I'm still in a shifting stuff around phase. On one hand having a feeling of chucking things away, what's the use. I sit down for a few minutes and contemplate the piles of books, the notebooks, the books I've made, and the shelves I've dismantled and begun to put together in another way. Re-arranging stuff. A memory-feeling here, a thought there. How do I want to think. A landscape of Consciousness seems to be my tendency. To think in this way, about a book, a shelf, a room, a house, this street, city, landscape, worlds, Earth, home. My thoughts revolve around things, this Earth, this book, this writing. Revolve, not sure about that. Revolution. Turn around. Around. I'm back to the roundabout image and people being flung out to the far edges of their worlds. This ground, this decay, the mulch, these, books, this paper, those leaves, Autumn, ink, smudge, trails, leaving a trace, like a snail, leafing through. Finding some soil to plant some new seeds, a pot, a box, a label, watering, nurturing, tending, a tendency.
The sun shines, I make some tea. Put some notebooks in boxes, rather than on the shelves. And the folders. Old writings. Negatives. Slides. Things waiting. Decaying. For another day. Turning over the compost. Feeling the earth. Raking. Riddling. Riffing. Shovelling. Framing. A sense of holding on, letting go. A breath. Everything resonates, different from revolves. Riffing, seeing words through water, refracted. The water reflecting, rippling, a memory of stars twinkling before the morning light, and the settling moon this morning - to blink, to twinkle, this morn.