Tag Archives: memory

The Implication of Now




I am fixed on time, on the notion of now being the only moment in which we exist.

Watching the snow fall, I sense motion.  Listening to my bulldog snore, I hear motion. Sitting at my desk, completely still, my body is in incredible motion: cells dying, living, splitting. Synapses firing, ceasing, firing.  Plaques and tangles forming.  Skin flaking, hair falling.  Thoughts racing, forgetting, creating.  Stan Getz vibrating my eardrum, coffee stimulating olfactory senses, blood rushing, mitral valve failing, information gathering, fingers typing, erasing, revising, second-guessing, muscles degenerating, skin oiling, capturing a moment, remembering it differently, creating a fancier moment.

If it’s in the past, did it exist?  Is now a compilation of fictitious nows that form a fictitious past? How divisible is now?  Is it a Planck moment?  A whole universe grew in a Planck moment.  Where was I then?  Was I then?  If I was then, I always am.  The whole universe could fit inside my box then.  I wonder if I want it to fit inside my box now.  What is the implication of filling it?


Swaying Spires


On the day of my death, I won’t remember the three spires protruding from a tuft of orange-yellow strips of dried leaves outside my window. I won’t remember how they sway with the movement if the air and rain before a blue-green juniper. The sky is grey without definition. It is not special.

I will leave my desk to fix a lunch, and hopefully thousands more lunches before that final day. Each lunch I fix, I will be farther and further from the fleeting, swaying spires.