"DOES ANYBODY REALLY

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KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?" asks the lyrics of the "Chicago" song. And then: "Does anybody really care?"

This is a post--about time. I'm going to borrow some of Chicago's lyrics to add a bit of poetry to this one.

As I was walking down the street one day
A man came up to me and asked me
What the time was that was on my watch
Yeah... and I said

(I don't) Does anybody really know what time it is?
(Care) Does anybody really care?
(About time) If so, I can't imagine why
(Oh no, no) We've all got time enough to cry

Maybe it's inevitable that us old guys spend time wondering about time and wandering through those pleasant, peaceful places of reverie. It doesn't take much to push me there. According to notes written on my grade school report cards and whispered to my parents at Parent/Teacher Conferences, I am a master daydreamer. A waste of time? Certainly not! But, even if it is: so what?

I was listening to my "Heavy Rotation Mix" on Apple Music--songs that I play over and over. The song playing was "Living On Tulsa Time" by Don Williams. Immediately I was a kid again in my home town. I spent my first twenty-ish coming-of-age years Living On Tulsa Time. Happy days indeed; at least as I choose to remember them. Where did the time go? Really. Where DID the time go?

“The happier the time, the shorter it seems.”
— Pliny the Younger. 105.

And I was walking down the street one day
A pretty lady looked at me
And said her diamond watch had stopped cold dead
And I said

(I don't) Does anybody really know what time it is?
(Care) Does anybody really care?
(About time) If so, I can't imagine why
(Oh no, no) We've all got time enough to cry

Jerry Seinfeld, in a video sharing his "essential" stuff, explains his favorite way to brew coffee: using a Moka Pot. He explains that it is complicated and time-consuming but that's what he likes about it. In the video he shares this viewpoint: "The secret of life is to waste time in ways that you like. You spend all your life trying to save time but when you get to the end of your life--there's no time left--then you'll go to heaven and you'll go: 'but wait I had velcro sneakers and no-iron shirts and a clip-on tie. What about all that time?!' It's gone." --Jerry Seinfeld

Let's look at that one part again, the part where he says, "The secret of life is to waste time in ways that you like."

Maybe you've heard: I got a new globe. It's wonderful. Our GrandGuys (ages 7 and 5) came for a visit the other day. They noticed the globe right away. Aha, this will be my chance to teach them a bit of geography. They were fascinated! Not by my grasp of geography, but "Hey let's see how fast we can spin it!"

"Don't," I say, lovingly and instructively. "If you spin it too fast all the little people all over the earth will go flying off into space." A quick lesson on gravity and basic physics? Not interested. We did take time to find Oklahoma and the United States. "It's kind of small." says the seven year old. In the scope of the whole big ball, it is, kind of small. I explained that some day we might also have this part (pointing at Greenland). "What do you mean?" the five year old wonders out loud. Good question.

It was fun and time well-spent and it went by in a blur like a spinning globe. BTW: it will spin really fast; and sometimes it feels like it is spinning really fast. (Weird thought: Wouldn't it be crazy if God just got fed up with us and decided to give it a good spin and we would all go flying off into space along with parts from one of Elon's blown up rockets.)

And I was walking down the street one day
Being pushed and shoved by people
Trying to beat the clock, oh, no
I just don't know, I don't know, I don't know-oh

And I said... yes, I said
People runnin' everywhere
Don't know where to go
Don't know where I am
Can't see past the next step
Don't have time to think past the last one
Have no time to look around
Just run around, run around think why

“Time is like a river made up of the events which happen, and a violent stream; for as soon as a thing has been seen, it is carried away, and another comes in its place, and this will be carried away too.”
— Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

I think I get what Marcus is saying, but what about reverie Marcus? Things don't get carried away all together. Something is left behind. I remember friends and loved ones who have gone before me. I remember living on Tulsa time. I remember our first date, our first kiss, the births of our sons... Know what I mean.

Sometimes I wish I could make time slow down, but if Pliny The Younger is right: that happy and fleeting go together, I'll take that. Like Jerry, my morning coffee routine is time consuming, but it makes coffeetime sweeter. Treading in the dark land of politics and its sordid affair with religion makes four years seem like an eternity. Realizing how fast the Grands are growing is dizzying but glorious. Watching them become the beautiful people they are: worth it. Marcus' time-as-a-river metaphor has sent me to remembering another--from one of my favorite books/movies of all time: A River Runs Through It.

“Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.

“Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn’t. Like many fly fisherman in western Montana, where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.

“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

"I am haunted by waters.”

EARS TO HEAR

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I NOW SHARE SOMETHING in common with Malchus, Evander, Vincent and Donald.

Like Vincent; unlike the others, my wound is sort of self-inflicted. But still I understand our common wound at a deeper level. Malchus, Evander and Donald, you might say were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view... Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it." --Atticus Finch

I hope you've had the blessing of reading Harper Lee's "To Kill A Mockingbird" or seen the film adaptation starring Gregory Peck. The quote is from a life lesson that Atticus is teaching his young daughter, Scout. It's an important lesson.

