No Time...No Life
it is time to reclaim time
No Time... No Life
I will craft a paradise from the dreams of my own heart
A line from the poem Revolt Against the Sun by the Iraqi poet Nazik al-Mala'ika
Who knows where the time goes, wonders Nina Simone in her beautiful song.
Who owns time? Asks Susan Buck-Morss
A divorced man with a daughter, Anna, marries a divorced woman with a son, Nemo. The two teenagers fall madly in love. An old Vatican adage says that incest is best but this is not an incest story.
A few years later their parents divorce and the young lovers are separated, literally one heart broken into two bleeding pieces drowning in pain.
After about ten years of wandering around heartbroken, they run into each other at a train station. At this scene, hearts just start thumping, theirs, mine... hearts... thumping like the engines of the Titanic trying to avoid that beautiful iceberg.
They spend a few hours together very tense, afraid of losing each other again, confused as to what to do.
They are saying goodbye on a sidewalk. Anna says she needs time to digest the shock of reuniting, writes her phone number on a piece of paper, hands it to Nemo and leaves it up to him to call her if and when he is sure he is willing to risk losing each other again. Their love is in chains of fear of another separation. Then she leaves, runs to catch a bus. He is standing on the sidewalk, holding the piece of paper and staring at the phone number. It's a beautiful, sunny day. Right then and there a raindrop, followed by millions of her sisters, out of that clear blue sky, falls onto the piece of paper and smears the whole thing.
Gone. Gone. Again.
Back in nothingness. Le néant.
Where did that rogue raindrop come from?
Butterfly effect. Cause and effect. Capitalism.
Two months earlier, an unemployed Brazilian boiled an egg. The heat created a micro-climate in the room. Slight difference of temperature. And heavy rain, two months later, on the other side of the world. That Brazilian boiled an egg instead of being at work. He had lost his job in a clothing factory because six months earlier, Nemo had compared the prices of jeans and bought the cheaper pair. This story is a bit from Mr. Nobody by Jaco Van Dormael.
Our time, space and love have become the private property of Capital. And Capital is not something abstract. It's rich people with names and addresses, and capitalist institutions. For me, the worst is the theft of my time. A big chunk of it belongs to Capital and the little I have left is way far from enough to enjoy love and space.
Bruce Lee once said that if you truly love life, don't waste time; because time is what life is made of.
Capital is made of time, as well.
While we were shouting: "Reclaim the streets!" Capital monopolized our time.
Reclaim time in order to reclaim love in order to reclaim space.
Love, in our capitalist sheep pens, has been reduced to speed dating, at best. I don't think I need to go into details on this except to say that a love relationship is measured in time. Romeo and Juliette were racing against time. Even if I have some money, what good is it for if I don't have time to go on a date, to spend it with my beloved one? I work six days a week.
For more articulate thoughts on how Love itself is in danger, I recommend reading In Praise of Love by Alain Badiou.
The lack of time is so overwhelming that the very act of communicating, talking and listening, has been seriously damaged.
Anyway, the way I see it, we who pretend to live, in our greedy and gluttonous capitalist countries have pushed our beautiful planet, our world close to what in chess they call a Zugzwang. A Zugzwang (German for "compulsion to move") is a situation found usually, but not only, in chess where one player is put at a disadvantage because he/she has to make a move when he/she would prefer to pass and make no move.
But, then again, our problem is not really about time in general. It is about the huge portion of time of our lives that has been reduced to profit generating schedules by Capital. We don't have time. We don't have lives. We don't have space. We have schedules. Those schedules are Capital's leash on our lives, our love.
One classic way to try to break out of Capital's time prison is to on good ol' strike. Time is money, right?
Then combine a strike with a Rhizome. As for what a Rhizome is, here is a definition to which you'll have to apply a stretch of your imagination.
In botany and dendrology, a rhizome (from Ancient Greek: rhizoma "mass of roots", from rhizoo "cause to strike root") is a modified subterranean stem of a plant that is usually found underground, often sending out roots and shoots from its nodes. Rhizomes develop from axillary buds and are diageotropic or grow perpendicular to the force of gravity. The rhizome also retains the ability to allow new shoots to grow upwards. If a rhizome is separated into pieces, each piece may be able to give rise to a new plant.
These times of woe afford no time to woo.
From Romeo and Juliette by Shakespeare
Paris, Act III Scene IV
March 1, 2013
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