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Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

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Location: Train (Strangers)
Communal spaces of waiting are where you get to see an honest portrait of a person. I take trains and buses regularly enough to be in these zones. People have no choice but to fill time: often it’s with a phone or newspaper. Coffee or tea is a popular choice. Something is needed in the hands to justify your position in time and space. That sad, half-drunk cappuccino is filler for something else.…
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Location: The spaces in between (Taking moments (back))
Location: The spaces in between (Taking moments (back))
Let’s talk about what is common between Liverpool and Hrisey. At first it might seem that there aren’t even capillaries running between them. Not even a stray hormone passing through. But what I adored in Hrisey is not so different to what I adore here. The birds are still at the forefront of my attention. Those wilful, ubiquitous creatures forever distract me. Then there is the sky. Hrisey’s sky…
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Location: Train (Books)
The brain is an organ that carries. It is a history machine, a store of scuff marks, a ball of scar tissue. In our formative years the most sensitive receptors develop, building our perspective of reality. Like scratches on glasses they both frame and obscure our vision of the world. As a child, an abundance of praise for my reading skill folded a reader-yolk into my self-concept batter. Here is…
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Location: Home (Intellectual Attraction)
Location: Home (Intellectual Attraction)
Let’s talk about loving people. I don’t mean loving someone, which is a more determined affair, but loving en masse. Loving people feels like cupping clear spring-water in your hands – knowing it’s going to leave, but also knowing it still available, and knowing the source isn’t far from grasp. It’s their mind you’re after. It’s intellectual attraction, freeing yourself from the physicality and…
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Location: Liverpool
The birds in Liverpool are as ubiquitous as in Hrisey. Last Sunday, on the plot of derelict land behind the Oxfam on Bold Street, was a mist of birds. It was like droplets of water expelled from a sneeze. There was no pattern to their movement, but they descended and curbed. They were free radicals, looking for that second electron. Nothing around them was sage while they made their search. There were seagulls and pigeons.
Unlike the birds in Hrisey, they felt no need to scream at each other. There was no need to project the ego. The ease of their coexistence was not a facade. These birds are all as starved and battered as each other. In flight, at least, they gain nothing from killing each other. On the ground the situation is different. I have often seen pigeons squabbling over the scraps of bread left for them on the damp concrete. Sad nutritionally null scraps as a trophy.
---
The birds, the birds. I return to them like a foot on the clutch. Their intelligence is unknowable. A crow appears as a post-war intellectual. The seagulls are romantic poets, of course, and are sprinkled with such disdain for the technological revolution that it makes them attack us and try to steal our chips. Wagtails are divas and love to dance to the sound of construction. Pigeons are grafters and survivalists. Magpies are like crows -intellectuals- but are intellectuals in the form of dandies. They love parties, both hosting and attending, and performing their intellectualism through dress and character. Owls are the stoner friend we all have who supersedes normality through a complete removal of themselves from The System. Ducks are militant communists. They have violent tendencies but their vision, at least, is to be admired. Ravens are beyond categorisation: they are each excruciatingly individuated and intelligent in many differing forms. They can only be grouped together by their eloquence and strong sense of self.
Nutcrackers are artists. They hoard resources, claim territories. The Spotted Nutcracker is the intellectual artist: articulate, ambivalent, coolly dispassionate about the everyday. They jump straight to what matters. Their life is the embodiment of their ideas and they don't allow extraneous matters into their life. They're a sniper rifle. Clark's Nutcracker is the shotgun. They are a dabbler, following their passions as they arise. Their emotions take them where they need to be. Their aesthetic and practice is all-encompassing as their interest in the world swells. Nothing is sacred and all can be recycled or recombined.
---
I like to play these metaphorical games. Assigning metaphors to objects/subjects is the best way to prove the limitations of analogies. It reveals the restlessness of reality when language attempts to buckle it into its seat. Perhaps in time a better analogy can be found with repeated attempts, but models are just that. Its a mode of play to attempt to arrest the real. Like children pretending to be chefs, we act as though we can capture the world. The accuracy will never be 100% but surely we can get close - like how children don't really become adults but just improve their skills. (We are all well-skilled children).
