What is time anymore? Is it slowing down? Flying by? How is it possible that March lasted one million years and April was a blink? [Insert Groundhog Day
reference here.] I find myself so interested in how we are all experiencing the passage of minutes and hours and days and weeks. Apparently when everyone's routine disappears and gets remade at the same time, weird things happen to our collective sense
of momentum. Novel experiences slow down our perception of time (aka March), while repetition speeds it up (ahem, April).
My first few weeks of confinement felt oddly similar to the road-weary disorientation of being on tour for the podcast or Pop Up magazine: Every day marked by its difference from my norm and also similar to the day that came before it. A paradox of too much distinction and
sameness. Now, deeper into this moment, the curve isn't the only thing that has flattened. Toddlers' birthdays are the same as work meetings are the same as concerts are the same as intimate dinner parties. I can sense how the whole year will just slip by this way, and I'm preoccupied with the question of how to create some spikes of difference, some strange stimuli, some milestones so that time slows down a little again. I'm trying to stay interested in it rather than despairing.
For a collage of time-related things, see this Nov 2018 edition
of the newsletter. Aminatou and I are on Hrishikesh Hirway's podcast Partners
, discussing the intensity of our collaboration. And on CYG, Aminatou talks to the great Lulu Miller about chaos and resilience