Time And Again

Time goes by. The future comes towards us—or, as some experience it, we move towards it. The future arrives in the present and then both settle into the past, gone but not forgotten.

Or so it seems. Here’s another possibility: there is no past or future of this sort at all, no flow of something called time that moves from future to past at a steady rate.

Of course, events did happen in the past. The evidence is all around us: rock, oceans, old trees, pyramids, Mr. Vernon, battlefields, cemeteries. We may think evidence of such events strengthens our everyday notion of time going by in a simple and orderly fashion. But time­­–and especially our experience of it–is not so simple and orderly. Time is a human thing, built from memories, from the apparent movement of the sun and stars, from measuring tools, and from traditions about the value of the past and the knowability of the future.

In this article I’ll describe ways in which our thoughts about time are easily fooled, how a romantic song from a World War II movie shows us how contradictory time can be, and in what ways our experience of time is embodied in our bodies.

First of all, it seems sensible to me to think of us as living only in the present.* Being alive is a present state, a current condition; no organism can literally “live in the past.” But the past is certainly with us every step of the way. We are born with codes from our parents’ DNA, we store memories in our bodies, and we hang on to useful recollections in detail. We draw from all this storage continuously to manage the endless present that we live in. We use it also to imagine, wish for, plan on, and worry about the future. Time is the name we give this flow, but it is we, not time, that are flowing.

So to make time useful, we measure it and mark it. “It’s a two-hour movie.” Here’s where the nature of time can get confusing. “Two hour” is a descriptor and probably a general one at that. Say the movie, the feature itself, runs for two hours, three minutes and sixteen seconds. We would probably still call it a “two-hour movie.” The movie is the thing itself here, and it runs for as long as it runs.

To clarify (maybe), consider a different kind of measurement. A table is three feet long, and we have the yardstick to prove it. Length itself seems physically real. See, here’s the table and the yardstick. But length is a contrivance, an abstraction. The table would be the same whether it was measured in feet or not. Similarly, time, as a measurement or a marker, is a human invention for coordinating our complex social lives. “See you on Tuesday.” Imagine the difficulty we would have telling a Tuesday from a Monday on the basis solely of a difference of a minute or two of daylight. Calendars and clocks are essential for us, but they are not duration itself.

A related simplification is thinking of time as exclusively linear—a flow in one direction only, from future to past (or past to future). But as we well know, time as it moves along also moves in cycles. Units of time come round again and again even as the present moves on. “I meant next week, not this week.” In fact, the labeling of any particular moment in time is made up of clock-and calendar units that repeat themselves. Numbers and words, like the rotating dials on a bicycle lock, converge on a single combination. Right now it’s 9:10 am Eastern Standard Time on Tuesday, February 8, 2020.

There are, however, three words in our vocabulary of time that are much more closely connected to the cycles of nature, to its changes and motions, than others: these are day, month, and year. It is these that come closest to naming actual cycles in our solar neighborhood. The ancestors of word day referred to heat and daylight, in contrast to the dark of night, before the Babylonians and Romans applied it to the 24-hour cycle of day-and-night that we know as a day. The word month comes from the duration of the cycle of the waxing and waning moon. And year is anciently related to early versions of words like season and summer, probably with the sense of “that which makes a full cycle.”

Ingrid Bergman as Ilse in “Casablanca”

I’ll say more about those words in a moment, but first let’s go to the movies. The strange  intermingling of time’s cycles with its persistent direction haunts one of the cinema’s most romantic songs. “As Time Goes By” first appeared in the 1942 film Casablanca, a war-time romance set in Morocco, in northern Africa, on the edge of the conflict among the Germans, French and Americans. At his nightclub, Rick (Humphrey Bogart) hears the club’s entertainer Sam (Dooley Wilson) playing a song that Rick has tried hard to forget. The beautiful woman he had loved in Paris, Ilse (Ingrid Bergman), now married, has arrived at the club and is asking Sam about Rick. A short clip is worth watching:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7vThuwa5RZU

You must remember this
A kiss is still a kiss
A sigh is just a sigh
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by.

And when two lovers woo
They still say “I love you”
On that you can rely
No matter what the future brings
As time goes by….

It’s still the same old story
A fight for love and glory
A case of do or die
The world will always welcome lovers
As time goes by.

The lyrics draw on the complexity of our experience of time. On the one hand, time passes. Life goes by. Present moments and whatever the ‘future brings’ sink into the past. We ‘must remember’ that the ‘fundamental things apply’: We live, we love, and we feel the pain of loss.

