The concept of the nation, of the state contained within some geographical boundaries as thick as the skin of the most hardened of hangover, is riddled with the holes of complex and perplex and muddle. What is this country – where does it end, where does it begin – is not so very clear and becoming murkier.

The world, the concept of the entire globe, enriched by concepts from ecology that we exist, but importantly in relation to almost everything else and every other place, and who knows how to fine-tune anything that it will not rebound upon us and hang, like a boomerang, upon our necks?

The concept of the nation has become a sieve whose mesh responds osmotically to the vicissitudes of day and season and the news that we are all together and not all that different. The temptation, to tie off the boundaries, not admit anyone new in, nor anyone old out, no longer operates. Our tastes, expanded to the fruits and vegetables and seeds of the entire world cooked to our tastes which daily expand, expand the whereness of our lives to the once-was esoteric, which has now joined us and become us.

The spices of life which drove the explorers to find the Indias, to discover the Indians and all there is, we buy today in the neighborhood supermarket…that is the world, right here, for only 49 to the pound.

The nation, alive in laws and traditions and memories and willings, wills us to live well that the world will become us; and we, the world.

The concept of the nation: riddled!

Too much to do; not enough time to do it in. Today; whatever I get done, it will not be sufficient. Tomorrow, too soon, will be here, and bone’s tiredness is at war with mind’s racing to get to some end before it is too late. Myriad strands of thought creep into my day’s working, pulling me to other tasks before this is done. Trying to fend off idle and counter-productive thinking, my eyes scan what I do, wishing, always wishing, it would go faster, that time would slow, that I could hurry more.

Too much to do; too little time. Pressured.