It's about empathy. That's right; I said it! EMPATHY! There, I said it in ALL CAPS and I punched the keys hard when I typed it.

Have you heard the latest load of steaming, stinking arrogance coming out of the far right white evangelical camp? That "Empathy Is Sin". They even have a manual for this distorted worldview--a new book called--without nuance or apology--"The Sin of Empathy", written by a guy named Joe Rigney who apparently somehow has become an expert on the relationship between God and us humans without ever experiencing mercy and/or grace, or without understanding that the model Jesus set for us in living in humility; and that empathy, compassion and unconditional love spring out of that humility. The premise seems to be that if one shows empathy, they are weak and condoning of sin. Not sure what they do with that Good Samaritin story Jesus left us with.

I'm not a theologian or one to toss around scripture like I might know what I'm talking about, but consider this from the second chapter of Philipians:

If you’ve gotten anything at all out of following Christ, if his love has made any difference in your life, if being in a community of the Spirit means anything to you, if you have a heart, if you care—then do me a favor: Agree with each other, love each other, be deep-spirited friends. Don’t push your way to the front; don’t sweet-talk your way to the top. Put yourself aside, and help others get ahead. Don’t be obsessed with getting your own advantage. Forget yourselves long enough to lend a helping hand.

Think of yourselves the way Christ Jesus thought of himself. He had equal status with God but didn’t think so much of himself that he had to cling to the advantages of that status no matter what. Not at all. When the time came, he set aside the privileges of deity and took on the status of a slave, became human! Having become human, he stayed human. It was an incredibly humbling process. He didn’t claim special privileges. Instead, he lived a selfless, obedient life and then died a selfless, obedient death—and the worst kind of death at that—a crucifixion.

When it comes to humility I'm a beginner. That sounds a lot better than someone saying, "when it comes to humility I'm the greatest ever." You would think that at my age I would be better, but empathy is hard. I don't know much but I know this: for these zealots to contort something as beautiful as empathy into something as vile as a false supremacy and self-righteousness is to turn apathy into a virtue. In that beautiful metaphor that Atticus taught to Scout, being able to walk around awhile in someone else's skin takes a lot of humility and vulnerability, and yes, empathy. Apparently now though it's being seen as something horrible and weak and "woke". BTW, I have absolutely no empathy for the un-woke, nor do I have any desire to feel what they feel. That's how bad I am at this whole deal.

Because empathy requires a sense of shared experience, I can't empathize with those folks. I grew up learning to follow a God that SO loved the whole of humankind that He gave and gave and gave and gives and gives. Didn't the fact that the "Word became Flesh and dwelt among us" make the metaphor of walking around in someone else's skin literally real and alive?

So, back to my story of shared experience with what I'm calling the Clan of the Mangled Ear. In chronological order let's start with Malchus. Remember he was the servant of the high priest who had his ear cut off by Simon Peter during the encounter with Judas and Jesus in the garden.

"Just then Simon Peter, who was carrying a sword, pulled it from its sheath and struck the Chief Priest’s servant, cutting off his right ear. Malchus was the servant’s name.

"Jesus ordered Peter, “Put back your sword. Do you think for a minute I’m not going to drink this cup the Father gave me?” (John 18)

Next up: Vincent van Gogh, who reportedly cut off his own left ear when tempers flared with Paul Gauguin, the artist with whom he had been working. Van Gogh’s mental illness revealed itself: he began to hallucinate and suffered attacks in which he lost consciousness. During one of these attacks, he used the knife. He could later recall nothing about the event.

Some are old enough to remember Mike Tyson biting off part of Evander Holyfield's ear during a boxing match. My empathy can only extend so far.

By now, we all know the story of Donald Trump's close call when an assassin's bullet nicked his ear.

And finally, Old Pops here. I'm writing this all bandaged up like Van gogh with 30 some stitches in my right ear following a successful surgery to remove the "good" kind of cancer--apparently the outcome from many summers spent in the swimming pool and on the tennis courts without a hat or this new-fangled stuff called sunscreen.

I've learned a little something about the ear: not much skin there but they bleed like a stuck pig. Also, they are great for hearing and listening which comes in real handy when using our God-given ability for empathy. As with each new experience, my capacity for empathy has grown a bit. And, funny thing; it doesn't feel sinful at all.

PEW PEW PEW

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IN THE CHURCH tradition I grew up in we didn't have reserved seats per se. There were no lettered rows and numbered seats like you would find at a concert or ballgame. But make no mistake: seats in a church have been claimed, if only by a binding understanding that says: this is the pew where I sit, always have, always will.

There may not be a rational explanation for someones seat choice like Sheldon's place on the couch in the apartment he shared with Leonard. Sheldon placed this location "in a state of eternal dibs". When Leonard questions him, he says: "Cathedra mea, regulae meae. That's Latin for 'my chair, my rules'".

As Sheldon explains to Penny, "In the winter that seat is close enough to the radiator to remain warm, and yet not so close as to cause perspiration. In the summer it’s directly in the path of a cross breeze created by open windows there, and there. It faces the television at an angle that is neither direct, thus discouraging conversation, nor so far wide to create a parallax distortion, I could go on, but I think I’ve made my point."

