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July 25th  2011    Tim Candler

    Five months to wait for a Christmas present and a heat inspired self absorption has led me to that path which offers winter as relief.   I can hear the carols and bells.  Which means it's a down hill to the next Solstice, and when the first frost hits I'll happily say farewell to Ticks and Creeping Grass.

    If it were winter, this would be January, next month would be February.  Then glorious March with mud on the boots and a chance to dig over the beds and give the poor soldiers the humus they deserve.  Cheeks red from bitter wind and the thought of something hot to drink.  But 'being,' despite all signs to the contrary, is an infinite line, not a circle.

     

     Which I suppose makes me a supporter of Roger Penrose.  His mathematics, I will call randomness, even if he will not, because it gives me my chance at grasping a line that does not stop.  This way I can take on 'now' as the actual nature of matter instead of some repeating pattern or golden rule or ultimate something. 

    It's possible of course to envy the scientist his mind but looking around there can be no cure through an understanding of chaos with its theory, or God with his belief, or geometry.  Instead it's that line reminds me how small I am.  Gives me my language of excuse perhaps.

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