Imbolc Black Mountain Moon
Yes. It happened. DST. Daylight Saving Time. Kate found a great quote on Facebook: Only the white man would think cutting a foot from one end of a quilt and sewing it on the other end would result in a longer quilt.
Just as I’ve adapted back to Standard time, and done it well, with the aid of the move, chronos slip streams away, shifts underneath me. Proves fungible. Isn’t that a scary thought? Fungible time. If you can’t trust time, what can you trust? Space, you might say, but then it was Einstein wasn’t it, who described its curvature in concert with time?
Why can’t we let Fleming’s idea stand as proposed? He says.
No matter. Life’s absurdities don’t need more data to underwrite their chaotic ways. Today this hour is 10:00 a.m. Tomorrow 11:00 a.m. Today a foot is twelve inches, tomorrow 13. Because for now it suits our purposes better.
I’m thinking, as a retired guy, with no work obligations to keep and no longer a slave to corporate television, that I may just skip DST. Let it wash over me like an upslope wind.
Call me STG. Standard Time Guy.
