Ken Hurley
ONCE UPON TIME quickly became twice upon a time after Chaton bought her third clock to sit atop her grandmother’s hand-me-down antique oak bedroom dresser next to her collection of classic Swatch watches.
Tick tock. Does anybody really know what time it is? If I could turn back time. I’ve had the time of my life. Time heals all wounds. Time wounds all heels. A time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant and a time to harvest. Time, it’s on my side.
Time is not on your side regardless how many time pieces you wind. Time waits for no person. As Groucho said, “You can leave in a huff. Or you can leave in a minute and a huff.” Which is much slower than a huff and a puff.
One of the more persistent universal delusions is that we think we have time. We tell ourselves we have time. We don’t. Ask anyone who suddenly and unexpectedly lost a loved one.
Time is a made up creation. Time is an effective illusion. Time is a measurement of distance. The invention of time does help us think. Some are good at killing time. Some think time is money. Some make time for us. Others waste time.
Chaton loves her Swatches. Reliable, stylish, and colorful Swiss timepieces that allow Chaton to “wear her personality on her wrist.” She would often wear two or three Swatches on each wrist and one on her left ankle to match whichever hair color she chose that week. She would set them for time zones in exotic and romantic places around the world she one day hopes to visit. She’s analog all the way.
I don’t wear a watch but I know I spend too much time trying to find the expiration date on food products.
I prefer not spend my time describing myself as an atheist. To do so conditionally places self-identity in something that does not exist, is lacking, or otherwise absent. Seems an uninspired way to keep on truckin’. Are you a theist, an atheist, something else? Time will tell. Chaton can not yet decide. It’s ok since she is only 15 years into her life’s adventures.
Her high school physics teacher, Dr. Visco, told Chaton that there exists a place in the space between the orbits around a nucleus of an atom where time does not exist. Which caused Chaton to wonder if there is a reliable method to evaluate the value of a human being? Maybe by the degree to which one enjoys freedom from boundaries regarding thoughtful behavior? A personal liberation of self and selflessness? Chaton loves Buddha’s platitudes. She tries her best to understand her perceptions before offering her expressions. And she is extraordinarily expressive.
As humans we experience our thoughts and feelings as something separated from others. Something we tell ourselves are unique. But mostly these thoughts are our mind’s idea of self-worth. This subconscious deception relegates us to strong feelings of wants and needs which we pursue to variable ends.
Chaton thought a worthy effort would be to rid herself from mindfield traps of petty wants and needs by expanding her circle of compassionate influence by which she would embrace living creatures in all forms with the respectful recognition we are surrounded by an abundance of beauty. Chaton loves all things nature and enjoys the exuberance of being the creator of her life’s journey.
Chaton wondered how atheists, theists, and spiritual persons experience much the same information through our senses but each concludes differently. Each believing their way is preferable. The belief that spiritual or atheistic wisdom makes one more special than others tends toward narcissistic reflections which, in moderation, can be a useful shield from harsh criticism, useful to impress others, and may actually enhance self-esteem.
Chaton thought she should begin her own podcast where she could express her feelings of love, respect, and admiration for the wonders of life. She knows nothing about how to make an engaging thought-provoking podcast but believes she has enough creative energy and imagination to make her voiced opinions believable. Why not her? She has as much insight and determination as the next person. After all she is diligently disciplined in her personal journaling where she shares her secrets, hopes, dreams, aspirations, and fantasies from her fertile imagination and her young rich life.
At age 15 Chaton was already seen by friends and family as joyfully successful because she was living up to her full potential. She dared to try and try again. She was resolved to not spend her time at a pay-check-to-pay-check job she disliked at which she felt would lead to a life of “quiet desperation” as Thoreau (one of her favorites) famously observed. She would negotiate life on her own terms.
Then it happened. Thrice upon a time! As Shel Silverstein wrote, “It was nine o’clock at midnight at a quarter after three when a turtle met a bagpipe on the shoreside by the sea.” As certain as Chaton loves her inquisitive mind, her Swatches, poetry, Buddha’s platitudes, her life’s journey, and enjoys her time with friends and loved ones; she was stuck point blank by several .223 rounds from an AR-15 held by an upperclassmate who fired randomly into the school cafeteria.
Chaton was one of eight that tragic day who suddenly and unexpectedly was out of time. Her final moment in time was recorded by the coroner, memorialized by tearful, heartbroken friends and loved ones, and marked by the Swatches she wore that day. Her left wrist: 12:33pm (New York), 5:33pm (Paris), 4:33pm (Marrakesh). Her right wrist: 6:33pm (Petra), 7:33pm (Seychelles), 6:33am (Kauai). The red Swatch on her ankle was always set to eight minutes past ten. A constant reminder to Chatron that even the face of clock can smile too.
Got a minute?
Friday, December 14, 2012, was the day when a gunman killed 20 children and six adults at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. The guns he used were purchased legally by his mother who he also killed. You may read more about school gun violence here: https://www.sandyhookpromise.org/
And here: https://www.britannica.com/event/Sandy-Hook-Elementary-School-shooting
Would enjoy learning your thoughts. Ken Hurley at Kenhurley88@gmail.com.
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