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Time passes, but all it does is pour day after day into my world, it goes nowhere, it has no stops or stations, only this endless chain of days.
There is a woman whose house has been broken into and now she is on the phone, telling her story. She must have told it several times by now because there is nothing muddled about it. She has honed and polished her account, it doesn’t jump about, it is neither faltering nor disjointed, she is no longer indignant or shocked.
already knew her views on the necessary ingredients for the raising and schooling of children. Things like children having to learn several languages and how to tend a garden, like singing and music and the idea that children had to be helped to get through their formative years unbroken and intact, but not untested or unseasoned.
When I sit in my backyard I can tell that my time is a container. That is how it is. It is a day one can step into. Again and again. Not a stream which one can only dip into once. Time doesn’t fly anywhere, it stays still, it is a vessel.
