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I wonder if many people have a pencil (or pen memory?). Jude recently talked about a propelling pencil her father used at work which she has kept, a keep-sake. I have pencils that my father used in Maryland, when he worked on the golf course, and a pencil he used when doing 'woodwork'. I have loads of pencils and pens that wait in a box next to my workspace, my desk, the computer. A pencil, such an important part of living.

I was trying to unravel this concept of memory and remembering for my self. Remembering is something I tend to do with some form of intent, a rare thing. Memory, more tricky. It's embodied for me. Somehow memory inhabits me. My body remembers, I'm usual unaware of this remembering. On my walk to the hotel this morning I began thinking about this embodied memory. A memory grown into in every movement I make. Every move I make, a song there somewhere.

Here, at this table,  I pick up my 'pilot' pen to observe and contemplate this phenomena of movement and embodied memory, so much going on, this ability, to just write, on paper, with a pen, with a pencil, and to draw a picture, lines into letters, letters into words, as I stay with the awareness of my movement. My focus of attention with being able to move. I begin to 'write' a word, my memory fades, I'm staying with the movement, the word dissolves into some sort of drawing, the drawing becomes a line, like a pulse, a rhythm, my heart, my breathing. All this happens in a moment, a few seconds. So much going on. Another song, another memory.

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