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.
This post was originally published as “28092020“.