Tomorrow came and went and here it is another day and a day later. So many things flit by in a day, and more than a few are worth speculating about. If one were to write down all the thoughts and experiences in a day it would take the entire day, with, of course, fewer thoughts to record, because one would be so busy recording there wouldn't be enough time for all of them . So then maybe there would be time but then that time would be filled. (I'm doing this deliberately .) If one were a dedicated recorder of one's own life or of someone else's life then there would be no time to live the life. Would there? And then, if one could manage to catch it all, what would become of the software, the material evidence of a life lived? The potential reader would have to spend his/her entire life absorbing the contents of the life thus lived and recorded and then his/her own life would be subsumed. Would it be faster if one simply used a camcorder - no, an iPhone, I guess - to record every waking (what about sleeping?) moment of the subject's life? Who would watch the finished product? How would it finish?

I'll think about it tomorrow.

This day is almost over, without a blog Busy, though. And thinking. Tomorrow morning will come so soon it's hardly worth writing a blog right now.

How was your day? Have you reached the stage where everything you encounter during the day becomes part of an obstacle course? Either it's "clean me, feed me or toss me" or it's a reminder of something in your past that leads to something else. Is that clear? I think so. Pick any object and it carries with it a long vapour trail of memory, often quite messy and hard to get rid of. Proust's "essence des choses" was simple compared tho this.

I took the elevator this morning, as I do every day of course, and I thought of Winnie, the elevator operator in the office building in Winnipeg where my father worked. She wore a uniform and white gloves and had very thin, no-colour hair. I was just a kid and she was always nice to me. She ran the elevator pushing a lever around a circular dial and I guess she had to manoeuvre it so the floor level of the elevator matched the floor level it stopped at. That must have been why she wore gloves. And that's all I know about that. The gloves led me to another memory connected with someone else.

I'm not sure blogs are good for one. They lead to too much clutter. And more to come.