16 October 2001 everyone is

The same seat below an oak in a small birch wood in a valley. Tired but glad to be here and writing this. I don't know what I'm doing today ... disconnection of body/mind ... all I can do is to look about and note thoughts.

Walking here I noticed a new swan that's appeared in pond 3 (it's keeping itself apart from the five who inhabit ponds 1 and 2).

Also toadstools and fungi including some large red ones near to this seat. Autumn.

The evening light shines through the birches and a cool breeze blows from the south. Noticing and recording the weather always seems to me to be important or essential - a primary part of our life from which much else follows. A pigeon flaps its way through the trees striking a twig or two with its wings.

I sit up, Alexander fashion, to relieve a slight pain in my back. I'm learning, rather late, to pay attention to my muscular or body sense (kinaesthetic sense - or sense of poise and of movement). That's better. Do animals do this automatically?

And now, after returning to eat, and falling asleep for an hour or two, I am consciously trying to widen my attention to include not only what is present as I write but all that we share as common fate or context - but without letting 'the system' (the imposed fiction of law and government and business and such) take priority over what is immediate, these words and these fingers, this screen or whatever other screens may be displaying this diary at other moments, and indeed the faint sounds I hear now of city traffic, the clicking of these keys, my body sense as I sit up again deliberately, and listen, and wait for the next words to arrive so mysteriously through these fingers, and my 'whole past' as a phrase, an abstraction, plus the fragments of it I remember specifically, perhaps the toffee apples eaten at the November fairs as a child, or the sea at Aberystwyth, or the League of Nations in the nineteen-thirties, and the mock druids at the eisteddfod (their modern shoes and socks peeping out from beneath druidic robes, and some wearing spectacles), the ladder to heaven and against what could you lean it?, The Revolutions of 1848-49(the title of a book I can see on my shelves, next to the Communist Manifesto and Edmund Burke's Reflections on the Revolution on France),the cool and warm air or other gases passing gently in and out through my nostrils, and everyone's nostrils (is thatour greatest commonality?), the sad and disturbing news of the attack and now the air strikes after 11th of September (still occupying many minds to the near exclusion of other news, real or concocted), and the darkness of night now almost banished in cities ... but I've no need to continue this list though it is pleasant to compose it as a near poem of all life such as one person may know it and notice it, given time, given life, given everything!

And everyone is. That's the theory. That's the truth. That's the primary fiction says the mind. These are words.