Jet lag is narcotic sleep laced with missing hours, missing moments, with slow waves that weave waking and sleeping. Time is slow when jetlagged -- it refuses to be rushed. The days and nights are strange and endless and beautiful, like a good acid trip, where too much light is let into the eye (oh, those tattletale dialated pupils) to reveal the crystalline opalescence of incandescent bulbs even when swinging from a tattered rope.
I keep moving from one to the other and getting lost in between. The missing time is so strange. How sensitive I've become to all the cues of day and night, of time, of hours, minutes, and seconds. How programmed. The tick of the second hand is so present -- alive for each click -- very present and calm and sleepy but not asleep, sitting on the edge where I could, at any time, close my eyes and find dead, sound, glorious sleep.
If only I could hold on to this strange new place -- jet lag is so interesting. The way time is reframed even though it's the same that it always was -- or almost the same-- the light is longer now, in the last two weeks, spring has moved into my home. The sun comes earlier and stays longer in the room, that too is a difference that I not only see but can feel deeply.
Without getting too wildly deep, time is a construction -- a manmade order to make sense of the change from night to day, from dark to light, sun up to moon up. Time isn't real. Days and nights are. Someone (who, I wonder?) invented seconds and minutes that make up the hour, and then hours that make up a day. Calendars too are mostly manmade, some of the days on a calendar are days that people noticed over time -- full moon, new moon, shortest sunlight, longest -- the cycles of the moon and sun inform the calendar, but it's more of an outline --way less rigid than what we all subscribe to now. Month follows month and then another year passes by. We are older. If we only lived by the sun and the moon our days would be very different.
Maybe I'll try it.
My head still swells and retreats like the ocean that I spent so much time with. Like days and nights the sweet surrender of light and light and dark and dark, a dance of passing. The dance, the dance.