Remember September. Who thought of such a name? Imagine you could freeze a month into a block of ice and identify the days by bubbles. Like striations in rock, a calendar page, a man toils away for a minimum wage.
Imagined like this: time is a cage and even a cage includes the word “age”. But as one month ends and another begins, it’s worthwhile remembering that calendars are made from paper.
Paper was once a tree, but does that remembrance help us see? It does, but your eyes might not be clear yet. A month “ends” but it means nothing. A week “begins” but it means nothing. It is part of a rhythm, the drum beat of time, the rolling rapids of a river.
Like a biorhythm machine in a shopping mall, place your hands on the images of hands and I will tell you your future. Like a biorhythm machine on the wall of a cave, place your hands on the faded red ochre paintings of hands and feel your past vibrating through the striations of stone.
Good morning, Monday.