This year, if I think of it as alive, has a yearning for adventure: more specifically, a quest: a pulsing and a push. Not this shared calendar year: this, my year. One can own time: one's own time. Who else would have it? Who else does have it?
My utopia is a work of art: is a collaborative work of art.
Living is a creative process. An ongoing, interactive, lit up process.
Life has such vitality, firsthand and through memory: and memory need not be something that is carved out, but can be a plastic art, informed by one's own experience: is like a torch passed on, it lights one's own view, yet burns a previous fuel.
All this is thought, walking steep up the grassed hill; the wind blows cold, the clouds, rowdy, travel in packs. All this, thought, whilst stuck in the hedge, caught by a wire barb. Two cuts neat on a boot toe: one triangular hole in the back of a coat. Happy with a wet toe, sliding down to the river banks where the anemones chuckle. It rains, it falls in pellets. The rainbow is worth every strike. One full arc flanked by banded pillars, straddling the valley. Impossible, though the raindrops sneak cold to skin, to be anywhere but in this centred balance.