Waking not so early, I walk to the wood and am struck by patterns: how the fold in the earth down which the stream runs resembles the crease in a lover's, another human's, a mother's, a father's skin.
How the beech trunk resembles the leg of an elephant, the trunk of a human.
The ivy: my fingertips.
From the contact with a human there is an extra frisson. But there is still a frisson here with the tree.
And is that to do with qwirl?
The frisson is the glint and glisten, the thwock of connection established, of a modern drawer doing its closing thing. The qwirl of a pattern recognised.
I have a sense that, behind the veils and bubbles and projections and transferences, there is just connection, recognition, or pattern or love.
How the beech trunk resembles the leg of an elephant, the trunk of a human.
The ivy: my fingertips.
From the contact with a human there is an extra frisson. But there is still a frisson here with the tree.
And is that to do with qwirl?
The frisson is the glint and glisten, the thwock of connection established, of a modern drawer doing its closing thing. The qwirl of a pattern recognised.
I have a sense that, behind the veils and bubbles and projections and transferences, there is just connection, recognition, or pattern or love.
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