Caroline Newbern’s Reviews > Hold Still: A Memoir with Photographs > Status Update

“old, precisely quantifiable kind of time, and that giddy, bedlamite, psychological time we all know and crave (to varying degrees). For me, once those shotgun shacks began to appear along the road, I broke through into that transcendent dimension of revelation and elation that gleefully eludes Stravinsky's quantifiable time. The lazy shafts of late evening Mississippi sun heightened this time-unraveling sensation, illuminating vortices of cotton flies, like hundreds of bright, slow-motion tornadoes alighting upon the dark fields. I took lungfuls of the yeasty, essential smells that came in my open windows, the sweet stink of exuberant fecundity.
I stopped whenever I saw something that felt like a photograph or held some mystery or happened to catch the light in an alluring way: half a baby doll thrown in a ditch around which vultures circled, a cotton-ginning operation sending up spumes of light-struck dust, a burned-down clapboard church. Barely touching the accelerator, I stuck my head out the win-dow, resting my chin on my wrist and watching the scenery crawl by with the calculating attitude of a cat measuring the distance from floor to coun-tertop. Occasionally I'd glance into the rearview mirror to discover a string of cars, their drivers anxiously craning their necks to see what the holdup was. I would continue this until it was too dark to photograph…”

in Poetics of Music by Igor Stravinsky he distinguishes between those types of time

Also, “In Wales, for example, Welsh is spoken by barely 20 percent of the popu-lation, so we can only hope that the evocative Welsh word hiraeth will somehow be preserved. It means "distance pain," and I know all about it: a yearning for the lost places of our past, accompanied in extreme cases by tuneful lamentation (mine never got quite that bad). But, and this is important, it always refers to a near-umbilical attachment to a place, not just free-floating nostalgia or a droopy houndlike wistfulness or the longing we associate with romantic love. No, this is a word about the pain of loving a place.
Just like us southerners, the Welsh are often depicted as nostalgic and melancholic, their heads stuck in the past while pining for hopelessly lost causes. This attribution was conceived in the eighteenth century, and right from the beginning it was tied to a representation of landscapes: the blind bards of eighteenth-century fables are inseparable from the misty mountains in which they were imagined to strum their harps while giving voice to their birath.”