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Thursday in Australia
I came down the stairs, wood bare and talking their talk with my sandals as I took each step. And I went into the kitchen, cool now as the sun has gone from its windows.
The clock ticked on, and again I caught the Silence between each tock. Cool eternal silence, only given spaces and time by the ticking. Moments of a day sounded out within the great silence of foreverness.
The cheap plastic Argos timepiece on my wall, my own personal Stonehenge, telling me of sunrise and sunsets, seconds, minutes, hours and days. Plastic though it might be, its quartz heart is a tiny reminder of the universal magic; the secrets hidden in the very stones around us, children of the universe all.
Not just a churned out factory clock then, but a piece of contemporary art, a person’s careful thoughts and design, someone’s labour and a window to another person’s life in a far off land. Made in China it says somewhere on its body.
But where did that body come from? Born in China in its present form, perhaps, but formed from many parts, like the limbs and head of Frankenstein’s creation. Bits taken from here and there to form a whole. And is that whole greater than its parts, or are its parts greater than the whole? For it has ancestry that clock, just as you and I do. Ancient ancestry, arising from its grandmother the earth itself. And She, well, who was she the child of, if not past stars and cosmic passions.
It’s company for me too, because it talks to me. If that sounds strange, don’t think its because I live alone and so must fantasise. No, the dear clock tells me the time. It tells me when to go to bed. It tells me to hurry to keep an appointment, or to relax and listen to the news. It is so full of things to say.
And sometimes it is philosophical, reminding me of Einstein. Time is relative it says; for although it is Wednesday here, it is Thursday in Australia.