...apparenty I saw it as an interruption of a fiction that i intended to begin... is it time to continue that fiction now?
...or is it that the digital diary (which has flowed so easily, and so much to the liking of myself and others) is that intended writing, fictional or not?... i think yes!
16:14 Hampstead Heath in cold frosty air, still, beneath cloud.
Today I'm feeling strangely different. Scenes seen more coherently, as entities, wherever I look, even when I look at the faint blue, grey, pink shades in the cloud cover.
Is this emotional intelligence?
Thoughts about my work are also more connected, is everything falling into a new place, a new perception ...
A crow flies steadily northwards, towards Ken Wood. I hear a jet plane out of sight, above the clouds, and my ears tell me it's flying south.The cold air begins to freeze my nose and my fingers.
I like this stillness. If death were like this I could like it.
There's a man walking north on the horizon, silhouetted against grey sky amidst tree trunks and branches.These words and the scene correspond in some way in my mind, as I call it, but mind to my thinking is everything.
This is a version of heaven, as perhaps is everything, as is hell, as is tedium or sorrow, as is joy. This is Monday at 16:21 sitting on a bench in memory of 'Nicky Stern from all who loved her'.
And someone has carved away parts of the word 'Stern' - is that because it may be Jewish?
There is no one about and for the moment the only birds I can hear are in the distance.
This is good, this is bad, it's beyond this description.
Standing, pausing as I walk along briskly, as I contemplate typing this into softopia, no matter how it may jar against the fictional mode I began yesterday, I realise that, as in Paterson (William Carlos Williams' long poem composed of both poetic lines and prose extracts) I must just put it in and see what happens!
Who is writing?
the yielding self