This New Year’s Eve my family watched a most fitting movie: Midnight in Paris. As time relentlessly marches forward and 2011 refuses to stay, we hung out with a narrator who is immerses in nostalgia and wishes he could roll back the clock.
This Woody Allen movie is a lovely tale with a picturesque backdrop. The story’s message, given a bit heavy-handedly at the end, is that the best time is the time we’re in. At any rate, we don’t have a choice in the matter. Until a reliable Time Machine is invented, this is where we are, and the forward march continues undeterred.
Or does it? It occurs to me that in literature you can, in that special way we inhabit stories, really be in any time and any place. We can even take others with us. They’re called readers.
I’m not smart enough to think of time in terms of physics, or metaphysics. But I know stories.
I look at Father Time in this old fashioned card, and suddenly I don’t feel oppressed by him.