Living in Kairos and Chronos Time

This is from (what I interpret to be) an excellent editorial on parenting in the Huffington Post (link). While, yes, the subject is parenting, I think these concepts apply to our daily lives.

"There are two different types of time. Chronos time is what we live in. It's regular time, it's one minute at a time, it's staring down the clock till bedtime time, it's ten excruciating minutes in the Target line time, it's four screaming minutes in time out time, it's two hours till daddy gets home time. Chronos is the hard, slow passing time we parents often live in.

Then there's Kairos time. Kairos is God's time. It's time outside of time. It's metaphysical time. It's those magical moments in which time stands still. I have a few of those moments each day. And I cherish them.

 

Like when I actually stop what I'm doing and really look at Tish. I notice how perfectly smooth and brownish her skin is. I notice the perfect curves of her teeny elf mouth and her asianish brown eyes, and I breathe in her soft Tishy smell. In these moments, I see that her mouth is moving but I can't hear her because all I can think is -- This is the first time I've really seen Tish all day, and my God -- she is so beautiful. Kairos."

Birdsong

Austin is a wintering ground for many species of birds. This week the woodpeckers are in my neighborhood. I pause and listen to their calls. Each tree and housetop hosts a different birdsong. The repetition of the cardinal. The metallic rasp of a grackle. The explosive cry of the bluejay. The annoying twitter of English sparrows. The thrumming of the mourning dove. The schizophrenic rantings of the mockingbird. The melodies of these feathered musicians coalesce in a disjointed orchestra.

Techno Low, Gee

Observation: We spent actual time together and talked on the phone, but we also texted and IM'ed. When one stops dating someone now, as compared to before the era of the constant contact thing carried around in the pocket, her absence leaves a more noticeable hole.

I'm not sad, just thinking about how it was before the smartphones.

There are several ways texting has changed communication, and therefore, dating. I've been especially aware of how it has changed the beginning (a man does not ask a woman out over text, esp the first date), the middle (she can always say hello, wherever you are, thoughts sent), the end (one does not break up with someone over text), and now, the after.

Because of the technology, the other person is present in your life more often, and so when the other person is gone, she's more gone-gone.

Said in tarry.

I sit.
I sit all day.
I come home. I sit all night.
I am sitting now.
(Oh. I lie down too, which is like sitting, with your whole body.)

There's too much sitting in my life, I know.

The end of 2011, too much of 2011, too much TV.
Too much not doing.
As someone who creates. I should not "not."
Inactive. Unplugged. Relaxed.

All people create somehow.
Something we do that pulls us in, the act itself inspiring. Brains engaged and breath quickened just some, enough. Time passing unnoticed.
Cook.
Write.
Paint.
Play.
Build.
Tear apart.

"I work so hard!"
And probably, you do.
I do.
We do.
Balance though, off kilter.
The pendulum swung to one side.

I wonder what is undone by my hands?
What do hours of inactivity take from my life?
What phantoms exist, in alternate timelines, of books I've written and drawn.
Of hikes taken on trails, of discovery there.
Of instruments mastered. Songs sung.
(And therefore, girls wooed.)
Things carved, grain on fingers and spice of wood in the nose.
Plants and trees and gardens
trimmed, planted, and cared for.
Conversations with friends,
but instead, wordless whispers fading into not had.
Life, details, slipping away.
I live on this side of the phantom world.
Created also by my hands, by their folded resignation.

What is entertainment?
What does it mean?
Pictures move. Sound.
A laugh. A sigh.
Seeing and wanting what is on the screen.
But not getting it.
Not moving.
Not having, and so sighing again.
Sighing again.
Sigh.

Instead, a slow care taking, and then, rhythm of life.
Hands doing and minds churning, whirring, active.
Potential explored, expressed, instead of melting away.
Vital days.
Life.
Thought filled moments.
Lived.

Why Don't You Just Text Me? :)

There are many ways to communicate with me.

Phone, expected. (No. You cannot have my number.)

