Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Time is But the
Livestream I go a-programming In
“Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in.”
-Thoreau
Someone near and dear to my pancreas gave (“gifted” is not
a verb) me one of those clever aluminum MeWatches that claim to make one’s life
more interesting in many ways and which come without any instructions because
not sending instructions with a product is such a cool thing now.
Thus, I pensioned off my old $10 Timex which, like
Jeeves, served its owner discreetly and professionally, and took up a
temperamental Sloane Square bit of art that lights up and makes noises whenever
it can be coaxed into doing so.
Even as I type I am looking look at the bit of art which shows
the time adjacent to an assemblage of curved lines in red, green, and blue. Or
bleu. One of those lines is said to tell me how many calories I have burned
today, another how much strenuous exercise I have taken, and the thirds how
much time I have stood, but I don’t which line is which and there any scales or
frames of reference.
But it’s pretty.
The watch will not work without bonding spiritually with
my MePhone. When I attempted to preside at the wedding the MeWatch said that
the MePhone wouldn’t do and refused to take vows until the MePhone was updated.
One of the household stayed up much of the night with Harry
Potter movies and the MePhone while a
creeping line, cosmically tethered to the InterGossip, slowly, slowly indicated
that the MePhone’s enneagrams or ouijas or something were making tenuous
contact with The Great Beyond.
Upon arising with the dawn I discovered that the MeWatch
and the MePhone had made peace overnight, and I passed a few hours presiding
over their union with frequent references to the Gospel apps according to the
InterGossip.
The MeWatch tells me the time now. It also says the temp
is 80 (which appears to be so) and that the day is fair. I don’t know what “fair”
means in MeWatchSpeak; the day is dark and grey and gaspingly damp, and flings intermittent
rains upon the sodden earth.
When I push a little “heart” thingie the MeWatch tells me
my pulse is 90, but no, it’s 70, but no again, it’s 85, but no yet again it’s
110, all within a few seconds, and I haven’t moved.
When I push something else some tiny print tells me that
I can swap out the confusing dial for dozens of other confusing dials.
When I push the figure of a runner the MePhone tells me
that I have taken 11 minutes and thirty-four seconds to walk 391 feet, when in
fact all I have done in that time is sit at the glowing screen of the
Abominable Autoscribe (cf. A Canticle for Leibowitz).
I touched the screen a few minutes ago and the MeWatch said,
“Time to stand! Stand up and move a little for one minute.”
And I obeyed The Machine and did so.
Now it says “You did it! You’ve earned another hour
toward your stand goal.”
Do I get a ribbon for that? Or a gentle pat on my frontal
lobe?
Thoreau’s concept of time is much better ours – to go fishing
and not think about time at all.
I wonder if this shiny MeWatch would make a good fishing
lure?
But the MeWatch is made in
The-Country-That-Must-Not-Be-Named, and is probably full of toxins. It looks
pretty, though; I’ll leave it on my wrist.
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