We have internalized the experience of a clock — speed ungoverned by the steady, standardized tick of a grandfather's second hand — and this without the tedium of Einstein's proofs: a clock that is always moving faster and faster. But we remain in hearing distance of other, older clocks and grow accustomed to their proliferation and multiplicity. We live in these times, in their plurality.

Moreover, we make our own time, we participate in the construction of temporalities: in marking time, we make it. And even if this time is irregular, extensible, and elastic, it serves the purpose of temporal division, by which eternity is made to become useful, just the same. Work does not really demand strict rhythm, just a coursing through the patterns of difference in succession. The dogmatic assertion to the contrary mobilizes the monstrous machines of war and commerce, the synchronized swim of capitals march.

Here, instead of metronomic regularity, I practice according to the polyrhythmic circumstance of many mad drummers, each to one's own. If I am a machine, and I am convinced that is so, I am a hand-cranked one, unsteady. Therefore, not necessarily once a day, or an early morning ritual, or a late night meditation, but rather, whenever is the rhythm of these notes.

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