It wasn't that long ago, a year. But a year ago already. I'm referring to a piece of writing that began in my notebook in Guimaraes a year ago, itself a re-visit from four years before. (You can refresh my memory here.)
This referring to it comes from reading it, a piece called "City Dance" after the dance show I went to that night. This reading, in turn, comes from a survey of the poetry manuscript I'm making from the travel writing. Since September I've sent the whole thing out in bits to 16 different journal publishers (the score tied at 4-4 so far).
So here I sit with my tea, my binder of "cities", my shaking of head at how time couldn't care less about me or anyone else. Friday in class, journaling with my students on the topic of time passing, I claimed that awareness of time is one of the few things that strengthens as we age.
I want now to bring this entry to a reason I've retired: so my days can immerse themselves in the richness of their passing instead of skittering along oblivious.
Which is not quite how I might say it next time but close enough for now.