I’m faced with the ghosts of history. We like to think that we evolve, that we learn from our mistakes, that the worst of history doesn’t repeat itself.

The trouble is that we are not entirely in control of events unfolding. We invent stories of history being woven in a room, and all we have to do is unlock the door, change some of the threads, and a new, and better pattern is made. It’s a nice story. There is no lock, there is no room, and there is no loom.

There is time, and there are events based in synchronicity. I am not a master of either one of these things, I am barely an observer.

For now I’m trying to be patient, trying to be still. On the world front I see patterns that seem to be familiar. Patterns that cascade down to the very sidewalk in front of me.

I’m trying to walk in moccasin style, twisting my ankle in random angles, not trying to be linear. Perhaps I won’t be led to the end result that I see coming.

It’s a goofy attempt.