Today I have an orange hourglass. The kind of fluorescent orange that is almost as tacky as neon Madonnas found in Chinatown. It doesn't look like an hourglass because it lacks figure, being the shape of a cylinder. But what it lacks in contours it makes up for in the way you can put your whole hand around it and pretend that you possess an element of time for a while.
The movement of the viscous liquid within reminds me a lot of lava lamps, except this one comes without the heat of lava lamps, and spares you from the irrational fear that the liquid within might burst forth at any moment and burn you.
I love the way the liquid flows down - first in strands, then in globs - and the way there is stability in the inconsistency. And with every glob of liquid that descends, a mushroom cloud-looking golden blob balloons up and fuses with an air bubble. I think it is the embodiment of prettiness, but it seems impulsive to limit the world's beauty in something that is plastic and gelatinous.
I love the hourglass because it tells me that everything is pretty lasts for about ten minutes, which is how much time it takes for the liquid to flow from one compartment to the other, which is how long it takes for you to mark one script, or two.
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