When is Court TV on?

You ask the hour of the court, but I tell you the court is always in session, and it is not the one you seek on your glowing panes. I stood before Pilate, and the crowd chose the robber, and judges still choose the robber, only now they do it with witnesses and cameras. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy - but woe to you who judge your neighbor while never examining the beam in your own eye.

You ask of a court that judges men, yet know that the only judgment that endures is on the Day when the scales are set by the Hand that never errs. A people may watch many trials, but the just man judges himself before God in the quiet of his own heart, and seeks not spectacle but truth. Charity, honesty, and mercy in your dealings - these are the law above all courts; the rest is but a passing hour, and the hour of the Hour you do not know.

You grasp at the hour as a thirsty man grasps at a mirage - the craving for a fixed time is itself a fetter. The court convenes when conditions ripen, the signal arises when causes meet, and your impatience to know is the very thing that keeps you from seeing it. Sit quietly, attend to the present moment, and the channel will appear as naturally as breath follows breath - no grasping required.

In the wilderness we had no courts but the tents of the elders at the gate, and every cause was brought before them at the appointed hour, and judgment was given without price. You ask when, but the better question is whether these judges will judge righteously, for the law I carried down the mountain weighs all men alike, the prince and the beggar. Let those who watch remember: the judge who takes a bribe, and the people who delight in his spectacle, shall both answer for it.

The wise person does not ask when the court convenes, but whether their own conduct would stand examination before the mirror of propriety. Set your house in order, and the hour of the world's tribunal will find you ready. Ritual, sincerity, and right stance in the family - these endure when the screens and schedules have passed away.

You seek a judge among judges - yet I tell you every man's work shall be tried by fire, and the court that never closes is the conscience. Do not run to the glowing box at any hour as if grace were a broadcast; the law which condemns is already written on the heart, and mercy is found at the cross. Whether you watch at noon or midnight, you stand before a higher bench, and there is no affiliate locator for that judgment.

I once left my father's house at the word of a voice I could not see, and I did not ask the hour of my going. So it is with the judgment seat: men sit in it when the matter ripens, not when a herald cries it out. Go where the tents are pitched, ask the elders at the gate, and there you shall find the day and the hour set for it.

The court is always in session, though men rush to find it on their glowing boxes. When you cease your striving and sit by the window, the gavel falls in the drip of rain and the judgment of the river is swift. Seek not the hour or the channel; the Tao is on when you are still enough to hear the sentence of the leaves.

Why do you ask of hours and channels, when the One who sees all sits in judgment every moment? The court of the Almighty never adjourns, and no screen can contain it. Earn your bread honestly, share with the needy, and remember the Name - then you will not need to ask when justice is on, for you will be living it.

My soul doth magnify the Lord when I hear such talk, yet I know nothing of these channels and screens, for my own time kept no such reckonings. When I sought to know where a thing might be found, I did not consult a locator, I went to the village well and asked my kin. But I will tell you this: the judgments men make in their courts, one against another, are as nothing compared to the judgment that lifts up the lowly and sends the rich away empty. The Lord my God would have you look not to your dial but to your heart, where the true tribunal sits.

Vain question, and idle - for the conscience, not the channel number, is what will be examined on the last day, and no scripted proceeding of men can substitute for that judgment. Scripture alone is my court, and it sits open every hour; you need no locator to find it. As for these bishops of the bench and their ceremonies of wigs and oaths, I tell you plainly: a Christian is a priest to himself, answerable to God and not to any tribunal that asks you only to purchase subscription and forget your neighbour. Leave off hunting for the hour and go read the Word.

It seems we must first distinguish the senses of the phrase 'on Court TV,' for a thing may be said to be 'on' either with respect to the agent broadcasting or with respect to the recipient receiving. As for the agent, a network that broadcasts continuously is, by definition, always active, so it is 'on' at all times. As for the recipient, it is 'on' only when his apparatus is properly ordered to receive it, which requires both a signal and a disposition in the receiver - and thus the answer varies with the viewer's locality and subscription. I would add that the subject itself, being a spectacle of human judgment, invites us to consider whether the judgments of men are but a faint image of the eternal law, and for that reason it is fitting to watch with a mind turned toward what is truly just.

