-8ºC, a numb sun, every movement amplified by the silent stillness of the air. The pages of my book are warm like blankets.
Arriving at work I notice that the wall outside my office is blank. Where is the clock? I’m sure it was there yesterday. Come come, that cannot be. You just need to get warm.
I must be staring because a colleague notices my disorientation and takes pity.
As if also trying to help, the clock reveals itself on a column two metres away.
“Has it moved?”
“No. And it isn’t going to. Not after all the trouble we had getting it.”
“Why? Is it in the wrong place?”
“It shouldn’t be there at all. In the offices, yes, but not out here.”
My eyes wander back to the wall, still stubbornly, defiantly blank. “Yes, this is where the clock should be but isn’t,” it taunts with a sneer.
“When we moved in we were told “There shall be no clocks.””
As autonomous individuals, instantiated in time and space, we are gradually dissolving into ubiquity. Though I wear a watch, its temporal referents are increasingly personal, of no concern to others. Appointments take place at “times” that have little to do with solar or biological rhythms. They are co-incident in our shared Google calendars, permitting us short periods of synchronous inter-relationship but do not correspond with shared understandings of times of day, nor can be measured in fixed temporal units such as hours and minutes. Instead we flow in and out of each other’s frames of reference, never out of range, acting upon each other with varying degrees of intensity at virtually any time.
In such a reality clocks may indeed be out of place.