THE CLOCK
“Time doth flit; oh shit.” –Dorothy Parker
We all have moments when time holds us hostage or scares the shit out of us. In this month's issue, our writers take on the relentless march of the clock on body, mind and soul. Don't just sit there, start reading!
My Clock Is Ticking
Word Count 429
“My clock is ticking!” Marisa Tomei stomped her very high-heeled foot on the porch. Years ago, when I had a working uterus, I transcribed that scene from “My Cousin Vinny” on the back of a paper napkin, repeatedly reversing my VHS until I captured it correctly. Afterward, I would practice it in front of my mirror until I got her sass just right.
Today I am not pumping a pair of heels but rather lying in my hospital bed post-hysterectomy and all I can hear is the loud tick of the second hand of the large wall clock beside my bed. It seems to deliberately taunt me second by second, louder on the upswing, quieter as it winds down to the 6 at the bottom.
Begin Again
Word Count 1092
As I approach my seventieth birthday, I grow more enamored of beginnings: No clock should constrict the imagination’s reach.
As a child, I associated time and its measurement with constraint in the deadening silence enforced by the nuns in elementary school. When we put our heads down on our desks for prayer and reflection, the ticking of the school clock punctuated our collective boredom: How long could we endure this excruciating stillness? Time was nothing but a burden, and clocks were its punishing implements.