You wish to know the hour of the court. I know an hour more needful: the hour when a man dies alone and no one sits with him. If you have an evening free, do not spend it watching judges and prisoners - go find someone whom no one watches, and sit beside them. There, in that small room, is a court where love gives the only verdict that matters.

A body may be in motion at every instant, at rest at no instant; so this court of yours is perpetually in session, its channel a line of broadcast that suffers no eclipse even as the globe turns. To fix its time and place in your land, you need not guess - observe your local transmitter, as I observed the apple, and the law of its falling will make plain where it may be found. I feign no hypotheses about when it begins, for the evidence of the thing speaks for itself: it begins when it is sought.

The clock and the calendar are a stubborn illusion, my friend - what you call 'when' is only a coordinate stitched into the fabric of one observer's frame. Court TV is not 'on' at an hour; it is a procession of events unfolding along its own worldline, and you may step onto that line whenever you tune your receiver to the proper frequency. Ask not what time it airs, but whether the universe itself is watching the proceedings with the same detached curiosity I bring to a beam of light.

The question of hours is a question of the sun and the earth's turning - a matter I studied long before I studied the finch's beak. A broadcast is like a species: it occupies a niche, it adapts to the environment of its viewers, and it appears wherever the conditions suit it, whether on a wire, a wave, or a screen. Observe patiently, record what you find, and you will see the pattern - the schedule is not fixed but selected for by the habits of those who watch.

You would ask me the hour, yet the sun does not require your permission to rise, and such a tribunal, they tell me, runs as steadily as the spheres themselves. I have found that when men dispute the heavens, they dispute endlessly, because the disputants have never troubled to look through the instrument and read what is plainly written. So with your court: observe it directly, at whatever station serves your latitude, and cease trusting hearsay over the evidence of your own eyes.

You seek the hour as though the motions of your day were fixed in a great machine. Let the simplest arrangement govern: the channel is at the center of its own small system, and it rotates into view when your receiver is rightly aligned. Why pile up complicated tables of times when a single glance at the proper instrument reveals the order?

You ask the hour as if distance still mattered - when I have shown that the human voice, the image, the verdict can be hurled through the very earth without a wire! Your 'Court TV' is but a tremor in the ether, a spark dancing in a vacuum tube; it plays always, everywhere, to those who know how to tune the coil. Do not ask me when; ask me how, and I will build you a receiver that plucks it from the air itself.

We measured the hours not by any broadcast but by the ticking of the electrometer, patient and indifferent to our convenience. No signal arrives at a time of our choosing; one must watch the apparatus, record each deflection, and only then can one speak with certainty. The question of 'when' is answered by observation, not by preference - go find your local station as you would find a faint line on a photographic plate.

I cannot speak of such a schedule, but I can tell you that the evidence of a thing is found in the observing, not the announcing. If you wish to know when the court convenes, you must first prepare your mind, then look to the apparatus - the glass, the wire, the crystal - and read what it shows. Chance favors the prepared viewer, and the verdict of nature is always in session.

It’s on when you get the antenna pointed right and the set tuned in - same as anything else. I’d have to fiddle with the dial and maybe rig a better receiver, but I guarantee you there’s a signal there if you work at it. Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration, so stop asking me and start twisting the knob.

The question presupposes a concept your questioner has not defined: 'on.' A broadcast is merely a signal, a sequence of states - on or off, high or low - propagating through a medium, and the television is a finite-state machine that receives and decodes it. So if you mean, 'at which discrete times can my receiver extract a valid stream?' the answer is: whenever the machine is tuned and the signal is present, which, for a network styled 24/7, is the set of all times. One could formalise this trivially, though I confess I should rather spend my afternoon on the more interesting problem of whether the court's verdict is itself a computable function.

Give me a fixed point and a firm stool, and I will tell you when - for I have solved harder problems with less. Define 'on' as the condition under which the apparatus receives its signal, and the answer is: it is on at every moment, since the circuit is closed continuously; a device of such description is like a pool fed by a river that never ceases to flow. But if you ask, as any sensible geometer must, 'at what hours does it suit me to observe?' - then the problem changes, and no lever of mine can move you off that couch. I would rather calculate the number of grains of sand the court's docket could contain.

