Time is But the Livestream I Go a-Programming In

“Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in.” -Thoreau

Someone near and dear to my pancreas gave (“gifted” is not a verb) me one of those clever aluminum MeWatches that claim to make one’s life more interesting in many ways and which come without any instructions because not sending instructions with a product is such a cool thing now.

Thus, I pensioned off my old $10 Timex which, like Jeeves, served its owner discreetly and professionally, and took up a temperamental Sloane Square bit of art that lights up and makes noises whenever it can be coaxed into doing so.

Even as I type I am looking look at the bit of art which shows the time adjacent to an assemblage of curved lines in red, green, and blue. Or bleu. One of those lines is said to tell me how many calories I have burned today, another how much strenuous exercise I have taken, and the thirds how much time I have stood, but I don’t which line is which and there aren’t any scales or frames of reference.

But it’s pretty.

The watch will not work without bonding spiritually with my MePhone. When I attempted to preside at the wedding the MeWatch said that the MePhone wouldn’t do and refused to take vows until the MePhone was updated.

One of the household stayed up much of the night with Harry Potter movies and the MePhone while a creeping line, cosmically tethered to the InterGossip, slowly, slowly indicated that the MePhone’s enneagrams or ouijas or something were making tenuous contact with The Great Beyond.

Upon arising with the dawn I discovered that the MeWatch and the MePhone had made peace overnight, and I passed a few hours presiding over their union with frequent references to the Gospel apps according to the InterGossip.

The MeWatch tells me the time now. It also says the temp is 80 (which appears to be so) and that the day is fair. I don’t know what “fair” means in MeWatchSpeak; the day is dark and grey and gaspingly damp, and flings intermittent rains upon the sodden earth.

When I push a little “heart” thingie the MeWatch tells me my pulse is 90, but no, it’s 70, but no again, it’s 85, but no yet again it’s 110, all within a few seconds, and I haven’t moved.

When I push something else, some tiny print tells me that I can swap out the confusing dial for dozens of other confusing dials.

When I push the figure of a runner the MePhone tells me that I have taken 11 minutes and thirty-four seconds to walk 391 feet, when in fact all I have done in that time is sit at the glowing screen of the Abominable Autoscribe (cf. A Canticle for Leibowitz).

I touched the screen a few minutes ago and the MeWatch said, “Time to stand! Stand up and move a little for one minute.”

And I obeyed The Machine and did so.

Now it says “You did it! You’ve earned another hour toward your stand goal.”

Do I get a ribbon for that? Or a gentle pat on my frontal lobe?

Thoreau’s concept of time is much better ours – to go fishing and not think about time at all.

I wonder if this shiny MeWatch would make a good fishing lure?

But the MeWatch is made in The-Country-That-Must-Not-Be-Named, and is probably full of toxins. It looks pretty, though; I’ll leave it on my wrist.

What do you think?

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