Watch Parts

December 30, 2013

Greetings from between the tics,

“The only reason for time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once.”

Albert Einstein

The first watch I ever owned had a large crown on it which was designed to be wound until the watch was broken, which is how you know when to stop winding.  It was not an elegant timepiece.  The only thing it had in common with a Rolex was the last two letters.  I wore it proudly, this symbol of maturity and responsibility.  Looked good with my Spiderman pajamas.

The numbers on the face and the tips of the hands were coated with something phosphorescent, a phrase that I think means ‘dangerously radioactive’.  I remember lying in bed with the blanket over my head in the darkness, watching the second hand make its way around the face.  Tic tic tic tic tic tic tic tic.  I was amazed.

The workings of the watch are still an intriguing mystery to me.  I have seen the insides, actually have seen them scattered out on a countertop when curiosity got the better of me.  But how they go together and why is still a mystery. 

A simple watch might contain a few hundred parts.  Somehow they are nested together in synchronicity, in an impossibly small space.  Tiny machines, delicate and durable, precise and magical.  

Watches, like my first one, are often powered by winding a mainspring, which slowly releases the energy in small bits so as to drive the wheels and gears and other miniscule mechanisms in this tiny factory of time.

There are far more evolved ways of driving the passage of time, including the use of tuning forks, batteries, solar power, and probably witchcraft.  There have been self-winding watches, but I never trusted such an independent device.  Seemed like one step too close to machines taking over.

Watches are easy to take for granted, because now they are plentiful and cheap.  And so it is easy to lose respect for them, what a marvel of ingenuity they are.  And perhaps for what they represent.

I tend to look at my watch, and the passage of time it relays to me, as a reminder of what I should be doing next; appointments, projects, eating and sleeping.  I occasionally forget it is an instrument that tells me ‘when’ it is, -now- and reminds me that time continues to pass.  It says: Live in this moment.  Are you doing what you want with this time? 

Last year I wandered into a small clock repair shop to get a new battery for my watch.  The man behind the counter, an impatient and surly man, agreed to fix my watch in exchange for $15 and fifteen minutes of complaining.  The former was stated, the latter assumed as part of the bargain.

While he was doing what he did best, I browsed his shop.  On one wall there was a picture frame with a disassembled watch, exploded and mounted in a pattern not unlike what I imagine the Big Bang might have first looked.

It was a compelling piece of art.  The origin of time, represented in the bits and pieces of a tiny time machine, fanning out in unfathomable directions.  My estimation of the proprietor went up slightly.  I waited for a pause in his grousing and asked him about the ‘time as art’ piece on the wall.

“Oh that.  I put that up to show how complicated it is to fix a watch so people would quit bellyaching (my word) about how much it cost.”  Oh.  That perspective should not have surprised me.

Watches are tiny pieces of functional art.  I am fascinated by the intricacy and the complexity, and the way in which everything must fit together for it to function the way it is meant. 

This morning I have been watching the light slowly etch itself into the day.  It is curing into place even as I write this, pushing back the grey shadow on this side of the globe.  It is like watching the second hand move one miniscule step in the advancement of time.

The year has unwound, one tic at a time, powered by some amazing mainspring, and I’ll admit at times I have only glanced at it cursively to see if I am late or to plan what’s next.  It’s a dangerous perspective to take, one that occasionally causes me to miss out on the art right in front of me.

I spent some time already this week looking back at how the year worked.  I am fascinated by the intricacy and complexity, and the way in which everything must fit together for it to function the way it is meant.  A year, divided up in seconds or months, is filled with moments and experiences nested together in synchronicity, in an impossibly small space. 

We decide what drives it all.  We ‘wind’ up our day with what we want to put into it how we filter what we get out of it.   I’ve got my hand on the crown, ready to wind again, ready to see what the next tic brings.  I’ll watch more carefully.

Hope this finds you amazed again,

David

Copyright © 2013 David Smith