntly: we cannot offer our time simultaneously in many different directions, and, once that time is gone, it is gone.    It's a sad truism that people talk of "making time" for themselves as if that is somehow anachronistic to their other uses of time.  It is not - it is just the case that often we don't appreciate the intrinsic non-monetary nature of time in favour of its monetary value, or we don't recognise that time is precious and finite, and therefore we over-extend ourselves by "spending" it beyond our means.  And then we wonder why we "don't have" time to do things.  We do, it's just what we do with time, the choices we make with time, when we have time - which is now and is always now, this moment.  

Retaining clarity over what we are doing when we, for example, choose to do one thing rather than another, embraces this notion of scarcity and value and personal judgement.  By the same token, recognising what our time means to others is an important part of understanding that our time is something we can give as a gift, something we can offer as a shared resource, something we can proffer as a gesture.  As many volunteers would attest, giving time in this way also helps us to understand that having time, any time at all, is a gift and resource to ourselves too.

When we acknowledge either the selling or the giving of our time, we also accept its fundamentally finite nature. We also accept that it has a value because of this.  The value may be expressed monetarily or it may not.    When we give time, rather than sell it, we might come to understand that perhaps the non-monetary value we ascribe to our own time is much less than the non-monetary value obtained by the receiver.  Just a few minutes of time can mean so much more to another person than it could to ourselves - think of a friend in need that you could make contact with, an elderly neighbour that you could check in on, a person you can strike up a conversation with whilst waiting for the bus or out for a walk, and so on.  That is where the true value of time shines through:  when one person's time is highly valuable to another person simply because by giving it one expresses care, concern and connection.  Even community. 

Time.  Recognise its value and finite nature, use it wisely, but give of it generously.  To yourself and to others. 
Time truly is the essence and of the essence.

"The-time-is-two-fourteen--p-m", said the watch.

Put that ever-so-slightly disconcerting synthetic female voice through a reverb and you'd scare many a schoolchild to death.  Put a hi-hat, kick and snare to it and you might have those same schoolchildren downloading a ringtone of it in their droves.  I amused myself by selecting numbers and pressing the time adjustment button in syncopation, like some early techno or some later bad commercial techno.  "The-time-is... the-...the-...the-the-...the-time-is... 1..2..3..4".  No-one noticed I was doing this of course.  Not even my mum who is quite used to my ways.

My grandfather has always been an old man to me. In my earliest intelligible memories he was already retired from his job as a testing engineer at Rolls Royce, and well into his 60s.  At the time he probably would have been referred to as an older man.  The transition from older man to elderly man and now to frail elderly man has taken place over my entire life time.  He is now in his mid-90s, me in my later 30s. 

The irony of relative time and the passage of it.   How do we mark time passing?  Where are the milestones by the side of the road?  Do chapters in our lives create their own time zones?  I pondered these things as I attempted to adjust the time on his talking watch and amuse myself with its robotic tones. My grandfather's deteriorated eyesight means that the digital numerals on the face are devoid of any use whatsoever but clearly he still finds it important to know what time of day it is.  I was going to ask why, but I felt that I already had asked one too many stupid question.  Why would he need an alarm setting?

It seems that I am the only person who has figured out how to set the watch - I guess the manual disappeared a long time ago and I somehow figured out the correct combination of buttons to press in order to get it into setup mode.  From time to time I am called upon to remind myself of how I did it and then do it again.  It felt good to be of use, anyway.

I was quiet on the way home.  I am usually quiet after visiting my grandparents.  And my parents are usually quiet after visiting my grandparents.  Discussions had taken place. Time was at the centre of them.  "Now is the time...".  "There will come a time..."   "It's time they....".  "It's only a matter of time..."

I stared out the window and took in the countryside, the bright skies and the beginnings of some greenery in the hedges that we scurried past.  I was tired.  I hadn't slept well again. But, just perhaps, during that morning time had caught up with me a little bit too.

"Alarm off"
"Alarm on"

I've been down to London today, my third or fourth trip in as many weeks.  Truth be told, my recent trips in the last few weeks outnumber my trips to London over the past four or five years.  It's not a major journey by any means, just an hour and a quarter by train, then a few stops on the Tube.  It's a relatively stress-free journey.  I didn't even really set out very early or arrive back too late.  But, I have found that it has become quite a hurdle for me personally.

It's not that I don't like London.  I do.  I lived there there for quite a few years, I did my PhD there and worked there.  It's energetic, interesting and exciting in many respects.  It's also a world apart from how and where I spend 99% of my time now, which is rather slow and quiet (at least relatively speaking).  It isn't that I live far removed from civilisation, but there's something about a genuinely big city that makes it so much more than the equivalent sum of many bustling towns.  I'm not sure what it is, but you'll know it if you have spent time in a large city for any duration longer than a few days or weeks.  It's that thing that is exciting in some ways, but which ultimately weighs so heavily on you and your well-being too after a while..

A city the size of London, especially during the rush hours, is a collective organism in full flow.  It's both somewhat invigorating and somehow depressing all in the same breath.  I can only equate it to an awareness of being part of and driven along by a big and powerful machine, but feeling that one is such a very small component in it that you could be spat out of the machine or crushed in its mechanism and it would not be affected by your loss in the least.  

I was joined, no doubt, on my journey to and from London today by many people for whom it is a major part of their daily routine and a significant part of their waking hours (and non-waking hours judging by some of the snores from the train carriage).  Since my journeys are relatively few and far between I do see myself as a tourist in some ways, able to look at things slightly differently and able to shed my skin when I return home knowing I won't be retracing my steps the following day and the day after that.   I know I could not do that.  I know I also would not last very long in London at this stage in my life.  The noise, the fumes, the incessant movement is too much.

So, am I tired of London?  I don't think so.  Perhaps I appreciate it all the more for not being a part of it or I just appreciate different aspects of it now.  Perhaps I appreciate the opportunity of seeing, for example, a building like "The Gherkin" up close rather than simply in photographs on the web, and enjoy the novelty of both familiar and unfamiliar sights and sounds in teeming London streets.   By the same token, perhaps it gives me even more appreciation for the location and lifestyle choices that I have made which mean that the grind of London living and the daily commute feels now so very far behind me and not a part of me...