Est. June 12th 2009 / Desde 12 de Junho de 2009

A daily stopover, where Time is written. A blog of Todo o Tempo do Mundo © / All a World on Time © universe. Apeadeiro onde o Tempo se escreve, diariamente. Um blog do universo Todo o Tempo do Mundo © All a World on Time ©)

segunda-feira, 30 de janeiro de 2023

Janela para o passado - lojas de bicicletas, Lisboa, 1900

Relógios Cyma, 1928

 (arquivo Fernando Correia de Oliveira)

Os relógios Glashütte Original no Relógis & Canetas online

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Meditações - fix clocks sticking or ticking with different times

Eightfold Chant

Church of broken toasters and singed fuses,

church of the dripping roof and chipped chimney stack,

of the flooded garage and its split door,


gas-hissing pipes and sibilant water heaters,

church of piss-poor light and shaky ladders

where I unchoke windows and dislodge chopsticks


from pipes, smooth curled up wallpaper and key the locks,

fix clocks sticking or ticking with different times,

church where wings of dead flies drift like petals


from cobwebs, ghosts sift through floorboards

and the homeless sleep in compost, steeping like tea bags

pungent from the leaves' damp weight.


Church where I am summoned by the door's clatter of brass

to the brown-toothed vagrant who spreads open

her overcoat; to the chattering man who communes


with pines and brooms the stairs; to the bent, old Japanese woman

who forgets her keys, waits for me to twist the lock free

so she can scrub floors with Murphy wood soap


and a toothbrush, wobble atop a ladder and polish the two-ton bell.

On this path I am my uncle setting cubes of cheese into jaws

of traps, and my grandmother stirring peas into a pan of fried rice,


and my grandfather padding the halls in slippers and gloves,

the cold globes of his breath a string of prayer beads

weaving me, a mixed-blood grandson, into them.

Bryan Komei Dempster

domingo, 29 de janeiro de 2023

Janela para o passado - Porto - Lisboa de motociclo, em 11 horas 26 minutos e 13 segundos, 1902

Sobre José Caetano Tavares de Melo da Costa Lobo, ver aqui

Relógios LIP, 1928

 (arquivo Fernando Correia de Oliveira)

Os relógios Girard-Perregaux no Relógios & Canetas online

As edições mensais estão disponíveis aqui ou aqui. Siga-o no Instagram, aqui. Ou no Facebook, aqui.

Meditações - Men of the six-clock give way to those of nine

Our Big City

Our big city is a city of big bombs and big bicycles, we hire grafters for their pretty art. To force a shoot inside a shoot, to grow an apple on a crab, to grow a plum upon a leprechaun. Dyspepsia is often grafted upon hysteria. To grow a boy inside a belly, cutting capers. Words, through grace, are grafted in our heart and the orange bears a greener fruit that blossoms as it swells. With imperfect grace from that perfect grace from wherever that perfect grace may remain.

To paint half a man on a half a horse. To paint a dolphin in a forest. To color feathers on a beast. To grant a maid a fish's waist. To graft or to wax, whether clay, whether nether. As men graft their gods upon empires.

Then we build mirrors to better understand ourselves, to better understand our souls, and we ask ourselves reflectively, Where? then Who? Woe unto us, we are building our city from our urine. Maintaining it with our fardels and with facts. The burbs we raise to the ranks of birds. Then we furnish them with words that wilt, like oak and elm and ash.

Busily we build our city. Toilsomely we lay the bricks. Men of the six-clock give way to those of nine, those of the nine to the generation of twelve, and those of the twelve tend to disappear, making room for the more fashionable folks who make the two-o-clock noon in the middle of day by the greedy ill will of pills.

Toilsomely we build our city. Burdensomely we tow the line. Those ministers who refuse to tow we quickly omit. Then, when the city is complete, we sit back in the stadium bleachers and wonder how the generated world can be so excellent. How the emulated world can be so grand. How the phone pole stands in for its form. How matter is glued to the elements of ideals.

Then, when the city is complete, we sit at the edge of our great new void, like frogs at edge of a pond, like birds whose nests are littered with knots. Here, we live here in the syllables of our screams where vowels hang like fish hang on hooks. Out of the water. Like consonants with their scales scraped off. And because we fear our world is growing weary, we fill our homes with booty and with loot.

