A fan with no power cord, a bike missing wheels, a broken clock, a piece of copper screen, an old guitar amp. Broken things I’ve given a home.
I like to fix things, I collect them here and there. I can do it easily and well, though sometimes things look different when I’m done, maybe the function is changed, sometimes I just clean them up change a few things and leave them broken, liking them better that way.
You can’t do that with people, fix them that easily. People are not machines, and sometimes they are broken for a reason, something that’s not fixable. But broken is it’s own beauty, like in the machine I leave broken.
I have an antique clock that worked for nearly 70 years, then it was carelessly broken by my house painter, he pulled it off the wall and broke the tiny wire that connected the power cord to the clockworks motor, I set it aside to fix, first carefully collecting all the separate pieces storing them in a little bag that I put inside the wall clock itself and hung it back up on the wall, meaning to come back later to do the intricate repair. The clock stayed there for over a year reading 11:01, and whenever I would look at it I would say to myself, it’s only just past the 11th hour.
In movies or books, often they leave the plot resolution to just past the 11th hour. It’s then that all hope seems lost, yet if they try harder, magic always happens to save the day.
The clock, always at the eleventh hour, reminds me to not waste time but instead to keep at it and let the magic happen.
Today I decided that it’s fine broken, and if I ever get around to fixing it, I’ll have saved the day, in the eleventh hour.
Maybe I’ll have my shit together (or as my dad used to say ‘in one sock’ which always made me think, why would I put it in a sock at all?) and will not need the constant reminder that it’s always the eleventh hour in someone’s life.
Until then it helps to look and think that magic is waiting to happen, just in time.
©The autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2018