Gathering some words, writings in your own time. An arrangement from disparate thoughts. Without reason. A trace, a trail that doesn't add-up. These words mingle with this atmosphere, humans moving, voices, things resonating with surfaces, hard, clunk, soft, pulsing. Rhythms in and out of phase, this sense of being.
Rambling thoughts come to rest in words written on a page. Disparate images and sounds, spilling out of dreams, coming to rest in contemplation, a collage of words. These forms of thought shaping how I feel, how I am being, how I care for myself. And this deeply strange thought that this 'being' is millions of years old.
I read this and that book, mainly philosophical in nature, trying to understand what is being said. Morsels of meaning manifest themselves. I'm fascinated but unsure about the relevance of these perceptions to my everyday life. I say to myself what I understand isn't the same as how I understand.
Something about you, it's not what you say, it's the way you say what you say. How you feel about your thoughts becomes a journey of yesterdays, a year ago could feel like yesterday. A sense of yesterday can pervade today.
An exercise each day, to do something for your self, maybe in the way you cook a meal to share with some friends. Sometimes a meal turns out okay, your friends enjoy your food. You practise a little each day, trying out slightly different approaches. Over time your cooking becomes less about what you cook and more about how you cook. A sort of shift in consciousness from doing something, towards being something. You become aware of this change in yourself, it may seem imperceptible. You keep practising a little each day.
I was thinking a little about 'ego' the Zen / Buddhism understandings of ego. Haven't got too far with that, a little at a time, not particularly encapsulated, more practised, a way of being with each day, rather than ways of doing.
Back aching, early morning light. Muscles have become weak, over a long period of time. Need to strengthen the muscles in my back, a little each day. I walk. But also need to do a little more. Conscious of breathing out slowly, just for a few minutes, seems to happen each day, just noticing, things, ways of being that are so often imperceptible. What do you want to do today? I ask. And, in the same breath, ask how do I want to be today. Just being is a practise each day, so often unaware.
Saturday 06:58, a 'todo' list takes me too far away, what of now and here and these things to handy, handy things. A pen, a notebook and this amazing writing 'phone' device. To write a sentence, to make some sense, from a mingling of thoughts and the things all around, noises, shapes, colours, reflections. I write to read to read to write. A rolling stone comes to mind, I imagine a trace of moss gathering on the trail, as if I've travelled. This frame. A sentence. A photograph.