Email. Also expected ... six (?) addresses. Most are variations of my personal URL.

Facebook. We all know about Facebook now. It gets lost in the shuffle. (For the love of all that is holy do NOT group email me there. EVERYONE'S responses show up every time they add something and I get that little number one by my Facebook iPhone app that makes me think someone has actually said something to me, but no, it's some dumb thing from someone about how they haven't seen you in FOREVER, and you look great just shoot me.) Probably the worst way to contact me.

No, that would be Pinterest. Apparently there's some sort of email capability there. I received one from there, but I don't know how. (I can't figure it out.)

Comment. Comment on Facebook. On Google+. On Pinterest. On Twitter. On one of my two blogs. On my Tumblr. I will probably comment back. At the very least I will +1 your comment, or like your comment. We'll be lots closer.

Instant Messaging. (This is rarely on when I am home.) Pretend, for the most part, this doesn't exist.

Skype! (It just felt like it needed the exclamation point, I don't think that's part of the logo!) (Sorry. Was just feeling it again.) Once -- was a cr--one serv-- over the --net.* Now, it's a crappy free video service over the internet.** (Can you see me? I can see you. You can't see me? Which button? Wait. There you are. No.)

Oh, LinkedIn. I think. No one has ever sent me a real email from there, besides, "Hey, check out this business seminar thing I am doing like the one where you gave me your information and now I email you on LinkeIn so you can check out this business seminar I am doing so I can email you on LinkedIn (in perpetuity)."

Google+. Maybe? I posted some stuff there a while back. I am not sure what's happening over there now.

Twitter. Twitter has three levels of communication.

Twitter Communication, Level 1,  Tweeting : One way communication. However, the more I Tweet, the more you feel like you know me*** and then want to talk to me in my Twitter feed moving you to ...

Twitter Communication, Level 2,  Mentioning : You post a "mention" in a Tweet. You show up in my "feed." I "reply," in which I "mention" you, and so on and so forth. Until, uh-oh, let's say stuff to each other no one else can see, progressing to ...

Twitter Communication, Level 3, Direct Messaging : It's instant messaging on Twitter. However, because of the notifications I have set up on my iPhone--rephrase, Twitter set up on my iPhone and I can't turn them off or it's too hard or who cares--I receive a text that you have direct messaged me. A notification from that Twitter you have direct messaged me. And finally, an email that you have direct messaged me ... and a notification of the email notification. Then I can go to actual Twitter and read the direct message, the text of which was mostly included in all of those notifications. I am, therefore, informed five times you sent me a direct message.

There is this moment, though. When you've moved through the Twitter Communication Levels where suddenly, maybe, you should take the communication further. So, you recommend a text.

Sending a text, however, requires a phone number, and while all of this "communicating" has been going on, it has been behind the safety and anonymity, the wall, of the internet, of these programs. Now, it's a little dangerous. Asking for my number is sort of scary. Almost like the feeling you got in junior high when you asked that first person to "go" with you. But you ask anyway. And you wait. And it's hard to wait. What about rejection? What if I don't want to move past just being cyber?

But of course I want to text with you and we do and we're texters now. Texting buds.

Insert personal anecdote. I rarely use the rectangular thing sitting on the desk next to me as a "phone." It's called "iPhone," phone being part of its name, but I don't talk on it much. What I do ... do, is accessing of social media, checking email, seeing what that bright light in the sky is next to the moon (it's Jupiter), answering any question I can ever think of (Frank Stallone, though Sly Stallone's brother, is not the lead singer of Survivor, who sang Eye of the Tiger, as I have believed for years), and I text.

Boy howdy do I! So much, in fact, that after meeting a lady on Twitter, and moving through the Twitter Communication Levels she came to see me (all the way from another town!) (and state!) without our having even ever talked to each other. Later, when someone pointed out that this was odd, it only then struck me as odd. We both had the assurance of a mutual friend that the other was pretty great, so maybe that took the impetus off talking.****

This entry is the first time I've actually listed all of the ways to reach me. I know several of my reader will have even more ways to reach her. Not until now have I listed all of these avenues. Does it exhaust me? It seems like it should exhaust me. I have become so immersed in it I don't know any more, too close to the flame. Wings flapping. So beautiful, so ...