But the fundamentals also include cycles, renewals, new loves, new losses. New ‘love songs’ are always welcome because ‘the world will always welcome lovers.’ The fight for love and glory, doing or dying, comes around again and again. As Darwin might have interjected, the ‘same old story’ is nothing less than the tale of struggle, survival and reproduction for any species.

So organisms both get “older” and partially renew themselves at the same time. They—we—live in sync with three astronomical repetitions: the rotations of the earth, the orbiting of the moon around the earth, and the orbiting of the earth around the sun. These cycles have embedded themselves in all bodies.

  • The daily (circadian) rhythm of darkness and daylight, cold and warmth, triggers sleeping and waking, rest and exertion.
  • The moon pulls the tides twice a day. And as it waxes and wanes each month, it lightens and darkens the night. Under a bright moon, lions hunt and snakes hide. Many species have adapted to these moon-and-tide patterns to survive.**
  • Earth’s yearly orbit around the sun brings the four seasons, prompting flowering, mating, ripeness, hibernation.

These rhythms are built into genes. “Clock-proteins” switch genes on when conditions are good and become built-in timers that operate even when the conditions are absent. Birds living for years in a controlled environment, for example, with 10 hours of light and 14 hours in the dark will molt (lose their feathers) at the same time of year that they would have if they were living in the wild.

So ‘the fundamental things’ include biological clocks of many kinds—in scientific parlance, chronobiology. Hardly a romantic term. I can hear Bogey now: “So that’s what they’re calling it these days, eh, sweetheart.”

Because time is everywhere and nowhere, it strains language and can boggle clarity. So in closing, here are two points—conundrums nonetheless—that I find I can hold on to. One is that time, as in a week, is a measurement of a passage of events, but a measurement is not the thing itself, not the duration itself. The second is that our experience of time, how we respond to it, how we view it, is neither a straight line nor a cycle but a strange and I think exquisite melding of both.

Time is our yardstick, essential for organizing what we call our past and our future and for agreeing on the duration of events. But what actually ‘goes by’ are lives, through another day, another season, to the rhythms of the earth, moon, and sun.



*To be precise, we live a split second behind the actual moment of “now.” Visual data comes through our eyes and along the optic nerve to be interpreted by the brain. The process takes one fifth of a second. To compensate, as Bill Bryson writes, the brain “continuously forecasts what the world will look like a fifth of a second from now, and that is what it gives us as the present” (The Body, p. 55). Even the present moment, it seems, is an educated guess.

**Both the moon’s cycle and a woman’s menstrual cycle average about 28 days and many women feel synched to the phases of the moon. So it’s tempting to conclude that the moon was an evolutionary source for the duration of women’s cycles. But the evidence doesn’t point that way. See Wikipedia on Menstruation/evolution.

3 thoughts on “Time And Again

  1. Brock,Good stuff.It’s about time you get back to this post!  🙂 I like the first footnote, too….it reminds me of the “seven-second” delay they do on “live” TV shows.To catch and bleep the curse words.  Maybe there’s something in that, in how we often convince ourselves of what we saw, when we saw what we wanted to see. Only other thought: as a writer, I think about how in fiction, you can hardly record an instantaneous experience.There’s a passage in Tolstoy’s amazing story, The Death of Ivan Ilych”, where for almost two pages, Ivan’s final thoughts and sensations are described, from his point-of-view, and then the narrator says this: “To him all this happened in a single instant….”So, fiction is stuck with the linearity of language.And, perhaps, by contrast, drama or theater might get closer to that sense of the moment, in that a good play is usually packed with moments…yes, moving through time, but made up of those flashes of perceptions for the actors and the audience.  Moment to moment. Of course, I’ll be humming “As Time Goes By” all day, now.Hmmm….there’s a phrase: “all day, now.”  (cyclical and linear both). Jim

    James Benner jibenner@verizon.net 256 Pine Ave.Manasquan, NJ 08736732-223-1819

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thanks, Jim. I like your description of the linearity of language in fiction but maybe not in live drama. And I remember the Tolstoy story so well. I was thinking, maybe poetry is a use of language with a little more room than fiction for mustering images and moods in an actual Ilyich all-at-once “instant”? Can’t think of an example, though.

      I can’t tell you how often in working on drafts of the post that I grimly resisted riffing on time-related words in ordinary expository use: always, at the same time, sometimes, etc. I’m glad you indulged.

      Thanks again.


  2. One thought I have on and off is that there really is no such thing as the present since all of what we know is in the past, from the nanosecond past to the billion year past. One would hope that our understanding of things past will guide us in our future actions 🙂


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