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522 w 37th St Fl 2
New York, NY 
10018
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9 O’clock bloomer is the common nickname for evening primrose because the plant’s yellow flowers open promptly at dusk in the summertime.  The flowers seem to unwind slowly out from their center, and then pop open abruptly, blossoming for a night and wilting by dawn. The internal clock of the plant is wound to respond to the gradually dimming light, the purply-blue of twilight. I’m thinking about this biological keeping of time. Flies live for one month, one lunar rotation. I wonder what time means to a fly, how long does a month feel to live a whole life in? What is a single day of living to
a flower? 

For most and for me, the experience of time passing changes heavily depending on what I’m engaged in. Time spent at work drags terribly, seeming to grind to a halt as I wait for a lunch break, or wait to go home. At a party, where circadian rhythms are shrugged off in the company of friends, hours can pass in a single room with barely any perception. On the highway time moves in and out of relevance. Boredom at 75 miles an hour seems impossible, but your body moves through time at its normal speed separate from the vehicle that’s hurtling through space. It makes me think about hyper-sleep in sci-fi novels where spacecraft inhabitants are kept suspended in their age and experience of time as the earthlings they left behind age and die in seemingly the same span. When I drive on a long trip my mind drifts through memory, anticipation of the destination, or possibly dread, observation of the passing landscapes, the choreography of the cars signaling lane shifts and passing slow moving trucks.

-Erin Morris














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