After reading this post, please feel free to comment below.


* Once this was a crappy free phone service over the internet.
** Sort of an assumption. I have only used Skype (I will not verbize that word as the public at large now does everything) with my parents in Mexico. The signal bounces of a satellite and is then carried, via burro, to their computer.
*** Don't reply to a celebrity. Maybe they will reply back (never), but you will feel like a dork right after you send it. (As you should.)
**** No. It's still probably odd.

Memory 1

They move along the crumbling edge of a ravine. His father carries him. The trees throw a skeleton's lattice on figures below. The boy raises his head and squints. Singular rays catch his eye and for a moment he is blind.

This crisp in the air also, dirt stirred by footsteps tearing the earth as the father fights to keep them both from tumbling.

In his father's arms. This is what he remembers and no more. Was he afraid then? He does not know. Do you remember carrying me through the woods? The father certainly wouldn't.

This piece of the journey otherwise without note in their lives. Marked by a flicker in the boy's mind, there even when he is the man.

"sketch group"

I am exhausted tired. But I am happy.
Sitting and sketching with friends new found.
The third time, maybe fourth, and what springs up as we scratch on paper is life experiences.
Some doubt, some questions. Parallel experiences.
Sharing and listening does good things for the soul.
And not trying to "be" deep, or impress, but conversations that meander until what you find is substance.
And nobody is "trying."
Oh how people "try" in this town.
We meet to draw. And we draw.
But in a short time we find ourselves ...
We find ourselves.

For the Sake of Rain

The sky bursts. The lightning is remarkable. The cool wind carries the scent of rain. The storm is close by, but it will not come here. I stand on the edge of the storm, and sadly, not in it.

This is how it has been all summer. Rain to our north, to our south, but rarely here. Austin sits in a cursed bubble, melting storm lines that have stretched across the plains, across the country. We live in a hollow, where rain cannot fall, seemingly has no power to penetrate.

Grass crinkles underfoot. Bushes dry and dead. Limbs fall off trees. There is no buzzing around the ear. There is no bite. All needing moisture have been stopped in their tracks, their cycles snuffed by months of searing heat and absence of water.

We are dried too. Almost October and still the sky mocks us. The heat continues, temperatures in the hundreds, cooking and wrenching what life is left. Snuffing out the candle of life. We are oppressed. We cannot bear it. Release us.

We perch on the edge of a communal madness. We reach for the canteen and find it drained on the desert floor. Empty. We lick our lips and so tonight's storm is even more torture. The light show on the horizon, brilliant blue and white. The wind whips around me, carrying trash. Wind chimes crash and the dry leaves clatter as the promise of rain teases.

It is a cruel game. I tire of it. Were I in a Greek tale I would ride into the sky, born on a white wings. Mighty legs pumping as together we run on the wind. Into the clouds and through the electricity until we come before him. Eyes terrible. His hands throwing bolts.

"Zeus!" I call his name, "Come and catch me!"

Turning, we race. The horse and I run. Zeus follows, cursing my impudence, my ego. Throwing spear after spear, each rushing past us, close. Burned by the electricity the horse turns, trembles, spirals. Leaning forward I whisper into his ear. The creature rights its course. We tear across the sky and Zeus after us. Behind him, bearing him, his throne, rumbling and boiling. Rain.

It is too late for the grass to know it. Fat drops fall on trees covered in a thousand tiny skeletons. This is not life, not for most things. They have perished. For us, the survivors, spared by our modern ingenuity, strained to breaking, it is relief. 

We will tell of it, this summer and its madness. We will try our best to forget. Rain is not merely physical, it is the essential embodiment. It is life. Within and without, we wither without its kiss.