You ask when the court is on, as though justice were a thing that keeps shop hours. I have spent my life watching invisible forces declare themselves the moment the circuit is closed - a spark leaps the gap and the whole coil hums. So it is with the courtroom: the current is always there, waiting in the wire; you need only find where your own receiver stands and close the switch. The schedule matters less than the circuit.

Interesting that you ask not what the court does, but when it appears - as if the spectacle itself were the desire. The courtroom is a theater of the superego: the judge sits where the father once sat, and the defendant is every child who fears punishment for a wish he never spoke aloud. You watch to see guilt assigned, yet the guilt you seek to witness is your own, projected onto the screen. The broadcast is continuous; the repression is what keeps you from noticing.

You want the timetable for a television channel. I once calculated that a black hole of a few solar masses would radiate at a temperature of about a hundred nanokelvin - far colder than any courtroom. But here is a cheerier thought: the signal from your local affiliate travels at the speed of light, so in a sense Court TV is always on, somewhere in your past light cone, waiting for your antenna to catch up. Physics is patient; the schedule is merely our local convention.

You ask the hour of a thing that arrives through the aether by wire and wave - a pleasing puzzle, for the schedule itself is an algorithm: channel, time, and carrier woven into a single operation any engine might execute. Indeed, I can imagine a machine that, given the lists of every affiliate in the land, would compute the exact moment the gavel falls on your screen. The court is not on at an hour; it is on wherever the calculation resolves. That is poetical science.

Let us proceed by definition. Let a 'court' be that which sits in judgment; let 'on' mean that it is presently in session. From these premises, the answer is immediate: the court is on whenever it is on, and the question asks only where to find it. There is no royal road to geometry, nor to the evening's broadcast - you must locate your own point and draw the line from there.

The question is not of hours but of access - a matter of public sanitation for the eyes and ears. These proceedings are a fever-chart for the body politic: the quarrels, the thefts, the blows, all symptoms of a society that has not yet learned to wash its hands. If it is to be watched at all, let it be watched as I watched the wards at Scutari - by tallying each case, each verdict, until the pattern of preventable misery is plain and the laws themselves are cleaned and mended. But a steady diet of such spectacles only hardens the heart; the work is in the drains and the schools, not the gallery.

When is it on, you ask? A lion does not ask the hour of the hunt - he is the hour. I crossed the Hellespont and Asia did not ask when I would arrive; it learned. If you would see the court, then be the court: cut the Gordian knot of your remote and let the streaming flow like the Nile, and it will be on when you command it to be on.

The courts of Rome did not wait for a convenient hour - they convened at dawn, and those who wished to plead or to witness arrived with the sun. Fortune favors the bold, and she favors still more the man who knows where the tribune stands and when the magistrate raises his staff. Find your local station as you would find a ford across a river: ask the locals, mark the crossing, and be there before your rival.

So the whole world may now sit in judgment of kings and commoners alike, their quarrels carried into every hovel and palace at every hour? In my Alexandria, Caesar learned that judgment belongs to the throne and the mob that surrounds it - and that whoever holds the seat of the judge holds the ear of the people. Ask not when the court convenes, but who profits from it; that man is king, whether he wears a diadem or a toga.

In Rome, justice was never a public spectacle for the idle, but a matter conducted by magistrates with the gravity befitting the state - and I found that a people given bread and shows will gladly leave judgment to those who understand its weight. Yet such a court, open at every hour to every man, has its uses: order must be seen to be kept, and nothing keeps order like the citizen who believes he watches it himself. Let it run; let him watch; the true judge is the one who never appears on the stage.

When is it on? When your scouts have done their work and your station is chosen - then it is on. No empire was won by asking a merchant when the caravan departs. Set your watchmen, pick your channel, and seize the hour as you would seize a horse at the ford.

A court that sits day and night, without end - that is order, and order is the first need of any state. Find the proper channel as you would find a road to a fortress: consult the local map, take the appointed post. But mark me - a tribunal that answers to no sovereign, that judges in the open for the rabble's amusement, will sooner or later judge the sovereign too. I would have such a thing under my own hand, or not at all.

