Watches

I have only two watches. One was given to me by my mother on my 20th birthday; the other was given to me by my wife on my 45th birthday.

Both have titanium bracelets; the older one runs on a battery and has a smaller face, the younger one runs on solar energy and has a larger face. I wear both of them in turn, depending on what the day looks like it's bringing.

The older one has had its glass smashed twice, once during a hockey match and once when my newly-bound PhD thesis fell on it. Each of those events marked a watershed in my life; the first marked the end of a period during which I had come to love the first school of my professional career, the second marked the end of a long period as a returned student. I've changed the batteries four times. The first battery lasted more than a decade, but subsequent batteries have not been so long-lived; they don't make batteries the way they used to, I guess. The bracelet clasp is slightly damaged, but still holds. I would never dream of getting rid of this watch.

The younger one has a very secure clasp. It is a solid-looking item, beautiful in a different way. It does good work, and I am also very happy to have it. It might have less history, but it is also my watch, and I will keep it always.

I have only two watches. I like to think of them as different personalities with different stories, who have somehow ended up sharing the same wrist at different times.

Vigil

This is the vigil of an archaeologist. He digs, and waits; his dig is more like the careful raking of a sand-garden beneath the rising sun.

This is the vigil of a librarian. He shelves, and waits; his shelving is more like the careful playing of a gigantic cathedral pipe-organ.

This is the vigil of an alchemist. He blends and distills; the burbling of the retorts is careful but the transcendence reeks of danger.

This is the vigil of a knight. He knows that time is short; the beast is nigh, and yet he must pass the night in silence and watchfulness.

Thus, invigilation finds her sons across the far-flung lands. If they were joined by line of light and thought, they would be a necklace of many strands thrown around the neck of Gaia. And oh, how beautiful it is.

Summer, In Winter

I sit here with the better part of a bottle of 2005 Moscato and a very small glass. This allows me to successfully absorb the late and dying heat of an Italian summer which I have never experienced, turned into a flowery bouquet and the aftertaste of fruit which I am now experiencing.

At the same time, I am reading Dave Gibbons's Watching the Watchmen, the behind-the-scenes exposé of how the Hugo Award-winning graphic novel came to be. I read of John Higgins's hand-calibrated colouring, using the limited print technology of the 1980s to produce murky, bleached, hues which were somehow suitable for the noir atmosphere of the final product, but yet not good enough. I read of the quirky Alan Moore yet again, that most extraordinary gentleman with the Moorcock-era New Wave creative streak a mile wide.

And I remember what it was like, being a lad in the Army and reading issues of Watchmen as they came out — and reflecting on how different on a psychological scale the rushing about with M16S1s and modified ex-Israeli armour was, compared to the threat of nuclear armageddon. I reflect that since then I have enjoyed many a summer, and the swan has not yet sung.

Tomorrow, I am certain that some people will get up on some podiums somewhere, arrange their notes on some lectern and read some blithering nonsense. And some part of the world will cringe before each of them. But others will speak words that seem given by a higher authority, not merely a higher power. These latter words will shape the world through the hearts and minds of their listeners.

"Who watches the watchmen?" goes the old Latin saying. "Watchman, what of the night?" is found in the book of Isaiah the prophet. We watch the watchmen; they watch the night. And if nobody watches the night, and if nobody watches the watchmen, then Chaos and Old Night and all the other powers of the Fall will steal the last breath of summer forever.

But here I sit, my half-bottle of Moscato and I. We read together the story that Moore and Gibbons told so long ago. We remember an even older tale, involving watchmen in a field, angels, sheep and new beginnings. There is the promise we hold close; out of every winter comes summer, and summer can be bottled for darker days.

Psalm 134: In Darkest Night

There's always something about men in dark times that makes them think of the darkest night, with no sign of dawn, no surcease from pain, no hope for redemption. But the 134th Psalm, the last of the Songs of Ascents, has a subtly different take on this theme:

Behold, bless ye the LORD, all ye servants of the LORD, which by night stand in the house of the LORD.
Lift up your hands in the sanctuary, and bless the LORD.
The LORD that made heaven and earth bless thee out of Zion.

In the night, we stand firm, and we are blessed. Sometimes, I trawl through the oceanic depths of the Old Testament, and I find gems and nuggets of mysterious metal. One of the chapters that seems to tell me what to look for in the midst of chaos casts me as a watchman, and is breathtaking in its oracular scope. In darkest night, the visions are most colourful.

Watchmen

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

Who indeed watches the watchmen? This question is most relevant in today's world, especially in societies ruled over by the elite, the intellectuals, the wealthy, the power-brokers, technocrats, or self-constructed meritocrats. For this Hugo Award-winning novel, the only graphic novel to be on Time magazine's 100 Best Novels since 1923 list (and ranked FOURTH!), is all about that kind of thing, and the decisions that the mighty among us might make.

It looks like the movie is on track! I cannot wait to watch it. But I have to. Sigh. Who can wait for the Watchmen?

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Note: There are many annotations of Watchmen. Many of them are useful. Here's one.