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Terra, Terra. Finchley Road


Terra, Terra. Finchley Road

Washing Up and Tai Chi, well, my own version of Tai Chi, an embodied articulation incorporated into everyday stuff. I'm not sure but I feel tai chi may be a form of philosophy that opens out from feelings or atmospheres. These feelings or atmosphere or moods are embodied. The tai and chi bit is a way of bringing these feelings into conscious awareness through the body, noticing. So in regard to washing up; being aware not of thoughts but other senses, in relation to an activity, the fork, water, hot, cold, skin, smells, this feeling of washing up, maybe for a few moments. A moment for letting go of the cognitive whirl, that roundabout - another photograph comes to mind.

I've been re-arranging, the flat. The impetus coming from the acquisition of a new fridge freezer, a Bosch, and an infestation of cockroaches, well one or two now and then, but a little disconcerting. After a couple of weeks or so of clearing out cupboards, cleaning and vaguely sorting stuff back into cupboards I reckoned they were coming in from outside. People who lived around us were having the same problem. My daytime thoughts and activity has been oriented this way for a few weeks, and I'm still in that mode, that feeling of sorting, of re-arranging, seemingly everything.

This morning I walk for a little longer. Chilly. I feel cold. My body gets used to the change in temperature after a short period of time. Clear sky. Stars. I see the constellations which I forget the names of, and a word, 'spectrality', forms for a moment. A shadow flutters across the path, like a bird, like a butterfly, the leaf lands softly.

And here. I walk into the hotel, a few people sitting, moving slow. I say hello. The woman gives me a glass of iced water, nice. She makes me a black coffee, "you take milk, don't you", "a little", she crosses over to the hotel breakfast buffet to get a tiny jug for the milk. I cross to a round table, a favourite, a Saarinen 'tulip' table, put down my notebooks and pens, and sip the black coffee, no thoughts of what to write. I add a little milk. Some minutes pass, imperceptible change. I open a notebook. Write date, place, time. Just to get going, to title the blank page, my mind. After another short time the word 'arranging' begins to stay in my thought, I write 'Arranging', I fill the page with words, sub-titles, fragments of thought, related to arranging; practise, copy, sequence, being, and the last word on the page is disappear.

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