Ain't Got No Clock

January 19, 2023

Lewis Mumford, in his book "Technics and Civilization," claims that our modern obsession with clock-time and clock-based regimentation originates with the monastic orders of the tenth century, who were the first to utilize a mechanical clock to strictly schedule their days. In order to accommodate all the praying, chanting, and chores that needed to be done, one needed to demarcate the periods of the day more precisely than "sunrise," "noon," and "sunset," if only because as the seasons change, one might find oneself with less time to sweep the floor in the winter than one had in the summer. (Which would be completely illogical, because we all know that floors are much dirtier in the winter.) Thus, they devised a system independent of the movement of the sun, that would accurately allow the monks to know when to switch from one activity to the other.

Whether or not Lewis Mumford is correct here in his historical analysis, what we can understand from this example is the fundamental disconnect between what we might call the "human day" and the "objective day." The human day, for most intents and purposes, generally ends when the sun goes down, either because it's too dark to do what needs to be done, or because we get sleepy. Any time that occurs after we go to bed is not of much importance, because our conscious human activity comes to a halt.

In a mine or a factory, it doesn't much matter whether it's light or dark outside. Machines don't care about light or dark; they can operate all hours of the day. To Mumford, the rise of the machine, more than anything else, is what facilitates the incredible change in how we view time. As labour becomes tied intrinsically to machine production, there becomes a sense that those hours that pass in darkness are just as good as the hours of sunlight. Human labour now operates on a 24-hour basis, as we are all expected to conform to the "efficiency" of the machine.

Nowadays, most of us could conceivably carry out our duties at night just as well as during the day — my first job often required me to work until midnight under harsh fluorescent lighting. Our technology has allowed us to almost flip the meaning of "human day" and "objective day" — it is now the human day that lasts 24 hours, and only the objective or natural day that operates in cycles of light and dark.

In a similar movement, as labour moves away from an agricultural basis, it also loses the flows that come with the changing seasons. In winter, we go to work when it is dark, and come home when it is dark, our hours shifting not at all with the changing duration of the sun's presence in the sky. Most people recognize that this categorically sucks, as managers and owners alike remain totally ignorant of the natural fact that our ability to work diminishes in the winter months. When the days are shorter, the natural response is to sleep longer, and when it's cold, the natural response is to curl up in a blanket and lie on the couch.

The regimentation that comes with mechanical clock-time and the proficiency with which machines conform to such regimentation, has led to the preponderance of a machinic lifestyle that ruins lives and diminishes the ability of humans to thrive. But more on that later.

Beyond the motives that underpin industrial capitalism, there are other less malignant reasons for the adoption of clock-time. For one, it is easy to coordinate activities, which once again is nice for industrial production, but also is handy for getting together with one's friends and making sure that you're all at the same place at the same time. At this point, we almost can't imagine life without a watch, or a device that functions as a watch. Somehow, people managed before the advent of such devices, but exactly how remains a total mystery.

So, that's nice, but we must also admit that even with the abundance of clocks in our world, people are not exactly punctual creatures, and we might actually be better off with less accuracy when it comes to people-planning. When you only know "around" what time it is, based on the position of the sun or the ringing of church bells that might've been five minutes ago or half an hour ago as far as you know, you're more likely to be lenient with your friends showing up a little late for your dinner party. And not only that, but stress levels would also decrease for those running late, if they know that the expectations are less strict.

Punctuality is the result of adapting oneself to the timing of machines. The frustration that arises from a lack of punctuality is frustration with the fact that people are not machines, and that their ability to be at a certain place at a certain time is reliant on many more variables than the movement of the hands of a clock.

When we perceive time as individuals, we do so in an extremely subjective fashion that rarely corresponds to clock-time. We often say things like, “That hour just flew by!” or “We’ve been here half an hour already? It’s felt like five minutes!” or “I can’t believe it’s only 9:30; I feel like I’ve been here all day.” Our perception of time changes based on our emotional state or our level of focus. "Time flies when you're having fun," as they say, and similarly, when one is intently focused on a particular activity, time ceases to have any meaning.

This is exactly why we're so often late. We lose track of the time or we misjudge how long something is going to take. Clock-time is entirely unnatural; ask anyone to count sixty seconds in their head and compare it to a stopwatch, and you'll see just how unnatural it is.

When it comes to measuring the output of machines or machine-like activities, where the regularity of the process ensures consistent production, clock-time is a valuable tool. But when measuring any human form of activity, it often fails. The amount of hours put into a project almost never corresponds to its quality or even quantity; some great novels are written in a few weeks, while others of similar length might take entire years. The reasons for this are manifold, but one important factor is the sheer unpredictability of the human body and mind.

It is one of the more terrifying aspects of having a human body and mind that it is almost impossible to predict what it's going to be able to do at any given moment. A great example of this is sports. The reason sports can be so exciting is that sometimes the greatest player in the world will screw up or have a terrible day; while an otherwise mediocre player may show up to a tournament and start playing "out of their mind," reaching a pinnacle that they never have nor will reach again. When asked in interviews to account for such phenomena, athletes and analysts dig deep into their book of platitudes for an explanation, but we all know they are just as confused as we are.

In the end, what it often comes down to is a mindset that can deal with the ebbs and flows of one's performance. When one's body and/or mind fails to do what one expects of it, it can often lead to a downward spiral of negative emotions, as one struggles to determine what exact combination of variables made this missed shot in the championship game any different than the 1,001 shots they hit perfectly in practice. To succeed consistently requires a combination of skill and the ability to recognize and accept the unpredictability of our powers.

