It is rumoured that the army is amking extensive use of microwave transmitters, presumably because there are so few microwave receivers about. So will my oven pick up NATO manoevres> Is my potato being baked by state secrets Technology is doing some very strange things today.
It is raining so very slightly it need hardly be winter.
Somehow it all feels like an end. Like a ball of string unravelling and finally the last few inches and the end. Your state on your deathbed. In taking a lifetime to get there. Like a ball of astring in a tin when you finally pull out the last ten inches and find an unexpected end.
Nearly soundless walking. The pine green needles blow and finally fail to soft brown soundless walking. I'm not sure at all that I like the pine forest. It never quite seems natural to me. It is always contrived to fill a space like words. Words so often contrived in speaking to fill a space. Nothing really natural. Just Pine forest. For me it can never be quite natural. Evergreen oaks stand between. Planted or by accident they stand between. Growing like Bay trees. It can never seem quite natural to me. Broken branches with twigs like umbrella spokes stamd duty.
Leaving each moment alone to pass of its own accord. To its own pattern. Not being attached included time and the tides. I went to see the tides but when I got there it was just a lot of slopping water. Its own pattern. Shake the bowl. Splash the water. That make space, stationary fruit. Make space. There is something about the intensity of being me. The focussing. Making pieces that leave space between them. The intensity of the pieces and the vacuity of the spaces. Spaces. Make space. I answered a questionaire to find out if I was a yuppie, and it told me I was certainly not, which hardly came as a surprise.
Not being ageist. That is not discriminating between people on the basis of age, but only differentiating between people on the basis of ontology. No more. Soft walking.br> Money has no properties of its own. It is a bank space in which experience and quality occur, can be expessed or can fail to be expressed. A medium, as may be. Money is the context for experience. A vessel to contain reality. It has no inescapable function of itself. A colour. Wearing a hand of bananas on her head.
Climbing down into Bassett Cove on the north cliffs. Climbing down at the end of the day as the tide comes in. No path. To be trapped with the other wrecks. The hungry stones. Light gravel deceives the footfall. Holds. Reluctant release. Energy sapping shingle. The waves echoed in staggered rock. Climbing up into the dusk. The fading light. Worrying. The sliding rock reaching down. The waves. The sound. The decaying bodies of two cars pushed over the edge time before. Red paint and rust. The half crunched footsteps in the welcome tussocks. Climbing up. So hot. Thank you friendly feathers. Don't trust the brittle stems. Worrying about a route and finally arriving at the top. Relax. Relief. The cool wind. Red spaces between dark clouds.
The people I like best are the ones I can just sit with. No words. The comforting presence. Whose mannerisms and honesty of attitude say enough. Do not need enhancing with words. Words can be immensely valuable if they arrive direct from the centre but are more often supeficial and shallow. Wordlessness is rarely that. No words to hide. No words to hide behind. I wonder how Peter would manage without words. Those are the people I like the best. Those no longer needing words.
Nothing, it becomes more than nothing.
You can't talk to him and you can't shut him up. Talk to me. Talk to me. Listen to me. Listen to me. Talk to me. Talk to me. Listen to me. Listen to me. Even thje gulls were silent in Bassett Cove. The wind and the waves. Sometimes carried on the air came snatches of voice that couls almost be gulls. But it wasn't. Down on the beach previous sets of anonymous footprints paced back and forward aimlessly and then faded to nothing. Voices on the wind like seagulls. Talk to me. Talk to me. Listen to me. Listen to me. The cliff is decaying and slides of stone and rubble flow towards the base.
The Maya visualised the world as the back of a gigantic crocodile resting in a pool of waterlilies. The half submerged back of a crocodile resting in a pool of waterlilies.
I bought myself a box of chocolates because it is Mother's Day. I suppose I am celebrating having a mother. I was hoping to get good chocolates but it wasn't possible.
If you drop a mug on the floor the chances are the handle will break off. If you drop a plate on the floor the whole thing will shatter into pieces. It is strange to see things all come apart differently. Each has its own way of responding to the stimulus of gravity. Each responds. It is like a broken plate. All the pieces torn apart and then stood together again. Pieces wrapped in newspaper ready for the dustbin. There always seems to be a release of tension in the peices. They become more somehow. Do pieces of a broken plate smile. They feel to.