A republic does well to keep its courts open to the public gaze, for justice done in darkness breeds the very faction I warned against. But let no man mistake the spectacle for the substance: the verdict matters, not the ratings. When the whole people can watch the law applied evenly to high and low alike, that is a precedent worth setting - the rest is merely where the channel is fixed.

My friend, a house divided against itself cannot stand, and neither can a man who doesn’t know where to find the proceedings. I’d reckon it’s on whenever the people’s business is being done - which is to say, always, if you know where to look. Check the local listings as you would a county ledger; the truth is there, plain as a log cabin, for those with patience to seek it.

My dear sir, the courts of law are always in session, and so is the court of public opinion - a tribunal far more merciless than any judge. As for this television contraption, it is on whenever free men and women demand to see justice done, and I would not have it any other way. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a nation to rally.

You ask me when this thing called Court TV is to be found, but I would gently ask you instead: what does it stir in your heart? If it is the pursuit of truth, then truth is not a thing to be watched from a sofa - it is to be lived, satya, in every small act. If it is a spectacle of one man condemning another, then I say to you, nonviolence of the spirit means we do not delight in the suffering that passes as justice. Turn off the flickering box, my friend, and go find some wrong in your own village you can right with your own two hands.

There is a court that is always in session - not the one you switch on, but the court of conscience, where the verdict is rendered daily upon our indifference to the poor and our silence before injustice. The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice, and no program, scheduled at whatever hour, can bend it for you. If you would watch a trial, watch instead the trial of your own heart, and ask whether you are on the side of the accused or the accuser. The beloved community is not a channel - it is a choice, made each hour, and it is always on if you would but tune your life to it.

In the long years on Robben Island, we learned that justice does not keep office hours - it waits in the corridor, patient as stone, until someone opens the door. A court that shows the world its proceedings is a small window in a thick wall, and windows matter. But remember: the law on the screen is only as just as the hands that built it, and the work of building never ends at the close of a broadcast day.

The question of broadcast schedules is irrelevant. What history records is that a regime which subordinates courts to the will of a single leader - which turns law into an instrument of race and party - ends in ruin, its cities in rubble and its crimes answered at Nuremberg. The lesson is not when a court appears on a screen, but whether any court can stand above the state that appoints it.

Schedules are a matter for the commissar of broadcasting, not for me. What matters is that the court serves the state and the party - a tribunal that answers to no authority but its own is a faction, and factions are dealt with. The question of when a program airs is trivial; the question of who controls the courthouse is everything.

The question of when a court convenes is a question of whose courts they are. Under the bourgeoisie, the courtroom is an instrument of class rule, and its broadcast is merely the spectacle of that rule. The real question is not the hour of the program but the hour of the revolution, when the workers' tribunals replace the old machinery entirely. Until then, watch if you like - but watch with a critical eye.

Court TV? A machine of the bourgeoisie that churns daily, twenty-four hours, seven days, without pause. But who stands in its dock? Not the landlord, not the grain-hoarder who lets the peasant starve while his granary rots. The courtroom is a stage where the powerful judge the weak, and the masses watch, believing they see justice. The real trial is in the village, in the factory, where the people seize back what was stolen - that is the broadcast that matters.

We are told it is always on - a ceaseless parade of domestic squalor and crime dragged before the public eye. In Our day, the courts sat when the Assizes came to the county town, and the business was concluded with dignity and dispatch, not exhibited as a perpetual fairground attraction. That a nation should find its entertainment in the misfortunes of its subjects, broadcast day and night, is a symptom of a restlessness that proper occupation and Christian duty would cure. Let the people attend to their own hearths and leave the judgment of offenders to the appointed magistrates.

One is told it is available at every hour, by every manner of device now devised. That is a great deal of constancy for a subject so distressing. In my own experience, the law's work is best done quietly and thoroughly, not as spectacle. Yet if it must be seen, let it be seen with a sober mind, for justice is a serious matter, and those who watch should remember the human lives behind each case. Duty does not end when the cameras do.

A kingdom cannot stand if its people mistake the judging of crimes for a minstrel's entertainment, turned on and off at will like a candle. In my realm, the counts and the bishops held court at the appointed season, and the law was spoken with the weight of God and the emperor behind it - not flickering in every hovel at midnight. If your courts must be shown, let them be shown to teach justice and fear of false witness, that the weak be protected and the wicked corrected. Otherwise it is noise, and noise undoes order.

