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Sue dreamed. She was standing on the sidewalk, that day she met Jung. But this time he was snug behind her with his arms around her. Her aunt was five meters away holding a stick. “Leave her alone,” said Jung “You can’t beat her any more.”
Jung dreamed. He was lying on his side in a ditch, on a scouting mission, unable to move as stretched out lines of the enemy walked slowly searching the ground for him. But then he realized that they were in fact his fellow soldiers, under orders from officers who hated King Richard. He had been proud to wear the king’s uniform, but somehow, he knew, those days were gone forever.
—He awoke. Listened. Nothing. Still no wind. It sank in that he was holding precious cargo. Jung realized that he would protect Sue like he would the king. With his life, before his own. His breathing stilled again and he resumed sleep.
—Sue awoke. Jung had told her that she would awaken several times during the night, and he was right.
The next “morning,” when it was still pitch black, Sue had the adventure of getting disoriented in the dark, using the glow of Jung’s pipe as a Godsend, discovering that when she could just barely see her hand in front of her face it was sure a good thing she had laid out her stuff in a row. Back to the bench with Jung.
“When we hear the whine of the lorry, we’ll have to lay on the ground and let it pass by.”
“What?”
“Because we want to catch it on the way back; so we aren’t seen on base; so Scully doesn’t have to dodge any questions about us.
“Oh.”
“Nice stars,” commented Jung. Neither felt like talking. At last they heard the approaching lorry, its rotors filling the skirt that kept it above the ground. After the Crash, the plans and molds for complicated crystals had remained, but the tools and dies for simpler things had vanished. Sue knew the magic word, “diesal,” but she would never see one in her lifetime. Steam she could see, machines empowered by crystals were visible, but no fantastic Earth technology.
The lower moon was peeping above the horizon when they heard the whine. They stood. “Here is good” said Jung.
“On our sides again,” said Sue…. “…Now I’m warmer.”
…
Essay from Free Fall Friday
Prompt- “making up for lost time…” I’ve been thinking of that phrase, so human. Animals don’t know time; it doesn’t exist in nature. Humans usually have to visualize time as a round clock—I don’t know about digital teenagers, I mean, do they make time concrete by visualizing red bulbs?
Sometimes the phrase is practical, as when a teenager is pedalling on a paper route, or a bus driver that has to hurry past his usual time point. But those times involve public obligations to other people: The worker who wants a paper with his morning coffee, the commuter who wants time for a coffee before work.
What’s sad is to hold that concept in my head when there is nobody involved but me. If it’s the weekend, or a holiday, and I sleep in, who cares? Exactly what time is lost? Journalist Andy Rooney said he always go up on holiday because he was vaguely concerned with “missing out.” On what? Maybe sleeping is a part of a good quality holiday.
Perhaps a free day is like a work day: Something to be fine tuned constantly: Work yes, but not to the point of diminishing returns. A nice walk, yes, and change your socks to further enjoy your ramble, but don’t walk to the point of being overtired—because then there’s no point.
If I want to exercise then I’l stomp stomp stomp down the sidewalk, but I’d rather meander, with stately pauses to take compose balanced mental photographs. “Lost time” is but a construct, one I refuse to construct when I am walking duty-free.
And then there’s that alcoholic. I’ve met his brothers and cousins since then, but you never forget your first one. At a twelve step meeting he shared that he had to build a dog house. Note to self: be careful of “have to” and “s’posed to.” A day or more went by. He thought he had to make up for lost time by making his doghouse even bigger. More days lost. Even grander. More days. When he got around to it, he said, he would build a dog mansion. Luckily, hearing himself talk was enough to restore sanity. Forget lost time.
…
…
Sean Crawford
recovering from time welll spent,
as in last night’s Christmas supper among friends,
while it was dark outside,
as the days are at their shortest for the year,
December 2021
