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I have this experience of tapping these words into this iPhone screen. The experience I'm having isn't the words I write on the screen, my reality. All that is going on around me and within me at this moment is my reality. The words I tap on the screen allude to that reality. I tell myself this. What I write isn't how things are. All writing alludes to reality. Once I say that to myself I am then thinking what is this thing / feeling that is named reality. I realise that I could go into orbit searching for the answer to reality in many forms of truths and facts and knowledge. I won't find this reality there. Actually I won't find reality in that way. I tend to characterise this way of thinking as epistemological - a sort of what things are. I have a tendency to not think that way, although I'm drawn back into that thinking everyday, especially as I move from this morning being, this now, this here, these words. My tendency is more of a landscape of thought, a sort of flatness, a sort of ontology, an aesthetic feeling, a sort of way of things being. I try to write this understanding for myself through my notebooks, this hour of morning writing.

This 'voice' an attitude, towards life and towards oneself. In a way 'voice' just happens, I don't navigate or control it. Actually I don't want to change my voice, not directly anyway. But I would like a slightly different voice to manifest itself over time, maybe I'll notice change after a year. I won't ever quite know, I'll just have a feeling, I'll sigh in a slightly different way, a sigh with a smile, rather than a sigh of frustration. These thoughts and words are manifesting themselves in my sorting and sifting through my stuff, my decay. I having a feeling of wanting to spread all this stuff out. The stuff I call 'mine'; books, photographs, records, tapes, nick-knacks, tools. I want to flatten it out, spread it across a football field, and gradually pick my way through, and in the end just have a bag that I can carry, on my back, maybe on my bike and that's it. To walk about with just these things. This lightness of being. But this writing, these words only allude to that reality, a feeling.
I finish my cup of coffee, the 'Food To Go' machine starts to whirr, a sort of coming to life. I make a photograph for myself, the table top, coffee cup, notebooks. A photograph I've made many times. The words in the notebook have changed. The attitude behind the words, my voice, may have imperceptibly changed. If I look back over many months of this daily practise of writing I might notice something of this change. But I don't think it works like that for me, even though I do sometimes look back in that way. I think change manifests itself in something to do with movement, this embodied way of being. Maybe I'll notice slight shifts have happened  in manner, gesture, clothes I wear, ways I walk, and maybe eventually in ways I talk, and ways I write, and ways I dream. But in reality most of this will be imperceptible to me. But, I'll probably keep writing about this elusive, fascinating, wonderous reality for a little longer.

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