Tuesday 21st November. Writing…

As soon as I get out here it changes my energy. Is it something about the energy or the sound of the river? The walking to get here? And the process of writing – it seems to act as a liminal space between the indoor and the outdoor, between the head and the hand. By writing, something shifts that helps me move into a relationship with the river [note it has now become a river] and with materials that is more direct. This space by the old bath is like a cocoon woven by the lichen covered overlaid limbs of the trees. And the river is like a symphony – there’s a whole orchestra of sounds here, of voices counterbalanced against each other. I can hear and recognise each one, each voice; you sing through the centuries, sometimes at a trickle, sometimes at a torrent. And I attend each voice, hear each distinct voice – your unique pattern of flow, trickle, bubble, bewitch me. The dog just chased a rabbit. I shout ‘Tyla. Bed. Get back here.’ There is a need for some distance to come out of this (I return to this idea later).


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