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Anachronism

Writer's picture: Doug WeissDoug Weiss

Just in time for the annual changing of the clocks, I read an article in my news feed the other day reporting that a school division in our state had issued an order removing all analog clocks from classrooms. No, it was not as a result of parental complaint, although I would not be surprised if it were given some of the more bizarre stories this past year. Rather it was because students did not know how to read time with them. Ok, I know it sounds as if it was a story in the Onion, but it is in fact the truth.


It put me in mind of the annual wellness test I am administered every year now that I am of that age. You may know this test, but in case you don’t, it consists of a basic neurological assessment and a simple test of cognitive acuity. What day of the week is it, what year, etc.? That’s followed by a memory test to see if you can recall three words told to you at the beginning of the examination. This is the same test a certain former President proudly announced he had passed with flying colors. In fact, he did so well he told us it was clear evidence he was a “stable genius”. Well, I must be Albert Einstein.


The part of the exam that I was reminded of consists of drawing a clock face depicting a specified time. Jokingly, I asked how many people still remembered what analog clock faces look like. My doctor replied with no hint of amusement that more people than I would have thought could not recall what the big hand and small hand on the dial represented and often confused the two. I was tempted to laugh at the time (pun intended), but apparently, it’s not only Seniors that are grappling with the anachronism of an analog clock.


Admittedly I am a bit of a romantic when it comes to certain conventions from the past. If it were up to me High Tea would be served every day—of course I would be the one serving and consuming it as no one else I know even remembers or knows what High Tea was. I like vested suits and for years wore mine with a pocket watch—using the watch pocket on the vest for the purpose it was intended. I hand write notes of thanks, apology and condolence if it is to someone I know well enough to write to at all—and while my penmanship is not what it used to be I also hand write my Christmas cards. For the same reason I chose an old-fashioned dial on my Apple Watch, not a digital counter--I am after all no luddite.


There is something just a bit genteel about the hands of a clock ticking off the moments of our day, even if it is driven by a chip and not springs and gears. It reminds one that time is passing in a way that the changing of a numeral simply does not. In the course of each day pausing for reflection—having a spot of hot beverage of your choice and something to tide you over till dinner is eminently civilized—a small kindness to oneself and any guest you happen to be with at the time. And handwritten notes suggest just a little more respect and care than a text or email because they require us to be present, in the moment, and take our precious time, ticking away second by second to pen them.

Wordsworth said it better than I could, “The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away……..” In these fraught days when it seems as if the world is a heartbeat away from fracture and so many things do not appear to be moving in the right direction I long for more anachronisms. I do not view the past through rosy spectacles by any means, I love thoughtful well-designed modernity and I am happy to put it to good use in my daily life. I don’t mind reading a book on my Kindle but I’d rather hold it in my hand. There is something about the kinesthetics of the printed page that is lost in the coolness of wandering bits on a display.


So, what does this say about me and Wordsworth? Maybe you think me foolish to leap from the loss of clock faces to world weariness, but the disappearance of yet another anachronism leaves us more distanced, bereft of certain kind of authenticity. Too often we must settle for the artificial; the manufactured emotion, the curated experience, everything predigested, shaped and manipulated. We live a mediated life sprinting furiously on an overly complex, barely understood, fractious hamster wheel of a world that is spinning too fast for us to make a clean exit. We are desperately in need of time in which to breathe, to settle ourselves and understand where we are today and where we are headed. But our powers, as Wordsworth said, are laid waste.


Tonight I am going to read a book—yes a real book I can hold in my hands while I sip a spot of brandy, and allow myself to drift along with the words on the page, unconcerned by whatever chaos reigns out of sight. That is the armor I will don to prepare for another day, for another bit of the past to be stripped away. But for now, I am gentled by the quiet ticking of the clock as the seconds march by.

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