“We’re all out there, somewhere, waiting to happen.”  – Jeff Noon, Vurt

Today a friend of mine suggested that I examine the symbols in my Waking Life, as they can be more profound than the ones I encounter in dreams.  It didn’t occur to me to do so until just now, on the crest of some desperate epiphany.

How many days until I see so and so again?  When will my t-shirts arrive?  How long until these downloads finish?  How long before the money runs out?  How many days until Episode 2?  How many hours does a friend have to meet us there in front of the theater?  How long until “Buffy” is on?  How many episodes of “Buffy” are there left?  On “24,” the clock is always running.

When I had this conversation with my friend on the phone, I realized that my cell phone battery was dying and it couldn’t recharge while I was on it.

My battery is dying, I have maybe five seconds left.  What will I say?

Indeed.

I was sitting at my computer, reading some inane internet site and then suddenly I wasn’t.  Suddenly I was pushing out of a gel vat and tugging at the cable stuck in the back of my head.

“What am I doing?” I wondered.  “What is all this for?”

Has anyone figured out what they are doing?  What did you actually DO today?  I have no idea what I did.  Is the Life thing working out for anyone out there?  Is anyone Awake anymore?

In college one of my professors carried around a stopwatch to keep track of how much time they spent thinking about baseball during a given day.  He started and stopped it several times during class.

What if I had a stopwatch that kept track of the time I spent being alive.  Alive in a way that I remembered, that mattered, that counted for something?

A friend’s mother died the other day.  I put my arm around him…Making love…Just REMEMBERING how She made me feel…Accelerating and the wind and sun are just right for five seconds…Feeling I was actually going to kill him…Behind a microphone and they are all watching me…She forgave me…They ALL forgave me…

Moments.  Some of them seconds long.  What have I done to my life to make these moments into rare pearls pried from thousands of dull grey minutes?

You know the useless CompUSA salesman trying to get you to buy the flat panel monitor you can’t afford?  I am his eyes when you ask, “But why is it better than the other one?”

“I’m not perfect, but I believe I was meant to be.” – Buddy Wakefield

Somehow, despite my copious free time, I still haven’t figured out what I’m meant to be doing.  It’s the cliché sci-fi device where the crew has their memories erased and they have to figure out their purpose.  “What did you do before you worked in the mines?”  “I… I don’t know.  It’s all fuzzy.”

“What did you do today?” Or “How was your day?” have become fearsome monsters that drag me before this wicked ClockWatcher.  I find myself scrabbling for details, a right and true account of the past 8 hours.  Why is that?  Why did the day only matter if I got the laundry done?  How pathetic is that?

I want to say “I connected with another man’s grief without using any words.  That’s what I did today.”  Or “I changed my mind about the death penalty.”  Or “I made a difficult choice and it turned out to be right.”  Or “I lived and I remember it.”

If we all wore huge hourglasses around our necks, do you still think we’d be as interested about each other’s plans for dinner?  Do we really have that kind of luxury?  My life is filled with vapid moments; do I really need to seek out even more?  Why do I demand an account of your day when I already know we’re all choking on it?  Why not demand a connection with you, even if it is rude, goes against the Program, and it will hurt us both?

My life isn’t just short.  It is hungry, needs new shoes, and didn’t get to go to the prom with the little red-haired girl.

If this meant anything at all to anyone out there, I’d love to know.  I hate it when these e-mails get routed to Pluto, as is all too common these days…