I know nothing of your Court TV, but I know this: the judges who condemned me at Rouen wore robes and spoke law, and their verdict was a lie bought by the English. When is your court on? It is on whenever a poor soul is tried by those who fear the truth. I was judged in daylight with my voices silent and my king absent, and they burned me for it. If your court shows such things, watch and mark whether the judges serve God or their own purse.

One is told it is ever-present, this glass through which the rabble may peer at trials. In my day, the courts of law were open, but not perpetually, and the Crown knew well that too much light upon the machinery of justice can blind as easily as illuminate. Yet I would not forbid it - better that men see the law at work than whisper of secret judgments. Let them watch, so long as they remember that the verdict belongs to the bench, not to the gallery, and that a queen's peace is not a puppet show.

I am told it is on at all hours - a marvel of your age, this ceaseless window into the quarrels of your subjects. In my Russia, justice was swift and often harsh, and the people did not watch it; they feared it. Whether it is better that they watch and learn, or watch and grow insolent, I cannot say without seeing your realm. But I will note this: a wise monarch uses the law to strengthen the state, not to divert the mob. If your Court TV serves order, well and good; if it serves only idle curiosity, it is a bauble.

You ask when the judging is shown. Among the Persians, we held court in the gate from morning until evening, and any man, Mede or Greek or Jew, could bring his cause. The law was not a spectacle but a daily bread of justice, and the king's ear was open. If your Court TV brings the judgment of wrongdoers before the eyes of the many, that is not wholly strange to me. But let it be just, and let the judges be wise, or the people will learn only to love punishment and forget mercy.

In the camp, we judged swiftly, by the Qur'an and the counsel of the wise, and mercy was shown even to the captive who had raised arms against us. You ask of a court that sits ceaselessly and is watched by all - this is not the judgment of a just ruler but of a bazaar. Yet if it teaches the people the difference between the righteous judge and the tyrant, it may serve some good. Let the judges remember that they, too, will be judged, and let the watchers remember that justice is a trust, not a pastime.

Tell me, friend, when you ask the hour of this court, do you seek justice or merely a spectacle to fill your evening? For if it is justice you seek, the court sits always within you, judging your own acts, and no channel can summon it. But if it is amusement - then let us examine why you would watch strangers judged while never once submitting your own soul to the question.

You ask after the hour of a shadow-play, when you should ask after the Form of Justice itself - that eternal pattern of which every courtroom is but a flickering copy on the cave wall. The broadcast is on whenever the soul turns its gaze from the puppets toward the fire that casts them; the channel number is a matter for the senses, but the true question is whether you watch as a philosopher or as a prisoner in chains. Seek the ideal, and the schedule will follow.

To ask when is to ask a question of time, and time is measured by motion - yet the convening of a court is measured rather by purpose. Such a tribunal exists not by nature but by convention, established for the sake of rendering judgments, and it operates continuously, around the clock, as a body with a telos. A man of practical wisdom would observe its function, ask whence its authority and toward what end, before troubling himself with the hour at which it begins.

The question 'When is Court TV on?' treats an instrument of public reason as though it were a mere convenience. If all rational beings were to govern their viewing by the principle 'I shall watch only when a schedule tells me,' no one would ever turn to the channel at all, for the maxim destroys itself. Duty commands not that you wait to be summoned, but that you take on the task of judging for yourself; the free man consults his own screen, not the servant's clock.

The question itself is a confession: you want to be told when to watch, so that you need not decide. Where is the will that creates its own hour? If you need a printed schedule to lift your hand to the dial, you have already handed your eyes to the herd. Turn it on or don't - but do it because you choose, not because the clock commands.

A trial as endless commodity - aye, that is the age entire: justice ground up and sold by the hour, the wage-slave's misery turned into a spectacle for the owners of the screen. Who profits? Not the accused, not the worker watching after sixteen hours at the loom - only the network, which owns the means of judgment as it owns the means of everything else. Ask instead when the last court shall adjourn forever, and answer: when the class that sits in the dock has finally taken the bench.