Rather than operating like machines, which, pending breakdowns or failures, will always produce an output correspondent to input and time, we tend to fluctuate wildly in our output, and this fluctuation is based on the fluctuations of our motivation, our creativity, our emotional state, etc. Some days, we just suck at whatever it is we are doing, and there's no way to tell why, and then the next day, we do just fine, or way better than ever. The amplitude of these oscillations will depend on the person and the activity in question.

I have often attempted to impose on myself the sort of rigorous schedule preached by capitalists, motivational gurus, and Shaolin monks alike. The purpose of such a schedule is to maximize production through consistency and regularity, whether the product is some physical object, or something more abstract like physical fitness or enlightenment.

There's a lot to be said for such routines and schedules. They prove quite helpful for a large amount of people in a wide variety of fields. Among many other benefits, they eradicate free choice, which often leads to indecision or distraction. Many claim that they train one's body to be prepared for a certain activity at a certain time each day, which improves their ability to focus. (I have never found this to be the case, but as will soon become apparent, what do I know.)

So helpful and useful are these schedules, that those who find themselves unwilling or unable to sustain such a regimented lifestyle are considered misguided, lazy, undisciplined, or etc.

I am, of course, one of these people. I have tried many times throughout my life to adapt myself to some form of regimentation, whether that means following a formula designed by someone else, or creating a schedule of my own, believing that I would one day find the perfect solution that would unleash a great, and most importantly, consistent, torrent of productivity. I analyzed my best and worst days, trying to determine a proper order and balance, and many times I thought I had hit upon the solution, only to see it inevitably collapse a few days later.

My first inclination was to always blame myself, to insist that I was lazy or stupid, and with the sheer mountain of anecdotal evidence pointing in that direction, it only made sense. Everyone knows that discipline is key to success, and discipline is often intrinsically tied to regimentation and rote practice. I would become frustrated when my increased level of regimentation did not correlate to an increase in the amount of words I could write; or when I would sit down, on schedule and ready to write, and no words would come out.

What I have learned, un-learned, re-learned, un-learned, and then re-learned again so many times that I am suspicious of my recent belief that I have learned it for the last time, is that applying a machine-like regularity to creative writing is essentially impossible. This is not to say that scheduling does not work at all in this field; there are many successful writers that serve as proof of the opposite. These writers have wildly different temperaments and lifestyles than I do, but that's even beside the point. Even for the most regimented writer who rigorously pumps out his daily quota of words per day, this quota is not, like that of a factory, a means to ensure the regular manufacture of a consistent product, but instead a form of training that has much in common with that of an athlete.

Not all books, not all essays, and not all paragraphs are created equal. A million uninspired words is worth nothing compared to a thousand impeccable words. A solid thousand words a day might yield a bookful of words in a few months, but it's very unlikely that each day's thousand words will be of a remotely similar quality.

This is because words don't come from our hands or fingers, but instead are the means of communicating ideas, and ideas arrive on as irregular a schedule as anything in the whole world. But an idea is merely a thought; what is required for creativity is the confluence of the idea, the inspiration, the passion, the emotion, and all sorts of other magical and immeasurable things. It is only when everything lines up that any truly good work can be done, and the hope that this may fall at precisely 9am on a Monday morning (as it happens to have done on the day I write this essay, much to my chagrin and surprise) is as follyful as the hope that a cannonball may miraculously land upon the head of one's greatest enemy.

Much like the job of any medical system is to have a stock of well-trained operatives and well-kept facilities, combined with a logistical process that allows them to be in the right place at the right time, in order to deal with the wide variety of types and quantity of work that needs be done on any given day, the work of any person engaged in creative work is to keep their skills sharp, their eyes open, and their body and mind ready for whatever amount or quality of ideas come their way.

The training, then, of sitting down at the same time each day and writing a certain number of words is not about writing a certain number of words each day, but instead about developing the discipline to take advantage of any and every opportunity one has to develop an idea. It is not the schedule, necessarily, but the mindset that is important. The understanding that these things work in ebbs and flows, combined with the discipline that ensures one is ready for the flows.

As a man of extreme oscillations, I have learned that constraining my work to clock-time is a recipe for disaster. I can not guarantee that I will be able to write at 9am each morning, or that I will be done at 5, or even that I will want to eat lunch anywhere near the hour between noon and one pm. The wild fluctuations of my mood, my ability to write words that make any sense, and even my ability to have ideas at all make such a schedule absolutely untenable. I can become so absorbed that I write for hours without noticing, or so disinterested that I spend days not thinking about my novels at all. Setting an expectation that I can in any way replicate machine-like consistency leads to nothing but frustration and self-destruction.

It is folly to work when there is no work to be done. When my head is empty, how can I be expected to turn that emptiness into words? However, it is similarly folly to ignore work that could be done just because it doesn't fall into the clock-hours that one considers the working day, which is why, if the right idea strikes, I have to be prepared to get out of bed in the middle of the night and start typing away.

Far from advocating laziness and idleness, what I advocate is a balance between idleness and labour that is in line with the natural rhythms of one's body and mind, rather than one enforced by the mechanical tick of a machine. What is true for writing and sports is true for many types of labour in our world, and the most prosperous people are those who are allowed to function according to these rhythms. We must free ourselves from the machine, and embrace the chaotic instability that comes with working as humans and for humans!

For this reason, you will not find a clock in my office, neither on my computer screen nor hung on my wall. An hour means nothing to me, and a minute even less. Lunch arrives when the stomach hungers, and lasts as long as it lasts. The tyranny of clock-time has no place in this little corner of the world, where the only measure is my satisfaction, and the only product a distillation of the chaos that reigns in my mind. Try as I might, I can not make my work anything but all-too-human, which brings with it many irregularities and flaws, but also all those intangible and beautiful elements that make art worth making.