Sunday, 8 February 2015


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.

1 comment:

Bernadette said...

Time is stupid.
A man-made construct
designed to give us one more thing
to worry about. Its passage
serves little more than a reminder
that day moves into night moves
into day again and again. So what?
We get weeks and months and years.
So what? No, really, so what?

Isn't it the moment
that really matters? The here,
the now, the what is. Oh, sure,
the past and the future exist,
but their relevance comes only
in this moment, the now.

And now I'll go back to the manuscript I should be spending time on or at least staring at the tufts of snow on the evergreens instead of being somewhat contrary with a blogger. ;)