Sunset: 4:44pm. A high in the 50s and a low of 39 degrees. Last night the clocks fell back an hour, and it’s my favorite moment of the year because we create more night. Changing the clocks should be the biggest celebration of the year, with parades, feasts, and fireworks. Because if we can rearrange time, we can do anything. Invent new colors. Eliminate money. Add more days to the week. Rewind the internet to 2004. Erase the borders on maps.
We celebrated last night with a heavy mahjong session: four of us talking junk and eating spicy noodles for seven hours while the tiles clacked and swirled like an ancient ceremony.
This morning I woke up feeling acutely aware of time as I considered everything I’d like to do before the year ends. Buckle down and finish this damned novel once and for all. Need to get back to writing for two hours every morning. And I’d like to return to cold night-running, maybe five miles each weeknight. It’s easy to feel ambitious when you’re still under the covers. Then I dozed to the holler and hum of the crowd along First Avenue as it cheered the city’s marathon runners.
