i woke in the night to write a new piece of the electric book2, linking it to the internet and everyone awakening from the industrial dreamlife of mechanisation (all that's 'inhuman' in human production)...

i'm feeling sleepy now but i am surrounded by the clangour of loud voices, an atmosphere more of agitation than of repose... many teenagers, some small children, a man writing (me also), mothers with infants, two or three old people (i don't feel that i'm one of them, but i am)...

...it's amazing how a day or two of sunshine brings so many people to the heath, walking and talking, in fewer clothes, with inhibitions of winter released (at least partially)...

and this cafe, like everything in this city, works well, though not perfectly... i am enjoying the seemingly spontaneous activity of people (some 'employees', some 'customers') and that of tables, of chairs, of interiors, of gardens, pathways, roads, ... (in and of this heathland, half wild forest, and ... and undergrowth, and the other ... of whom i often write...

and as i write this i watch someone, systematically removing dirty cups and plates and discarded wrappings, and wiping the table tops and setting chairs in their places (that is paid work)... all this, and all that (meaning the sun and the cosmos as well as the rest of the planet surface (so thin, thin, and so fragile perhaps?) all these are the parts, how well and spontaneously are they interacting despite global warnings or warming, and wars, and the ... news that (they) print and they publish and present as if it were what all of us wish for, and pay... for (with our lives!)

(these pages are designed to be read with the window set to two-thirds of the screen width)

atlas

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