maxfreakout a dit:
But you do not experience the actual connection between these events, and in that sense time doesnt exist
Actually, I do experience it as a single 'event', enough that I can predict the outcome the instant I realize the cup is slipping from my hand. 'Oh shit, hot coffee is going to spill all over the floor.' Then--Kersplat!
Change, motion, entropy and chemical reactions all are time-based phenomenon, as are experience, human perception and structures (like narrative). The experience of time is incredibly malleable, time flies when you are having fun, time bends when you practice meditation or take ~250mics of LSD (it may even seem to stop entirely). It becomes almost meaningless when you think you are going to die.
'At the same time' experience is one of those things that is so difficult to share. Experience seems almost like it can exist somewhere outside of time (although it still takes some time to remember something)
But I work with time-based media on a day-to-day fashion, so I spend a fair amount of... time... dealing with the perception of time. For me, time is impossible to ignore. I can't say what it actually is, I can only imagine... perhaps it's an illusion, but it's a very persistent and useful one nonetheless
-
Calmly we walk through this April's day,
Metropolitan poetry here and there,
In the park sit pauper and rentier,
The screaming children, the motor-car
Fugitive about us, running away,
Between the worker and the millionaire
Number provides all distances,
It is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now,
Many great dears are taken away,
What will become of you and me
(This is the school in which we learn...)
Besides the photo and the memory?
(...that time is the fire in which we burn.)
(This is the school in which we learn...)
What is the self amid this blaze?
What am I now that I was then
Which I shall suffer and act again,
The theodicy I wrote in my high school days
Restored all life from infancy,
The children shouting are bright as they run
(This is the school in which they learn . . .)
Ravished entirely in their passing play!
(...that time is the fire in which they burn.)
Avid its rush, that reeling blaze!
Where is my father and Eleanor?
Not where are they now, dead seven years,
But what they were then?
No more? No more?
From Nineteen-Fourteen to the present day,
Bert Spira and Rhoda consume, consume
Not where they are now (where are they now?)
But what they were then, both beautiful;
Each minute bursts in the burning room,
The great globe reels in the solar fire,
Spinning the trivial and unique away.
(How all things flash! How all things flare!)
What am I now that I was then?
May memory restore again and again
The smallest color of the smallest day:
Time is the school in which we learn,
Time is the fire in which we burn.
-Delmore Schwartz