A Picture of Time

by Lynne Tillman

You say there’s no time like the present. But what is the present here? I’ve watched TV for ages and seen movies since I was three. TV’s daily life and movies are a communal fantasy. Today is in color, yesterday’s in black and white, and there’s no agreement about tomorrow.

I hear music everywhere, and then there are voices. Everyone’s speaking in a flow and rush of language, the words are like water. There are echoes, too. And I know the whispering won’t stop. It’s the past. Time passes on and fools us by living underneath the surface.

You say there’s a reality we all exist in, and I say I won’t agree to it. You become red, enraged, and I make something from that. Red becomes an opening, surprising you. But I put it in the corners, where its brilliance is held in suspension. I keep explosive red, like time, to myself. I keep it, like dreams and wishes, for myself.

I suppose it’s obvious. I’m always fighting time. It’s relentless in its mission, and I’m nothing to it. But there’s no time in dreams, which is why I need them. There’s protracted suspense, the ragged drama of discontent and tempestuous wishes. And morose blue may suddenly pop up, disguised as threat, to announce the predatory present. I may be able to appease it, the blues, if I can find a place to put it. Even in dreams I want to control sadness and danger. I surround and contain them, and later everything catches up with me.

You say take hold of yourself. I hold on to dear, difficult life and keep track of success and failure—and loss, the holes and emptinesses where I could fall off and forget the world. Oases and shelters beckon, tempting illusions wrapped in bars and stripes. I reach them and take the time to think about what to do next.

Time moves on without my consent. I should have known better. My schemes might be planted next to startling green thoughts and in earthy, black fields. If I’m lucky, the dark is rich and compassionate and will let me rest for a while. Something good might come along.

Is it judgment I’m awaiting or mercy? I don’t know. I draw a broad line around myself and make a fortress against inevitability. Suddenly there’s static, an impish, contentious energy I never expect. It disrupts connections, compelling me to assimilate forces I don’t fully comprehend. Like electricity, which I’ve never stopped relying upon. I know it was discovered and had to be captured, even subdued. Yet it was always there, and it probably wasn’t waiting, the way I am.

You’re naked, you say. Protect yourself. I cover myself in shame, lust, and greed, smearing and hiding the humiliating marks of battle. I’ve done this many times and have become a funny kind of palimpsest. You say no one can escape, and I run down a narrow, single-minded trail. I burrow deep and throw on another layer, for warmth or as a palliative. I grow big and orange. Fire is more orange than red and, like anger, throws off more heat than light. When it dies, there are embers and ash, wan reminders of its glory. The sky becomes night and swallows everything. The night is a thrilling action figure in the human theater. I hide in the dark.

You say I can’t fight the inevitable. But what else is there to fight? I arrive at my destination and tremble at reason’s door. It’s inviting to enter, seductive, but there’s really not enough room. Still I’ve learned I can’t be an exception and walk in through the back door. To outfox reason’s complacency, I escort the unpredictable unconscious. As usual no one notices. Later, perpetually, everyone’s surprised.

You and I watch the current match between rationality and irrationality. I bet on what we can’t know, which wrestles with everyone’s limits and confounds certainty. It usually claims victory, and tonight I win easily. There was more behind the scenes than we ever appreciated. You’re sorry to lose, and I console you. But the truth is I applaud the victory and prefer it to reason’s insensible claims. Like the one that says time heals all wounds. Time’s no cure, no doctor. You and I go on. We continue somehow, and our persistence is the source of everything we make. I want to surrender, but I can’t, and I live in that paradox, and so do you.