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.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
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...