At That Precise Moment

At the sound of the tone—at that precise moment—it will be one o'clock. In the afternoon, of course, which is actually thirteen o'clock. We civilians call it one o'clock because in our minds there is no confusion between the two; at the other one o'clock we are sound asleep in our beds.

 

Fiction: this could be the start of a political dystopia, with Big Brother monitoring the sleep habits of the citizenry, along with every other element of their existence. Do I want to start writing a dystopia? No.

 

Memoir: this could be a story of arriving in Canada and discovering the CBC, which at one o'clock every single day afforded me (and still does) the opportunity to re-set my watch to the national standard. How accommodating. How civilized. No wonder I cottoned so quickly to CBC Radio. This was 34 years ago, of course, before the death by a thousand cuts that have reduced it to a barebones mockery of a public service. As far as I'm concerned, you can consign CBC-TV to whatever broadcasting hell exists. But keep your cotton-pickin' paws off my CBC Radio.

 

What's the title of this piece? "At That Precise Moment." Oh, I remember. I tried and discarded fiction. Then I tried the rubric "memoir," which turned into a present-day rant. Let's see if I can summon up a more appropriate memoir item: "At that precise moment . . ." No, nothing there. I'll try again: "At that precise moment . . ." Nope.

 

What else do I know how to write? Kitchen episodes. At the precise moment when the recipe and the timer agree that I should remove the cookies from the oven, they have just turned black on the bottom. Or: . . . the cookies have only just begun to firm up and removing them at that precise moment will be a disaster. Well, a small-scale disaster. Nothing on the order of an earthquake or total climate change or the mega-quarry. (Get away from those rant-worthy disasters quickly and return to your cookies!)

 

Yes, a small kitchen disaster, in our house, is not even really a disaster because 1) I can usually find a way to turn Disaster into Delicious and 2) if I fail in that attempt, my husband will eat it anyway because he hates to see food wasted. (So do I, but I have my limits; he has none. He won't eat an apple voluntarily unless I quarter it and serve it with a nice full-fat cheese, as dessert. Unless, that is, the apple in question is wrinkled and on the verge of being too old for human consumption, in which case he will voluntarily eat it for lunch and repeat, enthusiastically, "Delicious!" What a guy.)

 

Where was I? If, for me, writing is predicated on digression, then I must continually re-orient myself. Perhaps I lead my life the same way? Those cookies, for example. Did they burn while I was digressing my attention toward a Sudoku, or while I was indulging in my new obsession with learning how to play the blues scale on the piano? If my whole life is a digression, how will I ever find the main thread?

 

My embroidered digressions disguise the actual theme of my life. The theme of my life? Is there one, or is it all embroidery?

 

 

Copyright 2013 Ann Tudor

www.anntudor.ca
http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com