Has tech ruined our relationship with time?
Death by time? That is one of the consequences envisioned by Simon Garfield as he introduces us to the idea of a “frenetic standstill” and the ultimate showdown of the masters of speed vs. the masters of time (slow readers/slow eaters/slow thinkers).
Prof Rosa has envisaged a worst-case scenario he calls “the unbridled onward rush into the abyss” – death by time. It will be caused by our inability to balance the conflict of movement and inertia, and “the abyss will be embodied in either the collapse of the ecosystem or in the ultimate breakdown of the modern social order”. Happy days.
Those who can control their time, those who are their own time lords, they will survive the abyss of the frenetic standstill.
I have been considering how few folk are willing to give others ‘the time of day’. What I refer to, especially online, is how we avoid what in tractor work is called ‘creeper gear’. That gear is the slowest one in the transmission and while not used often, it is absolutely essential when one is trying to get maximum traction. Usually one locks both rear wheels at the same time while in creeper mode. You can get serious pulling power in this mode for even a small tractor just so long as the rear wheels have some weight on them and good tread.
And this is what we often fail to do, what we fail to give–our time, time that is removed from the frenetic stillness that usually surrounds us. Slow time. Time that digs down and grips with power and friction in order to do real work.
I have been doing this kind of work of late as I work through Dave Gray’s latest book Liminal Thinking. I have done work like this in MOOCs before. It is deep work especially when undertaken with other ‘horses’ in harness. It is profound work. Slow, feet stepping carefully. I think that is why my students hate the discipline of it so very much. The frenetic stillness feels so much more satisfying to us because we are so used to it.
I admit to this being some very unfinished thinking. I just had to put something down about the potent metaphor of frenetic stillness. Had to. Like walking zazen, a long haul of making the road by walking the road. Slow, engaged, disciplined practice informed by awareness and unhurried by time.
Go even slower with a poem by Wendell Berry, “Horses”, know again the
horses
traveling the fields for pleasure,
the farms were worked with teams.
As late as then a teamster
was thought an accomplished man,
his art an essential discipline.
A boy learned it by delight
as he learned to use
his body, following the example
of men. The reins of a team
were put into my hands
when I thought the work was play.
And in the corrective gaze
of men now dead I learned
to flesh my will in power
great enough to kill me
should I let it turn.I learned the other tongue
by which men spoke to beasts
—all its terms and tones.
And by the time I learned,
new ways had changed the time.
The tractors came. The horses
stood in the fields, keepsakes,
grew old, and died. Or were sold
as dogmeat. Our minds received
the revolution of engines, our will
stretched toward the numb endurance
of metal. And that old speech
by which we magnified
our flesh in other flesh
fell dead in our mouths.
The songs of the world died
in our ears as we went within
the uproar of the long syllable
of the motors. Our intent entered
the world as combustion.
Like our travels, our workdays
burned upon the world,
lifting its inwards up
in fire. Veiled in that power
our minds gave up the endless
cycle of growth and decay
and took the unreturning way,
the breathless distance of iron.
But that work, empowered by burning
the world’s body, showed us
finally the world’s limits
and our own. We had then
the life of a candle, no longer
the ever-returning song
among the grassblades and the leaves.
Did I never forget?
Or did I, after years,
remember? To hear that song
again, though brokenly
in the distances of memory,
is coming home. I came to
a farm, some of it unreachable
by machines, as some of the world
will always be. And so
I came to a team, a pair
of mares—sorrels, with white
tails and manes, beautiful!—
to keep my sloping fields.
Going behind them, the reins
tight over their backs as they stepped
their long strides, revived
again on my tongue the cries
of dead men in the living
fields. Now every move
answers what is still.
This work of love rhymes
living and dead. A dance
is what this plodding is.
A song, whatever is said.
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Hmm
This will percolate.
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Aye, let it brew, matey.
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Initial thoughts: Creeper gear is most satisfying in moocs/online. I think so. When you are in this gear with people online you will come and go but still feel connected to them. I’ve always felt your shared thoughts to be unlike many others because you use this gear a lot. Does it ever feel as if you are there alone? while others rush by to the next shiny thing? I come back to your posts.
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Best compliment evah! I use creeper gear–a lot. You made my blogging day, no my week, no my month, no…well, I could go all the way to eternity…if you haven’t figured it out yet…thanks.
And yes, I am a bit lost and alone in my own plodding, draft horsy sort of way. I have some odd notions about honor and blogging. In point of fact I have not done enough honoring of others lately. Or of you. Expect a visit to rectify that problem (teehee, he said rectify).
Back to the words at hand–frenetic standstill. Of course, the author of this term is German and I love the original’s feel (I don’t know German,but I just like the feel of my tongue rolling around as I say it aloud) “rasender stillstand”. I bought Rosa’s book online and am rolling around in it. I was prepared for the worst, you know, German academic, Hegel or worse, [shudder] Heidegger, but this stuff is very readable. So, I will.
Besides the phrase, I am struck by how the author is trying to come to terms with the obvious–the feeling that we are accelerating down the road with no brakes. I find that folks who are trying to scrutinize the obvious find that it ain’t so very obvious. The blindspots that are eventually unveiled are worth the look.
So right now I am working my way through Dave Gray’s Liminal Thinking and Harmut Rosa’s Social Acceleration. It feels like a mighty buffet of slow eating and even slower digestion. Thanks for dropping by to have a bit of a nosh with me. Could you hand me some of those fancy finger sandwiches near your right hand? Thanks.