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The calendar in the kitchen reminds me that it's 2021, not 2020. Sometimes, I need a reminder to maintain temporal equilibrium. Without a calendar, I might be loosed into a world with no time, losing myself somewhere between the seconds and the eons. I once caught myself dating a cheque with 1986. For a moment, I gazed at this mistake, and I was back in a pre-digital world replete with mullets, muscle cars, and the AIDS pandemic. I remembered the Cold War, getting bullied at school, and all those chickens and goats populating my barnyard. I remembered riding my pony through the forest with my collie loping along by my side. And then all those memories were puffed away like dandelion fluff in the wind, because it wasn't 1986. It hadn't been for decades.
And now here I am at the tail end of 2021, and I still haven't finished processing 2020. How am I supposed to believe it's 2022 already? With the help of a new kitchen calendar, I suppose.
And now here I am at the tail end of 2021, and I still haven't finished processing 2020. How am I supposed to believe it's 2022 already? With the help of a new kitchen calendar, I suppose.
