The Time Button

When the sensorium is assaulted the faculties go limp and time speeds up (is lost).  When the faculties labor in quiet, time slows down.  When we are  consumers of information or entertainment, irrespective of the quality of what we consume, time flies.   When we are producing, time stops.   In an odd restatement of Einstein’s famous equilibrium between matter and energy, there is an equilibrium between these two:  1.  How hard the creative mind is working, and  2. The perception of passing time.

Aggregate this insight to the collective:  as a society becomes more and more filled with opportunities to passively consume the work of other people,  the sense of passing time in pop culture grows more acute.  There are ancillary effects.   Hoarding, for example, a phenomenon that has appeared in recent decades in the affluent West, like some new disease.  Hoarders collect objects that have touched their lives in a desperate attempt to resist the sense that life is passing away like a flash.   The piles of junk that fill hoarders’ homes are shored-up bulwarks against the empty present.   Mounds of memory.   Fear of death.   Physical nostalgia.

Nostalgia and entertainment culture go together.   I’d go so far as this:  individuals who spend their time creating do not feel much nostalgia.   (By “creating” I mean most any active production, from origami to plumbing, as opposed to passive consumption, from reading novels to sitcom bingeing.)

There are many needed distinctions at this point, but I can only list them, and each needs longer treatment.   One, nostalgia and respect for the past are not the same thing.   Two, reading can be active or passive, it depends on the larger context and not on the subject matter of the book.  Reading good books is to be praised and encouraged, but can be just as passive a lifetime as one spent staring at a screen.   The reader should do something with her reading – write something, sing something, use the information somehow, or let the poem inspire her to create in her own idiom.   Good writing deserves to be responded, and the healthy reader will be UNABLE not to respond to a good book with active production of some kind.  It’s not a rule, it just happens.   Further, none of this contradicts the common and healthy advice to “read for pleasure”, which is good counsel.   Read for pleasure, and with active engagement (but these are the same thing), then do what you will.

Again, time stops when we make things.   God, who is pure creative act, experiences literal eternity.

In theological anthropology, much is made of efforts to fix some supposed heirarchy of the senses, or other.   Ellul wrote of “the humiliation of the word”;  Postman writes of the loss of the “typographical mind”; the Desert Fathers were concerned about the cognitive “image” obscuring the theoria of the adept.

The theme is understandable and has plenty of biblical warrant, ever since Eve preferred a vivid vision over a remembered verbal proposition.

But any proposed fix of this imbalance by elevating one over the others mistakes the symptom for the disease.   There are pathological rebellions of one sense over the others, indeed, and each unique person will have an idiosyncratic imbalance.   Pathology has random permutations.  But there is no prescribed heirarchy of the senses, either from God, or in historical experience.

The impulse to seek solitude is understandable.  And can be healthy, if we’re just shutting out most of the world in order to concentrate on work.  But not if we’re just retreating from the distractions in self-defense.   Work more on your own project, and you’ll find your sense-life has suddenly grown quiet and almost contemplative, in the middle of the traffic noises.

There is no correct hierarchy of sense, to re-order.   There is only the active man, and the passive man.  As man acts upon the world, craftsperson acting on the material, artist acting on the medium, all the senses swing into perfect harmony automatically,  pulled into their proper roles and relations by the pressure of the external task.   The glorious external task of keeping the garden, building the city.

Modern man is becoming more passive as his world fills up with things to do and watch and he gets busier and busier,  and the dis-arrangement of his senses, culminating in actual mental illness, is a symptom of this entropy — not a cause.

Time will continue to speed up as the world fills with distractions.  In the end,  alienation is experienced more like a narcotic.  A long, not unpleasant buzz, with occasional startles from noticing the number of the year.   Ending in a whimper.

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Helen Vendler, on Gerard M. Hopkins: “…second-order reflection…”

“The subjects that interested Hopkins were chiefly intellectual ones; even his most sensuous responses to the natural world were immediately referred to the intellect, which, in the poetry, meant referral to philosophical or theological thought. Although it has seemed regrettable to some readers that Hopkins grafted religious sestets onto octaves of natural beauty, it must be acknowledged that if he had led a different life, his penetrating sense-perceptions would even so have had to be presented to, and mediated by, his intellectual preoccupations (which, in that alternative life, might have been philosophical rather than religious). In any case, the two aspects – the senses and the intellect – would still have had to struggle into stand-offs, reconciliations, suspensions – the very things that happen in the religious poems.

The overwhelming elation Hopkins felt in the presence of natural phenomena (and his consequent grief at the destruction of natural beauty) could not exist unaffected by second-order reflection.”

Helen Vendler reviews ‘The Collected Works of Gerard Manley Hopkins Vols I-II’ edited by R.K.R. Thorton and Catherine Phillips · LRB 3 April 2014

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John V. Taylor: Poem…“Over the swinging parapet…”

Over the swinging parapet of my arm
your sentinel eyes lean gazing. Hugely alert
on the pale unfinished clay of your infant face,
they drink light from this candle on the tree.
Drinking, not pondering, each bright thing you see,
you make it yours without analysis
and, stopping down the aperture of thought
to a fine pinhole, you are filled with flame.

Give me for Christmas, then, your kind of seeing,
not studying candles – angel, manger, star – but staring as at a portrait, God’s I guess,
that shocks and holds the eye, till all my being,
gathered, intent and still, now you are ,
breathes out it’s wonder in a wordless yes.

– John V Taylor

Not sure of the actual title.

Ann Lewin, poem on prayer

Prayer is like watching for the

Kingfisher. All you can do is

Be there where he is likely to appear, and

Wait.

Often, nothing much happens;

There is space, silence, and expectancy.

No visible sign, only the

Knowledge that he’s been there,

And may come again.

Seeing or not seeing cease to matter,

You have been prepared.

But sometimes, when you’ve almost

Stopped expecting it,

A flash of brightness

Gives encouragement.

– Ann Lewin, “Candles and Kingfishers”, quoted in Lost In Wonder , Esther de Waal, without title.