Remembering a photograph, water glistening, a shimmering, from the underground? Ice holds water, stillness, melting. A slice of yellow, a colour, a taste, squeezed, a texture. Looking through. More colours, sharper, painted on glass, swirls. Transparencies, here and now always mingling a past, our decay, munching away.
A group of swifts follow the curve of the Thames around Twickenham towards Richmond. The echo from a greater spotted woodpecker tapping a hollow Beech in Petersham Meadow. A grass snake, disturbed, slithers back into the undergrowth. A rabbit bounces back under the brambles. Fungi everywhere, connecting through an underground mycelium. And an ancient Oak contemplates the next hundred years on the Ham Cross Plantation.
Through the vaulted undercroft, up a staircase into The Chapel. Opening heavy oak doors. Keep them closed to hold the warm air. Into a vast, high dark-ceilinged room, light of day filtering through stained glass. And through this coloured glass a story of Lincoln's Inn and this chapel is told.
Twenty six steps, she tells her friend, they go back down to Milford Lane and count the steps again. Her mother comes back down Essex Street. They tell her, she says that's the number of letters in the alphabet. They go back down the steps, this time to count the steps with letters. The mother walks slowly towards the Courts of Justice.
The cameraman sets up his tripod, checks his framing, zoom, pan, okay. The soundman listens, points his microphone in various directions, does some recordings, thumbs up. The interviewer steps into the scene, she reads a sign for a sound and picture test. 'War crime, 85,000 Yemeni children under five have died because of Saudi-led violence with UK and US help'. Another voice, the director, says 'OK let's begin'.
Grey above, breathing in damp freshened air, station, still, a train, the sign says '7 mins' away, platform, walk, a few humans here. Cracks, everywhere, teeming with life, tiny green leaves making an appearance, hints of yellow and mauve, feeling their way into this day, a train approaching.
Monday morning begins with a couple of words forming. Thoughtless and Emptiness. I take a deep breath and imagine oxygen filling the empty spaces. The sun is beginning to rise, some specks of dust sparkle in the light beams. I walk without a thought. Thoughts pass me by. Walking and waking in a thoughtless way. Seems to feel okay.