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Yesterday I walked in the afternoon. I vaguely think I might or should do this every day. I also vaguely think I could or should walk in the evenings. And those are just the conscious considerations of walking at this moment in time, with these words, here. I ended up in a cafe in Hampstead. Walking often includes a cafe and coffee somewhere in the mix, 'walking' comes to mean certain things for me, like running, dancing, sitting. I tend to take a notebook with me, I often intend to write. This morning walking/writing/coffee/hotel has taken a few years to come about. It works. Afternoon walking is slightly different, I'm in a different frame of mind or mood later in the day, I feel as though I've moved from an ontological state of being to something more akin to an epistemological state. I would like to explore evening walking and see what comes out of that. Yesterday afternoon I walked via Hampstead Heath and back down into Hampstead to the Cafe Rouge. I sat in a window seat, ordered a cappuccino. It took me a while to settle, I was distracted by people walking by, the table was a bit high for writing, my thoughts were fragmented, the cappuccino was watery. I gradually settled, wrote the date on the blank page, the place and the time. This was a start, nearly always the start to my writing - to draw some lines on the page that say to me the day, month, year, time, place, in one line of letters into words. Gradually I began to focus, breathing longer helped, letting air slip in and out slowly, noticeably, I closed my eyes for a second and opened them to just look at the blank page, and began writing, anything that came to mind. I was there for about an hour, wrote a page and a half of concentrated thoughts, to unravel and disentangle, to come back to. I flip back a page in my notebook, back to yesterday; 'thoughts are things that just happen', 'a narrative form doesn't add up to a whole', no 'me' in that sense. That writing from yesterday a page and a half of figments of thought, more like a collage than a story, the words become compost for another day. And this day, a vague sense of things that may or may not happen, re-arranging the flat, with the vague intention of making some flat surfaces to work on, to create some collages, a flattening, spreading out, a landscape of thought, a possible project / practise for the next year of my life.

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