---
But back to the birds (they, like the ping of a notification, punctuate my day and lasso attention towards them.) The birds are definitely subject to class distinctions. The Corvids are the intellectuals of course. That refinement of plumage is the uniform of the newly enlightened intellectual class. Pigeons are the anarchistic proletariat. They supersede gender norms. Their plumage is functional - with a hint of lavishness around the neck - as though beauty could protect those delicate structures within. They’re horrified when they procreate for inflicting this world on an innocent child. The squabs are rejected.
But the squabs survive: street smart and savvy as they are. Familial ties are a hang-up of an old regime and instead alliances of power and outlook are much more functional. Ideology and power move too rapidly for the long-term commitment of family to cope with the strain. The family you can choose as needed is the family unit borne of capitalism, and these poor feathered creatures are the embodiment of the consumerist turn on blood ties.
The year is 1995, congress member Bernie Sanders stands in opposition of a homophobic statement said by Duke Cunningham. Cunningham derisively refers to “homos in the military” to support his argument while (strangely) discussing the Clean Water Act. Sanders, having none of it, quickly rises to the defense of thousands of men and women everywhere. Sanders ire is such that he repeatedly disrespects the Chairman by speaking over him in order to say his piece. [Video Source]
What does this say for Sanders? Well, that’s for you to decide. But to me, it says that for 20+ years strong he has shown his public support for LGBT+ persons everywhere, even in the face of ridicule and disrespect. Unlike some, Sanders has always been vocal about his beliefs concerning the LGBT+ community, and he has always held them. Key word always, and not just when doing so might garner him support for his campaigns.
BONUS:
BOOM roasted
Trevor Hill is the gay socialist revolutionary we need right now.
TRUE REVOLUTIONARIES CAN PERFORM FELLATIO AND PUNCH NAZIS AT THE SAME TIME
lol I love when fascists try to flip the script on shaming people for their political views and it’s like, that only works if your political views are actually shameful like a fascist’s are. Sucking dick and punching nazis are tight as hell.
It got better.
I honestly want “True revolutionaries can perform fellatio and punch Nazi’s at the same time” on a tee-shirt
Spore print of Amanita Muscaria
Gas prices aren’t so bad if you consider that we’re really buying liquid explosive dinosaurs.
You are inscrutably fascinating. How many people have fallen in love with you here?
I don’t know the answer to that, if anyone has you’d have to ask them :)
One of my friends asked me the other day if I would suck one thousand dicks for a billion dollars, and I love questions like that because not only are they so demonstrative of the no-homo society we live in, but they also show a fundamental lack of understanding that some people have for the value of money. Like, do you realize just how much money one billion dollars is? Do you realize I could live my life in the lap of luxury buying literally everything I could ever want and still have a fortune to leave to my children?? For sucking some dicks?? We are talking 1 million dollars per dick sucked!! That’s just economical like come on man.
1 billion dollars and all you’d have to do is suck a dick every day for the next 2.7 years. That’s it. Plenty of people already do that. You could quit your job and literally suck dick for a living. You could suck two dicks a day and only have to suck dick for 1.4 years. You could suck 5 dicks a day for about 6 months. 5 DICKS A DAY FOR 6 MONTHS FOR A BILLION DOLLARS, OF COURSE I’LL FUCKIN DO THAT. THAT’S THE DREAM, THAT’S FUCKIN HEAVEN.
and here i was thinking about sucking dick for free
I haven’t seen this on my dash in a while and I think now is as good a time as any to tell you guys that this post got big enough to get to facebook, where it was seen by my cousin, who brought it up at a family event which ended in me defending sucking 1000 dicks to my very religious family
Eyeless in Gaza Review
Eyeless in Gaza is a novel written by the English writer Aldous Huxley in 1936. The story, loosely based on Huxley's own experiences in life, follows the story of Anthony Beavis, sociologist and intellectual who spends his time among English high society. The novel is told episodically, out of chronological order, as memories of Anthony's life act like:
'Somewhere in the mind a lunatic shuffled a pack of snapshots and dealt them at random, shuffled once more and dealt them in a different order, again and again, indefinitely. There was no chronology. The idiot remembered no distinction between before and after.'
Our story, then, follows Anthony and his fellow idiots through their lives. From 1902 to 1935 we follow them, and through the scope of their eyes we see a bubbling pot of ideologies: the rise of the intellectual as a social figure, women's issues, the rise of fascism and the Nazi regime, revolutionary fervour and eastern philosophies. These are explored and expounded upon, mainly through Anthony's diary keeping and conversations at dinners.
