WEST VILLAGE CENTENNIAL - November 23, 1985
Let’s consider, for a moment, the clock. There it is, hanging on your wall, sitting on your desk, or glowing on your bedside table like a smug little oracle, always telling you something you didn’t ask to know: the time. Clocks exist purely to remind us that time is slipping away, second by second, a parade of moments we’ll never get back. And so I ask, quite sincerely, is this device useful? Or is it simply the universe’s way of rubbing salt into the wound of existence?
The utility of a clock rests, supposedly, on its ability to organize our lives. But have you ever noticed that even with clocks in every corner, people are still late? They wander into rooms, meetings, and existential crises at least five to ten minutes past the appointed hour. This suggests one of two things: either clocks are ineffective, or people simply don’t care about what they’re actually for. I personally lean toward the latter. Who among us hasn’t glanced at the clock only to discover they’re inexplicably ten minutes late to something that, quite frankly, they weren’t all that excited about in the first place?
Then there’s the matter of precision. We’ve become so obsessed with measuring time down to the millisecond that we now have atomic clocks—devices so exact they could make a Swiss watch blush. But what is the point of knowing time so precisely? Does it really matter if I arrive somewhere at 3:01 instead of 3:00? Or if my coffee is brewed at precisely 7:58 rather than 7:59? The need for such accuracy is baffling, especially when you consider that most of us spend half our lives wishing time would just slow down or stop altogether, preferably right before the alarm goes off.
And what of the ticking? The incessant, relentless tick-tick-tick that has accompanied our lives for centuries. The sound of a clock is essentially a reminder that every moment we live is also a moment we’ve just lost, a metronome of mortality, if you will. And yet, we voluntarily place these things in our homes, let them serenade us with the beat of our own limited time. Is this not a bit perverse? There’s something very odd about welcoming an instrument of doom onto your mantelpiece, setting it up next to family photos and knick-knacks as if it’s part of the family.
If we’re honest, the main function of clocks is not to tell us what time it is, but to remind us of all the things we should be doing instead of what we actually are doing. They induce guilt as easily as they announce the hour. You’re supposed to be at work. You’re supposed to be asleep. You’re supposed to be… anything but wherever you are right now, staring at that ticking face, wondering if it’s too late to change things or too early to give up.
And so, I propose that perhaps we don’t need clocks at all. They seem to do little more than highlight the absurdity of time, and in turn, the absurdity of our obsession with it. Imagine a world where we simply exist in a continuum, free from the tyranny of hours and minutes. No one would be late, because time itself wouldn’t matter. Meals would be eaten when we’re hungry, not because it’s “lunchtime.” We’d sleep when we’re tired, wake up when we’re not. Society, they say, would crumble without clocks, but if that’s the case, then what does that say about society?
Ultimately, the clock is both useless and indispensable, a paradox we’ve all accepted without really understanding why. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that’s the entire point. It’s quite possible that clocks were invented not to help us, but to remind us that the help we’re waiting for might never come. So, are clocks useful? Well, yes and no—if you find value in a constant reminder that life is slipping by, then yes, they’re indispensable. But if you’d rather live as if time isn’t breathing down your neck, they’re about as useful as a hat in a hurricane. Or maybe even less so.
But, regardless, here we are, looking at the clock, wondering how we got here and how much time we have left, even if we don’t really want to know.