Then our big city crawls into the country, dragging its mountains right along with it. Like death that extends itself with golden planks, we hang ourselves by silk, by twine, by telephone cords. The religious tongue becomes the last supper that we swallow greedily and without chewing. Like death. That is the supreme fortune of man. This is a studied and digested truth.

A couple of hours later, we find ourselves at the junction of shanties where prairies host the sprawling city of Denver, that long lost city of long lost ghosts who haunt the long lost plains, that lifeless and wifeless city, in contrast, of course, to the Big Apple, that city of violated treaties, that wailing city set for the protection of infinity, so like the city of the seven gods, so like Rome, so with its epithets, with its alphabetical locomotives. There, only dogs can find the grisly burbs where the grisly grass slowly grows. Where savage canoes now blossom into lilies.

Montgomery says it's not a place of roof and of walls, it's more like a company, it's more like a corporation. But what is the city but its steeples and domes? What is a city but its spires and its clocks? Time, the people of the city. Time, the bluntest eye, the lion's padded paws.

Sea dreams and my flowering germander eyes droop at the factoried gloom. Bank rates are a codex to the cross. This is the religious box body. This is the largest corporation in the world. This, with a sprinkling of poetry and a poetic moat.

Sea dreams, a new born clerk, all raised and bred. A maze of cuneiform streets spread like a spider's web. Not dapper, but cricket-like. Not coned, but molded. The lot is posted for the dock. Violets are sold at a hundred a piece and marshals ride on horseback while Homer makes his slow way home.

Sandy Florian

sábado, 28 de janeiro de 2023

Anuário 2023 - ensaio histórico - a introdução do relógio mecânico em Portugal

Janela para o passado - sabão de Moçambique, 1933

Relógios Vog, 1927

 (arquivo Fernando Correia de Oliveira)

Os relógios Fendi no Relógios & Canetas online

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Meditações - The wall clock's black, hitchy hands

Sitting Down to Breakfast Alone

Brachest, she called it, gentling grease

over blanching yolks with an expertise

honed from three decades of dawns

at the Longhorn Diner in Loraine,

where even the oldest in the old men's booth

swore as if it were scripture truth

they'd never had a breakfast better,

rapping a glass sharply to get her

attention when it went sorrowing

so far into some simple thing—

the jangly door or a crusted pan,

the wall clock's black, hitchy hands—

that she would startle, blink, then grin

as if discovering them all again.

Who remembers now when one died

the space that he had occupied

went unfilled for a day, then two, three,

until she unceremoniously

plunked plates down in the wrong places

and stared their wronged faces

back to banter she could hardly follow.

Unmarried, childless, homely, "slow,"

she knew coffee cut with chamomile

kept the grocer Paul's ulcer cool,

yarrow in gravy eased the islands

of lesions in Larry Borwick's hands,

and when some nightlong nameless urgency

sent him seeking human company

Brother Tom needed hash browns with cheese.

She knew to nod at the litany of cities

the big-rig long-haulers bragged her past,

to laugh when the hunters asked

if she'd pray for them or for the quail

they went laughing off to kill,

and then—envisioning one

rising so fast it seemed the sun

tugged at it—to do exactly that.

Who remembers where they all sat:

crook-backed builders, drought-faced farmers,

VF'ers muttering through their wars,

night-shift roughnecks so caked in black

it seemed they made their way back

every morning from the dead.

Who remembers one word they said?

The Longhorn Diner's long torn down,

the gin and feedlots gone, the town

itself now nothing but a name

at which some bored boy has taken aim,

every letter light-pierced and partial.

Sister, Aunt Sissy, Bera Thrailkill,

I picture you one dime-bright dawn

grown even brighter now for being gone

bustling amid the formica and chrome

of that small house we both called home

during the spring that was your last.

All stories stop: once more you're lost

in something I can merely see:

steam spiriting out of black  coffee,

the scorched pores of toast, a bowl

of apple butter like edible soil,

bald cloth, knifelight, the lip of a glass,

my plate's gleaming, teeming emptiness.