*
The idea of the self is one of the main themes of the novel. Anthony's opinions move from the self as an emergent fiction of being bodily creatures to the holistic sense of self as being with a body, something fluid and pliable with discipline and perseverance.
Before his spiritual awakening and understanding of his Self, Anthony often causes severe problems in his social circle. He continuously exploits and abuses his childhood friend Brian Foxe, cows to the whims of his narcissistic lover Mary Amberley, disdains and rejects the love of Helen Ledwidge, Mary's daughter, in his later years, and despite the emotional repercussions this inflicts, to the point where his irresponsibility causes a suicide, he justifies his actions through continuous self-justification and disbelief. His obsession with the belief that the Self is just an illusion borne of electrical signals is his justification for his aloofness, implying that you can cause no real damage to a person as there is no person to damage. To Anthony, people are just a phenomena to be studied from a safe emotional distance (this distance being the very thing that causes such tragedy).
As his belief in compassion emerges, he makes the following statement, labelling his previous ideology as an unconsciousness:
'Why is one unconscious? Because one hasn’t ever taken the trouble to examine one’s motives; and one doesn’t examine one’s motives, because one’s motives are mostly discreditable. Alternatively, of course, one examines one’s motives, but tells oneself lies about them until one comes to believing that they’re good.'
To speak about this more accurately, I would like to employ the term 'self-schema'. This is a psychological term which is defined as:
'Self-schemas can be formed around a variety of aspects of the self, including social roles, physical appearance, experiences, values, attitudes, and interests [...] Self-schemas are functional cognitive structures that play an important role in what people pay attention to in the environment.'
When one is aware of having a self-schema, they are the sort of person who examines their own motives and can tell lies about those motives to remove negativity. Such is Anthony's situation. However, in the case of his peers, they are truly unconscious, unaware of their own self-schema and how it creates their viewpoint of reality and therefore creates their problems. As a result, none of his peers come to change their relationship to the world. They continually suffer in the same manner throughout the novel.
Anthony, though using his knowledge of his self-schema to justify his abhorrent behaviour, eventually learns to use his self-concept to better himself. He begins to notice his own faults and trains himself to overcome them, to be honest, to be sincere. This is something he has been incapable of for most of his life.
He is able to do this after meeting Dr. James Miller, a blending of Huxley's two influences and friends, Dr. James Radclyffe McDonagh, a doctor with the belief that most illnesses and bad outlooks were caused by intestinal problems, and Dr. Frederick Matthias Alexander of the Alexander Technique. Dr Miller is a Scottish doctor who promotes a pacifist revolution and Eastern spirituality in the form of self-overcoming and holistic views of all life, emotions, and compassion.
This meeting and Anthony's openness to Miller's ideologies is only possible after an episode of sudden compassion and understanding that Helen, his lover, is not just a body to be experienced sensually, but is a complete human being. They are on the roof of Anthony's house when, in a freak accident, a dog falls from a plane. It lands on the roof, and the impact forces the dogs blood to explode over them, covering them in it. Helen, in shock and horror, begins to sob. Anthony tries to make a joke of it: his usual tactic in stressful or emotional times. However:
'For a moment Anthony stood quite still, looking at her crouched there, in the hopeless abjection of her blood-stained nakedness, listening to the painful sound of her weeping. ‘Like seccotine’: his own words re-ecchoed disgracefully in his ears. Pity stirred within him, and then an almost violent movement of love for this hurt and suffering woman, this person, yes, the person whom he had ignored, deliberately, as though had no existence except in the context of pleasure. Now, as she knelt there sobbing, all the tenderness he had ever felt for her body, all the affection implicit in their sensualities and never expressed, seemed suddenly to discharge themselves, in a kind of lightening flash of accumulated feeling, upon this person, this embodied spirit, weeping in solitude behind concealing hands.'
This echoes Hegel's understanding of the self. To quote Frances Berenson:
'In the Phenomenology of Mind Hegel writes that the Other Self is the only adequate mirror of my own self-conscious self; the subject can only see itself when what it sees is another self-consciousness [...] self-knowledge cannot be achieved through mere introspection into my own [...] feelings, foibles, habits, likes and dislikes, capacities and so on.'
