Dad keeps the fluorescent light inside the fish-tank turned on all night. It's his nightlight so that his path from the bedroom to the bathroom and the fridge is never dark. His furniture never moves into his way, but I may have left a pair of shoes in the wrong spot or moved a chair on which he could stub his toe closer to the television. The fish-tank nightlight keeps the path illuminated. There was a stretch of at least a year where the only life in the glowing box was a thick layer of algae. Even then he clicked on his nightlight every day just before the sun went down.
Now we have four fish. They are all the same kind of fish and three of them are mirror images of each other. Their brilliant red scales only vary in slight shades and I'm sure this tells them the difference between the strongest male and the weakest. The weakest is easy to identify. The fourth fish is a pale version of the others. In the wild, he'd be dead, but in our manufactured world, he lives disobedient.
Since Dad's currently out of town, I could turn the light off and let them know the night. Let them live like their wild ancestors, at the liberty of the sunshine from the window, the same light we humans once followed. Most days I still wake with the sun and sleep with the moon, just like a farmer. Other days I leave the light bulb burning all night, like the day never really ended. I can extend a day up to four nights sometimes, like maybe I'm aging at a different rate. If so, how far can I extend one life before the sun burns out and forces me to sleep. I'll leave the fish tank light on tonight.
The fish who know only light must have trouble marking the start and end of days, like living at the poles of the Earth when the sun only circles overhead instead of dipping below the horizon. The one predictable event of everyday are the feedings that happen when Dad arrives home from work. This is a fairly consistent marker of the time passing. The feedings come at about twenty-four hour intervals, nearly the same time everyday. To the fish, the feedings come when the lid creaks open.
Now that Dad's on vacation and I'm home to take care of them, meal time has changed. It's not that I'm trying to corrupt with these little creatures' predictable lives; it's just that I've never adjusted well to predictable behavior. When I'm the one who feeds them and I forget to do the job at the proper hour, time must feel like it stretches out for an eternity to make room for more thought in between feedings. They await the creak of the lid at its normal time, but without reference, the normal time just never seems to arrive. Without reference they don't think I've forgotten; they think their benevolent master will be here soon. He will feed their starving bodies. He always does. They just need to keep the faith. When I finally drop in a pinch of food, they zoom around snagging up flakes into their little slit mouths. I know there is a hierarchy among them because they chase each other around when it seems one is getting too much.
The pale fish doesn't eat like the others. He just waits. Most times he doesn't eat. I theorize that maybe as the little flakes dissolve he just drinks them with the water. I imagine this as some sort of civil disobedience to avoid the fight for instant satisfaction and reject the hierarchy. It could be he's just not hungry. Maybe he just doesn't want the day to end every time the lid opens and he exercises free-will to keep time feeling slow.
There's always the chance that I'm oversimplifying the way in which they see the world and they aren't as oblivious as I make them out to be. Maybe they have some sort of internal understanding of time that I don't get. Or maybe they know that when Dad's home he stomps as he walks and shakes their world leaving ripples on the surface. So, more ripples means more consistent lengths of time in between feedings. These are the predictable times for them.
They don't know I'm his son, but they might notice that the boy who walks lightly changes the characteristics of time. Can they be aware of that information and still experience the joy of anticipation? I'd like to think so, that I'm not subjecting them to some kind of starvation torture, that the pale fish isn't just slowly dying from some sort of disorder. For me, it is a balance of not thinking too much about it and being aware of it.
Now we have four fish. They are all the same kind of fish and three of them are mirror images of each other. Their brilliant red scales only vary in slight shades and I'm sure this tells them the difference between the strongest male and the weakest. The weakest is easy to identify. The fourth fish is a pale version of the others. In the wild, he'd be dead, but in our manufactured world, he lives disobedient.
Since Dad's currently out of town, I could turn the light off and let them know the night. Let them live like their wild ancestors, at the liberty of the sunshine from the window, the same light we humans once followed. Most days I still wake with the sun and sleep with the moon, just like a farmer. Other days I leave the light bulb burning all night, like the day never really ended. I can extend a day up to four nights sometimes, like maybe I'm aging at a different rate. If so, how far can I extend one life before the sun burns out and forces me to sleep. I'll leave the fish tank light on tonight.
The fish who know only light must have trouble marking the start and end of days, like living at the poles of the Earth when the sun only circles overhead instead of dipping below the horizon. The one predictable event of everyday are the feedings that happen when Dad arrives home from work. This is a fairly consistent marker of the time passing. The feedings come at about twenty-four hour intervals, nearly the same time everyday. To the fish, the feedings come when the lid creaks open.
Now that Dad's on vacation and I'm home to take care of them, meal time has changed. It's not that I'm trying to corrupt with these little creatures' predictable lives; it's just that I've never adjusted well to predictable behavior. When I'm the one who feeds them and I forget to do the job at the proper hour, time must feel like it stretches out for an eternity to make room for more thought in between feedings. They await the creak of the lid at its normal time, but without reference, the normal time just never seems to arrive. Without reference they don't think I've forgotten; they think their benevolent master will be here soon. He will feed their starving bodies. He always does. They just need to keep the faith. When I finally drop in a pinch of food, they zoom around snagging up flakes into their little slit mouths. I know there is a hierarchy among them because they chase each other around when it seems one is getting too much.
The pale fish doesn't eat like the others. He just waits. Most times he doesn't eat. I theorize that maybe as the little flakes dissolve he just drinks them with the water. I imagine this as some sort of civil disobedience to avoid the fight for instant satisfaction and reject the hierarchy. It could be he's just not hungry. Maybe he just doesn't want the day to end every time the lid opens and he exercises free-will to keep time feeling slow.
There's always the chance that I'm oversimplifying the way in which they see the world and they aren't as oblivious as I make them out to be. Maybe they have some sort of internal understanding of time that I don't get. Or maybe they know that when Dad's home he stomps as he walks and shakes their world leaving ripples on the surface. So, more ripples means more consistent lengths of time in between feedings. These are the predictable times for them.
They don't know I'm his son, but they might notice that the boy who walks lightly changes the characteristics of time. Can they be aware of that information and still experience the joy of anticipation? I'd like to think so, that I'm not subjecting them to some kind of starvation torture, that the pale fish isn't just slowly dying from some sort of disorder. For me, it is a balance of not thinking too much about it and being aware of it.
