dated

This is, indeed, today, and it's sobering to realize how far on we are with December, and how much there is to be done before December is much older - including putting together my annual calendar, and sending it off to Apple to be printed, before it becomes too late to send it off to a few favored friends, or to take it with me to England. And this year I'm faced with an extra dilemma, or at least choice - should I, do I want to, restrict myself to Pictures of the Day? This might make my task a whole lot easier - but then, I might be leaving out a few good possibles...

The date itself, sitting on a wooden sofa, is a little device that belongs to Alice, and although it's hard to remember to keep it current, it's really a very sweet piece of folk art (provenance not known by me - and she's out, so I can't inquire). There's something about its cheerful homemadeness that contradicts the mechanical regularity, the hysteria-inducing quality of time passing: it seems to suggest that although it can be useful to know the date, more or less, the exactness doesn't matter too much. In other words, it exerts a very calming influence on the time-panicked.