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My writing this morning began with 'Being Able' to listen, to see, to walk. And to be here to write. This feels pretty amazing.

My waking began somewhere around 5, light, electric, heating, gas, water, hands, face, glass, porridge, pan, electric.

Around 6 I head out, chill damp air, coming alive in another way, more noticeable movement, walking, looking beyond my walls, listening to the stillness rustling, fluttering, scuffling.

Before 7 I'm writing those words in my notebook, I complete a page of notes with 'to be able to play'. And sit back to sip my coffee.

This word 'articulation' has been floating around me all my life. It goes back to when I was driving a tractor on the sports ground in the 1950s. I had practised backing up a trailer and had eventually been able to back it along a path through the woods. The woods was a place I played, and also a place of decay; the leaves and grasses and other vegetation from work on the ground. And the decay from a variety of different trees and bushes over a long period of time. Time smelt fine, especially on a morning like this morning.

The word 'articulation' caught my attention when someone said I was an articulated truck driver now. I eventually got a dinky toy articulated truck-trailer for Christmas - the American type. That word is part of my own landscape of consciousness now. Over time, the sort of time that smells fine, I've thought of the word articulation in many different ways. I have a feeling for articulation, it's embodied, it is about movement, body moving, thoughts moving, being moved. A tractor, a trailer, together, articulated.

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