Today Morphed into Tomorrow
Recently I've found myself surrounded by articles, even books, about time. When I picked up a book at the library I didn't realize that the teenage protagonist was engrossed with time—as a metaphysical phenomenon.
When I went down to the basement to bring the shredder upstairs I found myself actively engaged in contemplating the act of shredding time—old statements.
"How many years should I keep my Visa statements?"
"How about other financial records?"
"Seven years, that's what I heard from a reputable accountant."
So I began to shred time—stopping occasionally to read the cost of an item. I purchased a Palm pilot eighteen years ago and thought, at the time, of how I stood on a cutting edge. Since that time the edge has moved rapidly.
Years divided into thin strips stuffed into plastic bags —plastic bags which will last for decades.
I also found two manila envelopes of photos taken between 1987-1992. I had intended to put them in an album, but the project was only half completed. Looking at old pictures has a double sided edge. "Remember her?" "Who is that?"
People who teach memoir courses use photos to force memory into recall mode. But, in my time frame mode, I found myself asking questions of the subjects—even of the landscape.
Did a cow really escape in the labyrinth of red and orange sandstone hoodoos in Bryce Canyon? Or is that one of those tales?
Zen Buddhists say stay in the moment—but the moment passes too quickly. I read that if you snap your fingers for each moment you can account for every single moment.
The entire subject is rife with problems—when did something happen? Were you so busy moving on that you never saw that what happened passed? And since you can't go back to look at that moment from a different perspective, does that always mean that you are on a nomadic belt into the future?
About that cow...
When I went down to the basement to bring the shredder upstairs I found myself actively engaged in contemplating the act of shredding time—old statements.
"How many years should I keep my Visa statements?"
"How about other financial records?"
"Seven years, that's what I heard from a reputable accountant."
So I began to shred time—stopping occasionally to read the cost of an item. I purchased a Palm pilot eighteen years ago and thought, at the time, of how I stood on a cutting edge. Since that time the edge has moved rapidly.
Years divided into thin strips stuffed into plastic bags —plastic bags which will last for decades.
I also found two manila envelopes of photos taken between 1987-1992. I had intended to put them in an album, but the project was only half completed. Looking at old pictures has a double sided edge. "Remember her?" "Who is that?"
People who teach memoir courses use photos to force memory into recall mode. But, in my time frame mode, I found myself asking questions of the subjects—even of the landscape.
Did a cow really escape in the labyrinth of red and orange sandstone hoodoos in Bryce Canyon? Or is that one of those tales?
Zen Buddhists say stay in the moment—but the moment passes too quickly. I read that if you snap your fingers for each moment you can account for every single moment.
The entire subject is rife with problems—when did something happen? Were you so busy moving on that you never saw that what happened passed? And since you can't go back to look at that moment from a different perspective, does that always mean that you are on a nomadic belt into the future?
About that cow...
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