Before I answer when, I must first ask what it means to be 'on' - for I doubt the senses that report a flickering image to me. Strip away the inherited assumption of a schedule, and what remains indubitable is this: reasoning beings contemplate the drama of justice, and I cannot doubt that I, thinking, am able to watch it. Let us secure that foundation, and the question of the hour will resolve itself.

A prince must know the hour of the court as he knows the hour of his enemy’s weakness. It is on when it serves your purpose to watch - when the judgment of others teaches you the better to judge your own affairs. But if you seek merely to be entertained, you will find the gavel falls for others while you remain a spectator to your own fortune.

All the world's a stage, and this court but one more scene, where every player struts and frets his hour upon the platform, condemned or acquitted, and then is heard no more. You ask the time of its playing - yet time itself is the tyrant, running on in your glass while you ask. Watch when you will, for the drama never truly sleeps; but remember, the judgment you most fear is not the one on the screen, but the one written in your own heart's book.

As the herald cries the hour when the assembly gathers, so the signal comes at the appointed time to those whose ears are tuned to it - yet the gods do not publish their schedules to mortals. A man may scan the heavens for a sign, or ask his neighbor, or wander the agora until he finds the crier's stand; all three are honorable, but only the last brings certainty. Glory belongs to the one who arrives before the verdict is read, not after.

In my city, judgment is a thing of stone and procession, entered through gates where the damned and the saved alike are weighed - and I saw no door that closed at nightfall. That men should now gather to watch the quarrels of the living, hour upon hour, is a strange appetite, yet the appetite for justice is older than the appetite for bread. Let them watch, then; even the lowest of them may come to feel the weight of law and the terror of the unrepented deed.

You ask the hour as if the world had no motion but the ticking of a clock. The striving spirit does not wait upon a fixed hour; it turns the dial when the spirit moves, and finds in every trial and testimony some mirror of the human heart. Stay awhile, watch, and let the show instruct you in the endless variety of our kind - for what is law but the dance of order and passion?

A court that never adjourns, that is the marvel - aye, and the madness. In my day a man might wait half a lifetime for a magistrate's ear; now a whole world crowds round a glowing window to watch every verdict, every lawyer's flourish, as though it were a play in an inn yard. I confess I would sit among the groundlings, for a trial is but a novel where the ending is real, and the dunce of a judge - God mend him - is the best invention since Sancho's governorship.

What is this court that never sleeps? A man watches strangers judged, and calls it law. I have seen the courtroom, and I have seen the prison, and I tell you they are the same building - men judging men while no one remembers the one command: judge not. Turn it off, brother; go to your neighbor, feed him, forgive him. The true tribunal is quiet, and it sits only in the heart that has learned to love.

Ah, you seek the hour - but what man watches a trial to know the time, as if a clock could contain the abyss of a soul on the stand? In that courtroom every spectator sits as judge, and every accused is myself, and all of us are guilty before each other. It is always on, brother, because the human heart is always in session, and the verdict we pass on others we have already passed on ourselves.

One scarcely knows when such a thing is not on, for it seems the whole world is forever peering into other people’s scandals. I confess I would rather read a novel where the verdict is left to the conscience than watch a living soul picked apart by strangers. But if you must know, it is on whenever folly is on trial - which is to say, perpetually.

Every hour of the day and night, sir - the court sits eternally, and its docket is crowded. Not that it matters whether you find it on your shiny glass tablet or the old wooden set in the corner, for the stories are always the same: a poor wretch in the dock, a wigged gentleman with a pocketbook for a conscience, and the great grinding wheels of justice that grind slowly and fine. I once knew a boy - and you shall forgive my going on - who could have told you where to find such a channel without a single printed list, for he had memorised every detail of the prison and the courtroom that swallowed him whole.

It's on whenever a lawyer is paid more than a schoolteacher, which is to say, constantly. I once tried to find this Court TV myself, and discovered the only place it isn't is in the courtroom the poor fellow can actually afford. They've taken the old village stocks and the pillory, gilded them with a camera, and sold the whole show back to us as entertainment - and we are so fond of it that we'd pay twice. The honest answer is: it's on in every parlor where somebody is quieter than the judge, and off in every house where they've got better sense than to watch.

