1/24/11 Time
What does it feel like--how do we spread things out in this line of divisions and counting? Is time like the field of snow outside my sliding glass door--vast, grey-white-yellow-blue and sparkling in the sun, surrounding with a soft but severe presence everything that exists? Is it a grid that we could draw on the field of snow? Is it the individual snowflakes, each a unique, feathered, crystalline moment? Is time this field, with buckles and wrinkles and furrows that we flop around in, making of our life a messy, tangled dent in the fabric, like a fly caught in a web?