In one episode he even establishes his seat by putting it in mathematical terms: "In an ever-changing world, it is a single point of consistency. If my life were expressed as a function on a four-dimensional Cartesian coordinate system, that spot, at the moment I first sat on it, would be (0,0,0,0)."

While not that extreme, I do have a mostly unspoken claim on a few seats, I would say they are mine; but I share (if necessary).

There are two places to sit in my little study at home. One is an extremely comfortable gray leather swivel rocker and ottoman. This is where I watch movies, sports, reruns of Big Bang Theory, Seinfeld, and Frasier. I also sit there to listen to my lovely HiFi system. I read in that chair and take wonderful afternoon naps. The other chair is a black leather office chair. It was going to be cast out from the office I used at work, so I took it home when I retired. It's in rough shape but after years of sitting there it fits my backside like hand and glove (not O.J.'s though). It's here at my desk that I read the news, watch YouTube videos, and write: things like this blog post which I'm typing right now. Here's a photo.

Back to church. I too, have a certain spot on a certain pew there. Here's a photo of where I sit.

This spot is special to me for several reasons: Those beautiful stained glass windows are on the south side of the building. This time of year the tilt of the earth at the time of our morning service sends warm sunlight in. The windows around the sanctuary are a timeline of the life of Christ. Obviously this window represents the infant--the early days of The Light, the Word become Flesh.

At our church our hope is still there: in that message, and like the light that breaks through that colored glass, that message is the one that will change the world. I don't pretend to speak for our church, the congregation or the people who compose it. But, in the sermons and songs I hear, in the numbers of people who humbly give and serve, Christ is still alive and my hope is there. I fear that some have given up on the Good News to bring peace, to change the world. So, they've chosen instead to align with a religion of political power. I'm glad I have a place in a church with light and enlightenment, where an open mind is not something to condemn but to celebrate.

HEAR YE HEAR YE

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HENCEFORWARD, I, Pops, will be issuing an occasional "Executive Order". Why? Apparently we septuagenarians can be someTHING vibrant and virile by casting out a wordy, and often silly and irrational edict with all kinds of magisterial pomp, adding the flourish of a giant signature written with a Magic Marker, as if the marker and the mark it makes are somehow magically magical.

WHAT GOES IN TO A GOOD EXECUTIVE ORDER? Based on my own biased and baseless research: it needs to sound bold and brash. Sometimes it moves things forward with some expediency. Sometimes it shines a light on a need, or a problem needing a solution. Sometimes it offers a "solution" looking for a problem. Sometimes the Order is demagogic--stirring the pot and firing folks up for popularity's sake whether the idea serves any virtuous, just or moral purpose or not. Sometimes though, the Order can set in motion steps necessary to right the ship; or sink it--intentionally or not, maybe in hopes of setting a new one, a gaudy and golder one to sail across the waters in the Gulf of Whatever.

As I was thinking through what my first few Executive Orders would be, it dawned on me; I'm not an executive. I don't have a merry band of minions to execute any order. I don't have supporters, loyalists, an electorate, or a population of citizens: legal or not, whose lives might be improved or unsettled and altered--consequences be damned. I do wield some authoritarian sway over our GrandKids--wait, ignore that! It's actually the other way around.

So maybe "executive order" isn't what I'm looking for. How about this idea: I will issue DECREES! Sound the bugles! Unfurl the banners.

Maybe that's too regal. Maybe you have to have loyal subjects. [Shhh] (Don't mention this word to the current executive-orderer-in-chief. I have a feeling he might like the sound of handing down a Royal Decree or 200.)

Well, if not an EO, or a Decree, what's left for me. Surely at seventy-something I should be able to make a ceremonial something, something official if only because I've written it down and signed and sealed it and put it out there. Afterall I’ve been writing posts for this silly blog for more than ten years. At least it should be something that other like-minded beings could say: "Right On Pops!" "I'm with you." "Let's do this."

Then, I found it. From time to time I will be proclaiming A DECLARATION--an official announcement from POPS-DOM, a humble, peaceful, happy, funny little kingdom without a king, just a silly old man with enough time on his hands to actually ponder stuff like this.

Soon now I will be doing my first official Declaring ceremony, presenting the Declaration, signing the document and offering to any and all (for a small token to cover shipping and handling), a signed copy of the Declaration in a lovely presentation folder, along with the pen I use to sign it . But wait! That's not all. For a limited time, while supplies last, I will include a copy of my award-winning chili recipe which will come in handy when I Declare that any frigid frosty, cloudy, drizzly day with "feels-like" temps below zero(f) to be a good day for Chili, Tulsa style of course, with spaghetti noodles and saltines. Verily, Ye Verily.

I may not be Declaring for a few days. On this day after President’s Day 2025, our little village is iced over. I can’t get to the office supply store to get official pens and Declaring paper until The Thaw, because I do declare: that 70-somethings and frozen sidewalks are a hazardous combo. Stay safe and warm my friends.