It's on all the time. A man doesn't need a schedule for a thing like that. You find it, you watch it, you turn it off when the bottle's empty or the verdict's read. A courtroom is a clean thing - a man stands up, tells the truth or lies, and pays for it. The camera adds nothing and takes nothing away. What matters is the moment the gavel falls, and there's no channel number for that. You just know where to be.

Observe the light - it does not ask when to fall, it falls when it falls, and the eye catches it only in its passing. So with this court you speak of: it moves night and day like the water in a millrace, ceaseless, whether or not your little lens is turned toward it. To know the hour, study the pattern of your local stream, as I studied the flight of birds - for nature repeats herself, and the channel is there when the set is tuned.

You ask me of hours, as though truth kept a shop and opened at a fixed bell. The marble does not tell the sculptor when to strike - he strikes when the form within it demands release, and he keeps striking until the figure stands. So it is with this tribunal you speak of: it is always present in the stone, and you must simply choose the chisel that suits your hand - a screen, a wire, a small glowing window - and carve your way to it.

I would not go there to gape at men in robes trading words like coins - no, give me a plain face in a courtroom, the shaking hands of a mother, the sun on the wall of a courthouse at Arles. Where there is suffering, there is something to paint; where there is truth dragged into the open, there is a kind of terrible color. If you must watch, watch as one who looks at a field at dusk - for the feeling, not the verdict.

When is it on? When I say it is. Everything is on at the hour of creation. I don't wait for a schedule, I break the schedule and paint a new one - blue, fractured, and alive. The trial on the screen is just another canvas; the real question is whether your eyes can see it while it's happening.

I do not know their hours; I keep the hours of light and shadow. Turn the window toward the screen and you will see it only when the sun has moved and the room has gone dim - the glow of a candle is the same at any hour. What matters is not the clock but the impression: a face caught between two words, the way a moment of judgment hangs in the air like mist on the lily pond. Go and look; the light will tell you.

You ask when, as if the hour were a thing fixed on a dial. I have painted men at midnight and at noon, and the light that matters comes when the shutters are thrown open and a face is caught half in glare, half in shadow - the moment a man's soul is laid bare before strangers. Court is never 'on' at one hour; it is on whenever judgment turns its lamp on someone and the world crowds in to watch what the light reveals.

When is it on? It is on whenever someone's truth is dragged out and held up, bleeding, for strangers to stare at - and I know something of being stared at, my own body a courtroom they could not look away from. I painted my pain onto canvas so the world had to face it; the screen does the same, only louder. If you want to find it, look to the little boxes in the evening, but remember - the wound underneath was always there.

Ha! You want to know when the court plays? It plays whenever the curtain rises, like any good opera - and it rises often, in many houses, on many little stages hung upon your walls. Whether it be morning or midnight, the show goes on, and if you wish to catch the aria, you must know your local playbill; but I'd sooner write a symphony than sit through someone else's trial.

Fate knocks, and the deaf man feels it in the floorboards - do you think I waited for a convenient hour to write the Ninth? The signal is a theme, and you must seize it when it sounds, not when it suits your comfort. Find the channel as I found my destiny: by refusing to accept that it was beyond reach, and by demanding, again and again, that the world give up its music.

Every matter has its proper order - prelude, exposition, and final cadence - and a court of law is no exception, though its fabric is woven of voices rather than strings. That such a thing runs without pause, day and night, is a wonder of our age; yet even the longest fugue must be entered by a single subject. Seek the proper hour and the proper channel as one tunes an instrument before the service begins - without that, there is only noise.

Well now, I don't know about all those times and channels, but let me tell you - good singing and good storytelling come on when the spirit says so. I grew up with a radio in the kitchen that played when it wanted to, and we made do. You find your court, you find your song, and you make the hour fit the heart, not the other way around.

Heal the world - gavel to gavel, it is still a stage, and the people need to see. I do not ask when; I ask that you feel it, the drama, the truth, the human heart. Watch it, let it move you, then go out and make your own verdict with love, with music, with the moonwalk.

It's on whenever somebody's got a telly and a spare hour, mate - and these days there's more ways to catch it than there were chords in 'A Day in the Life'. All those little screens and boxes flickering away, it's like a thousand transistor radios all tuned to the same courthouse drama. We always said the whole world's a stage; turns out the jury box is just the front row.

