One thing I’ve learned form this blogging shtick: I can write a lot, but not every day.
Sometimes I simply don’t feel like writing, so I don’t. I don’t agonize or freak out or guilt-trip over it. If I don’t feel like writing, I don’t. I don’t enjoy complicating matters and sometimes life is more simple if we would just let it be.
Bottom line is, I haven’t felt like writing since Wednesday, hence the dearth of posts. Who knows. This weekend I may suddenly feel compelled to bang out a massive post flood…but not now.
However, I feel enough motivation to write about an odd synchronous glitchy thing that happened to me on Wednesday. I call it “odd” but many might just think of it as an amusing, mostly insignificant coincidence of sorts. Whatever, I think it’s worth noting here. Besides, I’ve written more about less on these pages, as we can all attest.
Let me preface: back in June, while on Holiday (love saying that…”vacation” is so drably American) in Hawaii, I bought a watch during one of our mall jaunts. I had been in need of a watch for a while since my last overpriced, 10-year-old G-shock’s battery died earlier this year and I found it difficult to justify spending a fortune on a stupid battery for a watch I didn’t like anymore. So all this time I defaulted to my cellphone as my primary timepiece, but I’m an old-fashioned guy. I like wristwatches. I like traditionally-faced, analog sweeping hand watches. In Hawaii, I found a sleek, gunmetal name-brand watch and fell in love with it. A hundred and some dollars later, I walked out of the mall with a brand new watch and I felt temporally complete, once again.
So fast forward, to Wednesday.
I’ve been wearing this new watch for about 3 months. Every day on my public transportation commute, to the grocery store, coffee shops, malls, the movies, etc (that’s my life, fyi). I’ve worn the watch, daily, for a full financial quarter, and it wasn’t until Wednesday morning, on my way to work, that this happened as the train pulled up to the downtown platform:
Older Black guy, sitting in the sideways seat in front of me, noting that I had glanced at my watch, asks me, “What time is it?”
Delighted to answer (because I do have a watch again, you know).
“It’s 8am,” I answered proudly, happy to help. And it was 8, sharp. Not 8:03 or 7:59. Eight o’freaking’clock.
My foray into public timekeeping passed as quickly as it begun, I rushed out of the train and into the next leg of my commute which would lead me to work. The day flew by uneventfully and I fled work about 4:53 (I’m that dedicated) and headed to the train station which would kick off my commute home.
As I speed-walked along the street, fresh escape beaming from my eyes, a busy street, a middle-aged Asian man, walking the opposite direction, stopped in front of me and asked what time it was. He pointed at my watch.
“5 o’clock,” I answered.
He thanked me and continued on his way. I did too but I got to thinking. It was 5pm exactly. I had been asked the same question 9 hours earlier. After wearing this watch for 3 months without ever being asked the time by a stranger, I was suddenly hit up for the time twice in one day at the keynote opening and closing times of a typical work day: 8am and 5pm.
How strange, I thought.
Synchronous and uncanny.
The master script betrays itself sometimes and its encircled completion, its pat conclusions and eerily tidy summations in the absence of explanations owing nothing to coincidence lead me to wonder if the program has once again veered into exposure.