Christian Wiman

sexta-feira, 27 de janeiro de 2023

Janela para o passado - Ovomaltine, 1934

Aníbal Tavares, Joalheiro, Lisboa, 1920

(arquivo Fernando Correia de Oliveira)

Os relógios Emile Chouriet no Relógios & Canetas online

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Meditações - that clock that forbade you to move

The Idea of Revelation

It wasn't holy so let us not praise gods.

Let us not look to them for bread,

nor the cup that changed water to wine.


Let us look to the bend of the road

that reaches. A silver blur across

the skyline, woman standing on the farm.


In her grasp, the shine that is seed,

that is beginning. She will work

the earth, bounty in the vault


of cosmos above her, heat

lightning that lassoes in its manic

current. Man never existed


but to invite danger. Loveless one.

There was once an army of men,

saluting from bayonet to bomb.


They were expert at sabotage, hand combat.

You stop the clock in your paltry chest.

The one that says choose, choose.


Wind that desired backward. Ring

the alarm. When you wake, no more

pain. A mirror like a window looking out.


What can your past now say to you

that has never been said before? What

of that clock that forbade you to move


forward. What of the clock that asked

for nothing but passage, the minutes

careening into you like a fitful arrow.


What of the clock that summoned nothing,

not even mercy. Once you tired of wanting,

a face to break, you started the clock again.

Tina Chang

quinta-feira, 26 de janeiro de 2023

Janela para o passado - Há 90 anos, Canção de Lisboa, 1933

 O Século Ilustrado, 1933

Relógios Patek Philippe, 1913

(arquivo Fernando Correia de Oliveira)

Os relógios Edox no Relógios & Canetas online

As edições mensais estão disponíveis aqui ou aqui. Siga-o no Instagram, aqui. Ou no Facebook, aqui.

Os votos de Bom Ano do Coelho da IDMA

Meditações - The steeple’s clock


Retired from other trades, they wore

Work clothes again to mop the johns

And feed the furnace loads of coal.

Their roughened faces matched the bronze


Of the school bell the nun would swing

To start the day. They limped but smiled,

Explored the secret, oldest nooks:

The steeple’s clock, dark attics piled


With inkwell desks, the caves beneath

The stage on Bingo night. The pastor

Bowed to the powers in their hands:

Fuses and fire alarms, the plaster


Smoothing a flaking wall, the keys

To countless locks. They fixed the lights

In the crawl space above the nave

And tolled the bells for funeral rites.


Maintain what dead men made. Time blurs

Their scripted names and well-waxed floors,

Those keepers winking through the years

And whistling down the corridors.

David Livewell

quarta-feira, 25 de janeiro de 2023

Anuário 2023 - a astronomia e o tempo, relação milenar

Janela para o passado - SONAE, 1964

Pêndulas antigas, 1912

 (arquivo Fernando Correia de Oliveira)

Os relógios Eberhard no Relógios & Canetas online

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Suíça com exportações relojoeiras ao nível pré-pandémico

A Suíça exportou em 2022 relógios num valor total de 24,8 mil milhões de francos (mais 11,4 por cento do que no ano anterior). Isto apesar de dois dos seus três principais mercados terem quebrado no ano passado.

A China, segundo mercado, importou menos 13,6 por cento; Hong Kong, terceiro mercado, importou menos 10,5 por cento. Os Estados Unidos, principal destino dos relógios suíços em 2022, importou mais 26,3 por cento.

Portugal terminou o ano como 28º mercado, com um aumento de 14,6 por cento.

Em quantidade, a indústria relojoeira suíça estabilizou, depois de anos de diminuição - 15,8 milhões de relógios (mais 0,3 por cento).

Meditações - ampulheta interna

A one ended boomerang

For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return.

 — Leonardo da Vinci

An hourglass constricted, the whore inside of me who is watching the clock, monitoring the time, this wasted time to get off, get going, lunar cycle gauge of tide and meridian. How I can hear the sand slip downward in my body clock? I need to be here, could be there, and not long ago the only place you wanted me to be was by your side ... maybe?

I am a pencil that cannot sharpen,

  ink that slides off paper,

  outside of our time, I am lost,

 a one ended boomerang.

Samuel Wagan Watson