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Rubble.
A frame of mind. This morning writing. To compose myself. From the decay of dreams. A night of dreams, a lifetime condensed into each night. Magic. I conjure some thoughts from the decay. A sparkle, a tingle, a touch, nothing quite held. To hold. A thought. A sense of a thought. A way of thinking. Earthed. Grounded. In the decay.

It takes a few moments to compose myself.  This moment this morning a page of writing takes me from those misty feelings and emotions entangled in my dreams into the presence of a deep smile, a trace of a smile, not on my face. A cup of coffee and glass of water arrives. It's quarter past seven.

Each morning, a short period of time, to walk, to write, seemingly about nothing, dreams, feelings, imagination, movement. The walk, the words on paper, a trace, a trail, fading into compost.

I re-read, re-look, a notebook from last month, August 2018. I re-write. The re-writing isn't about refining, or defining, it's more of an opening out, a blossoming. Writing as though I'm a heap of compost. Ideas forming and decaying, every now and then a seed roots itself. I come back to it, a sign of green, and the next day, it hasn't shrivelled yet. I let it grow, a little water, some light of day, it's still tiny, maybe the roots are forming, they are underground, they go deeper, I think.

And for now this light, a stone, the ground, this Earth, to touch. A touchstone, a stepping stone. A smile.

And today. Words; rubble, radiate, resonance, reason. An ability to reason. And these books of photographs, another couple of weeks and I'll be in a different phase. Maybe a little more photographing, less arranging things, less composition, composing, compost, more play, move about, dance (in my soul) with a camera, another presence. Arranging elements in a frame; those lines, shapes, colours, textures,  - movement, slowness. Another cup of coffee, "you have your glasses today". I'll linger with the coffee, mull over these words, and wonder for a while.

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