The Hands of the Clock

01Sep14

Black and white clock

I met my students today at Baker’s Square. They ate burgers and wide slices of sticky pie, skinny fries that were salty and crisp. I drank too much crap coffee – thick and burnt like the kind severed at a midnight truck stop. The waiter had a flair for charming late-teen girls and this middle-aged gal, too.

I’ve been in a Neil Diamond phase: spinning record upon scratched-up record, ignoring the skips and jumps as he croons. It’s my 39th year, and I finally feel it’s time to let the sap slide in. Perhaps I’m feeling the sunset of nostalgia slipping, fading. Maybe I’m embracing the past and letting the future take hold, but as I watched the young ladies munch their greasy burgers and suck down glasses of ice-cold Coke I couldn’t help but reflect. Young people have a way of filling me with equal part hope and equal part dread; they have an
innocent, naive way of reminding me to memorize the wrinkles around my eyes before they get worse.

Perhaps it’s the crazy meds – those colorful, chalky shapes I swallow out of necessity – that thins my hair and dries out my skin. Maybe it’s the cigarettes and the shady, sinful life I used to lead that’s added on some premature age. Or maybe it’s normal – my round face is finally betraying my age instead of getting me carded at 33 for nicotine.

Either way, the bouts of insecurity came in snaps and sparks while I watched the young ladies stab at their wilted, diner salads like they had all the time in the world. So I grabbed a fork and started stabbing time, holding onto the minutes before they slipped away.

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One Response to “The Hands of the Clock”

  1. It is so great to be able to read your writing. I hope you keep doing it, i don’t have a masters in fine art but I did teach a life drawing class at MCAD one semester. I really enjoyed it. There were some pretty interesting artists in t he class and some very delicate souls as well. I guess you have to expect that when you are in contact with young artists in any genre.


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