A few thoughts related to time and its use by the writer, specific to either wisdom or waste, are this week offered the reader.
Though doubtless a significant concern to all appreciation of time is relative as Einstein long ago postulated the stuff itself to be. With few points by which to anchor temporal reality other than the clock each is forced to assign specific value to experience of all kinds that may or may not correspond to the actual. Similarly the subjective nature of individual consciousness eliminates objectivity as either practical or reasoned consideration. A logic riddle wrapped more intractable within a theoretical conundrum has no doubt only rarely been discovered.
A discussion of the specifics is thus best left to scientists and other disciples of the bizarre.
In these parts the renowned waster of it notes here yet another confluence of experiences that illustrate the often misunderstood influence of time and necessarily experience. A short description of the particulars follows.
An extended cycle of repetitive injury begun in late 2008 functionally ended with my return to routine fitness training in early 2016. Forsaking extensive detail a kinetic chain of minor training wounds compounded leading to debilitating injury preventing most physical activity for two years. The recalcitrant series of obstacles is lately overcome via therapy and rest. Misery related to the repetitious cycle was undeniable and subjectively perceived as even lengthier than revealed by the calendar. We now fast-forward the story to the latest post-recovery period. A scant eight months of training, diet, and carefully managed intensity later near eight years of distress is relegated to status as rapid-fading bad memory. The perceived value of the later positive experience now subjectively outweighs that of the earlier negative. As the injury cycle falls further into the past an apparent value ratio roughly equivalent to ten-to-one can with reason be applied if approximate measurement is desired.
An example of yet another mysterious quality of time is there identified.
The eight years spent struggling through the cycle of injury/therapy/recovery/re-injury/therapy/recovery; repeat ad nauseam meanwhile exceeds that of most career pursuits aside from music and literature in the writer's personal vocational history. Though celebrated for the athletic accomplishments of youth the time also surpasses that spent by the writer in the squared circle of either amateur or professional boxing ring. The length of my erstwhile career as recording artist likewise extended over seventeen years while my performing career both preceded it and continues. Worth noting is that the writer had written prose for years prior to setting foot either onto a stage or into a boxing ring and practices the remorseless habit to this day. While the length of time invested in the three vocational activities so plainly differs their value as experiences are often weighted unequally when considered by my fellows. For most overestimate the importance of both youth and success when compared to that of time in describing the individual character.
The work of a man like his nature has ever been both revealed and enabled only by the passage of it.
Since departing my father's home at fifteen the variety of career pursuits and travel I've been fortunate to enjoy certainly exceeded my youthful imagination. With paid stops along the way including field hand, cow herd, pot washer, construction worker, contractor, doorman, bartender, stagehand, soundman, hotel manager, restaurateur, private investigator, personal trainer, salesman, scaffold rigger, systems integrator, IT security consultant, and dot com entrepreneur, the journey proved much more than insightful. To be remunerated while seeing the world meanwhile has long been promoted by peacetime military services to those born absent a silver spoon.
The writer considers it good fortune to accomplish the task minus the odious imposition of orders.
In other news work continues on what will eventually be novel number three here at beautiful and greening Thorsby. The arrival of spring coincides with continued progress on draft number eleven though revisions are best left uncounted. A man notes the passing of the days while fixing his attention on a goal reliably located on an ever distant horizon. The catalogue of works completed is behind the writer while that of what will be commands full attention. Thus with cheerful resignation on the path of stubborn resistance does the aging penman with practiced resolution avail.
Few are greater blessed by time's favor.
Thanks for being here and thanks for sharing the blog.
March 21, 2016