Out of order

Flip through the morning newspaper. Among the headlines and blurbs and briefs and spreads of type, little catches my attention for more than a minute or so. They say journalism is a rough draft of history.
I take in the information – jihads, creditors, deficits, bans, inquiries, rulings, findings, pronouncements, victories, defeats – and turn the page.
An ad proclaims, « History always leaves a trace. » Huh? Another one says, under the name of a leading fashion house, « Forever now. »
The radio warns of an impending storm throughout France and announces that a new earthquake has struck, off the coast of Chile. Big waves are expected across the Pacific. I realize it’s summer in Chile.
Words move into words, images into images, events into events. I make tea, have a lunch of tarama and hummus at the Bistrot du Marché, send my son off on a ski trip, brush my teeth, donate cat food to a neighbor who has a new cat, shower, sleep, walk, talk, think, pee. Not in that order.
I’ll head out soon for the evening paper and a bottle of wine.
But first, looking for something else, I come upon a passage from an unknown source in a folder of my random papers out of order:
« Many people are afraid to empty their minds lest they may plunge into the void. They do not know that their own mind IS the void. »