Every year the population of the world increases by eighty two million people. Thety are all moving around. The space has stayed the same. They all occupy the same space as before. So they are denser. Thay are packed more closely together. So their mean free path has reduced. They have more interactions. There is less solitude. They move more slowly. Less effectively. Their mobility is reduced. They are more trapped.
With the birds I felt it was the balance between largew spaces and small spaces which were interesting to them. It was not so much the size of the space they were predominantly in that mattered, but the availability of a range of alternatives. That's how it is with people. Small spaces. Large spaces. Open spoaces. Closed spaces. There are more people. There is less space. They are evenly spread out, so there are more small spaces and less large spaces. So perhaps that is why I like the cliff tops. The sea. The beaches to be empty. The moorlands. The large spaces become more valuable day by day. I woke up today and half the morning had gone. It had gone without me. It had all happened without me. I had been left out. Excluded. That greatest fear of being excluded, not needed, irrelevant. Yet still seeking to be nothing. Toi have no space to fill. To simply be. It is a strange contrast. Perhaps the best way to fully realise life is to not get out of bed. There must be many who have tried it that way. To be attached to nothing by enclosing yourself physically in sleep and a bedroom. The enlightened duvet. You see, that something is something. That much is simple. That can be held on to easily. ] That something is something. That nothing is nothing. That is much less easy. It is always the spaces that are the most difficult parts. It is the time when the telephone isn't ringing. It is the time when somebody isn't talking. It is the space after the end of the paragraph before the new one has started. It is a space for breathing into. For breathing meaning into without words. It is a space. Ideas articulated into spaces. People live in spaces. People with ideas. Spaces with ideas. Sliding down the rock it isn't really the rock that is difficult, it is the spaces that aren't rock and them always being underfoot. Beacause it is right for me it is not necessarily right for anybody else. The first pale blue flowers of Pulmonaria have sprung up and all the Dicentras have leaves to show off. It hasn't really been a winter and it hasn't really rained so perhaps this will soon be a drought.
I spoke to a man yesterday who drained me. I suppose I almost became angry. He was a politely angry man wo wanted to blame other people for his own problems. He wanted other people to know that he had done everything that could possible be expected of him, and now it must be somebody else's fault. Perhaps that is why I almost got angry. Perhaps it is just that I have heard it all so many times before. The words change but the sentiments go on just the same. The bitterness is part of a pattern that has set itself up. It is part of a repeating cycle, snapping oin and off. Resenting the world. The passing of time. Holding on to the past. Refusing to see what is happening. Not wanting to see what is happening. Bitterness turned inwards and outwards. Masked by politeness that everybody acknowledges is insincere. He is not alone. Every time I see him now I get the feeling. You do not want to be here. You do not want to see this. And so I do what I do. I leave a quickly as I can. I do not stay.
When I replaced the roof on the house I put new chimney pots tyhat stop the rain coming down. They also stop the Jackdaws climbind down and nesting. So this year there are less Jackdaws around. There used to be two pairs - one in the guest room chimney and the other under one corner of the roof in the attic. Now they are neither able to get in. The pair in the chimney still stand by the chimney folornly. Not quite understanding. I had wanted to build a nest box for them to use, but somehow I didn't quite get around to it while the scaffolding was there. Now if I was to put up a box it would have to be under the eaves where the wind would probably remove it in no time. I am rather sad to have evicted the Jackdaws. ] I will miss their sad calling through the walls. I will miss their wheeling flight. They are at their best now in the light winds. Flying their displays. Diving down, pressed by the oncoming wind steeper and steepe, then finally twisting, skimming the grass and up. Up so strongly. A streak of black into the sky. I will be sadder this year without the Jackdaws. Much sadder.
I left a trail of footprints. Theyb are vfading now. One day there will be nothing left of them.
It is here. It is now. It cannot be escaped.
It must not be escaped. Later it will not be now. It will be then, it must be left, it is now. It cannot be escaped. It is here. This is it. Spaces happen between it. It is now. There is a space when it was then, remember. Then it is now again. The space has ended. It is over. It has gone. The space is where you are carrying it still. Not releasing it. The space of parting, it was here. It was now. That was it. Then it is over. It is now. It is here. This is it. Here it is, a pattern that repeats itself endlessly hoping that noithing will stick in its memory. A fractal. A pattern repeating where each element is the shape of the pattern is the shape of each element. A never-ending fractal. A fragment of timelessness held forever. Fragments. Pieces of a windscreen in the road.
Those were the Jackdaws. That was the man. Those were the footprints. That was the roof. The repetition. The duvet. The balance. The population. The nothing. That nothing is nothing is much harder than that something is something. It is all nothing now. From what it was to what it is. The space between. Looking at the indecision of the space between. Valuing the indecision.
Like a streak of black plumetting downwards. Unsunlight. A passage of shadow. The joy of movement. Look at me look at me. Listen to me listen to me. Here I am. Here I am. Here I am again. This moment.