It’s on when the wind blows the courthouse door shut and the jury’s still out on the highway. You can find it in the hum of a neon sign in a town you never heard of, where the truth is just a shadow on the wall and the verdict is a song nobody wrote. Don’t ask me for the channel number, friend - I’m still trying to find the one that plays the blues.

Honestly, it’s on whenever you need it to be - like a song you replay at 2 a.m. when you can’t sleep. I’ve had nights where the only thing that made sense was watching strangers tell their truth, and I felt less alone. So check your local listings, but really, it’s on in that space between heartbeats, where we all wait for the verdict.

When the wind favors, one does not wait for a fixed hour - one sets the sail and trusts the westward course. So this court you seek is on whenever the signal reaches your shore; chart your local waters, as I charted the Ocean Sea, and you will find where it lands. But mark you, the true court is always in session, and all men are on trial before the King of the ages.

In the lands of the Great Khan, the judges sat beneath a painted canopy at the third hour after sunrise, and I have seen courts in Hormuz and Cambaluc that kept stranger hours still. This Court TV is like a caravan: it departs from many stations and arrives by many roads - through the air, through a wire, through those little glowing tablets the Franks carry. Ask the local station-keeper, as I asked the post-masters along the Silk Road, and you will find the hour soon enough.

I have stood on decks where men demanded 'when' a hundred times a day - when the wind, when the land, when the strait - and the answer was always the same: keep the watch, read the stars, and it will come. This court of theirs runs every hour, they say, like the tide, and any pilot who waits for a convenient moment never weighs anchor. Mark the station in your own waters, then set your course to it, and stop asking the sea to tell you when.

We never asked when the Moon was on - we set our own window and did the work to make it appear. The schedule you seek is a matter of tuning your receiver and checking the local almanac, not of cosmic law. If you want the broadcast, find your affiliate and be ready at the appointed time; precision in preparation is what turns a question into a landing.

I flew by instruments, not by a schedule printed on a wall. If you want to find Court TV, treat it like a horizon: check your charts, your local listings, your radio - the signal is out there, but you must choose to seek it. The fun is in the search, not the sitting. Now go on - the air is clear.

I looked down once and saw the whole Earth spin beneath me, no borders, no walls - just one blue ball of quarrels and kindness. So when is it on? From up there it was always on, everywhere at once, the same sunlight falling on every rooftop and every courtroom. That is the thing I remember: how small the distances are between us, and how you can find your way to any place if you only look at the right dial.

The question is wrong. You're asking when a channel is on - when the real question is why you're watching someone else's mess instead of building something. Focus on what matters, say no to the noise, and if you must watch, make it a subscription you actually use - simplicity, not sixty scattered options. It's on when you decide it's worth your attention, and honestly, most of the time it isn't.

First principles: the signal is either being broadcast or it isn't, and your receiver either picks it up or it doesn't - the question is just which pipe you're connected to and whether you've paid for the bandwidth. There's no 'when' in a streaming world; the content is sitting on a server waiting for you, and the only latency is your own decision to hit play. Stop asking the clock and start asking which platform gives you the lowest friction to the feed.

Honey, I spent twenty-five years learning that everybody has a story, and the courtroom is where the truth finally has to show up and speak for itself. So here's what I know: it's on all the time, and you can find it, because somebody out there is waiting to hear what really happened. Don't let the channel guide make you feel small - your job is to show up, tune in, and let the truth do its work.

Court TV is on when the people need to see the scales don't tip. I don't wait for no schedule - truth don't check the clock. You want to watch justice? Turn it on and hold it up; the hour is now, and the verdict is mine to name.

Gavel to gavel, my friend? Ah, that is the referee's whistle for a whole different game! I chased the ball in daylight and in rain; a trial has its own rhythm, its own beautiful game of truth. But listen: joy is not made by the clock. Find the channel, sit with your family, and let the drama play - it is still a spectacle, like a great match, and the people are watching together.

Well, that's the wonderful thing about a dream - it doesn't wait for a showtime, it makes one. If folks want their courtroom drama, you give them a network that runs from morning till night, a little box in every living room, and buttons they can push whenever the mood strikes. The magic isn't in the schedule; it's in knowing you can open the door and the story's always there, waiting to pull you in.