To know what is true of the Self, one must know what is specific to the self (their self-schema), and to know that one must be able to recognise what of themself is different to the Other. Similarly, if one doesn't see the Other as a human, it is impossible to see humanity in oneself. So, for all of his introspection, Anthony cannot be made to feel his own humanity until he has felt it in others. Until he realises the Humanity in another person, Anthony would have always treated Humans as humans, dispassionately, with a hedonistic aloofness that damages those that surround him and that he can continuously justify through his cynicism and disbelief of the spirit.
*
After his cynical hedonism, Anthony becomes politically active and responsible after this realisation of Self. Becoming an active member of Miller's political movement, he begins to give talks about the importance of pacifist means to achieve true pacifist revolutionary ends.
He speaks of killing and its origins coming from those who have
'a plan for the good of the people [...] Axiom from which it logically follows that those who disagree with you and won't help you realise your plans are enemies of goodness and humanity. No longer men and women, but personifications of evil, fiends incarnate. Killing men and women is wrong; but killing fiends is a duty.'
While there are, of course, a great number of violent acts that do not fall into this category, right now these acts of violence are certainly on the rise: xenophobic attacks, violent rallies, people punching neo-nazis in the face. The latter, a shocking display from the left, stems from a disillusionment with democratic institutions to prevent a 'malignant narcissist' from coming into power. These peaceful institutions clearly don't work. In a world obsessed with binaries, the other option then must be anarchy, violence, dissidence.
According to EiG violent means will always culminate in violent ends: if violence can be justified, even only at 1% of the time, then there is always going to be a reason to turn to violence. Therefore no revolution built on violence can result in a truly pacifistic world.
The other problem is alluded to in the earlier quote. In violent acts we announce our belief that the other is a 'fiend' and is worthy of being attacks. Dehumanising them in this way will then, therefore, make them feel like the oppressed, and further bolster their belief in their cause and this leads to radicals means to achieve their ends.
When the left mocked the idea of Trump becoming president, his supporters of course felt mocked, patronised, and demonised. While we shouldn’t condone hateful beliefs, especially not when it results in a sexist, racist, homophobic tyrant in a position of power, the point is that for our cause it is in our best interests not to become the 'fiends' of their story. The reason that Hitler grew so hateful, and managed to spread so much hate, is because he was able to point to a bourgeois class that mocked the beliefs of the everyday man. While, for us, the women, the people of colour, the LGBTQ+ community, the immigrants, the refugees, the outcasts, feel like everyday people, the fact of the matter is that in Trump's rhetoric we are the enemy, the Other, and can be blamed. We can be pointed to as the reason for America’s ‘no longer being great’.
Huxley’s rhetoric suggests we must at all costs avoid behaviours which allows us to be further demonised. The best way to do this is through compassion, honesty, and dignity. We must be resolute in our ideals, in our protesting, and our resistance. But we must not do it at the expense of the ‘enemy’ – in this case, Trump supporters. We cannot give them any more ammunition. We must resist the urge towards violence as it will come back to us. The world is watching America, it is the new guinea pig to help us understand how the Left can overcome such blatant fascism. In the post-Brexit and Trump world, we watch with eager eyes to see how this will turn out. Hopefully, for the better for all of us. This is only possible through love and compassion.
The post-revolution utopia is something that Huxley talks about a lot in his later book Island. While writing Eyeless in Gaza, then, we can assume Huxley was transitioning from cynical intellect to hopeful spiritualist. This book is clearly an expression by Huxley of his change of character, and the wonderful thing about the book is that, as you read it, you realise you could be reading about the author or Anthony, receiving a dual consciousness through the text. If at any point this book feels like it therefore may be an indulgence on Huxley's part, it quickly falls back into wider societal issues and how they may be overcome. Anthony is even careful to say that meditation can become a tool to ignore one's responsibilities:
'Quietism can be mere self-indulgence.'
In all, the book regards the growth of the self as the precursor to a loving world. If all individuals are trained in the art of self-management through understanding and overcoming of the 'self-schema', compassion, and are educated to truly be enamoured by the miracle of life - both conscious and unconscious life - then it is impossible that human happiness would not increase. The idea is expanded on by a huge deal in Island. However, as a personal approach to the subject, rather than a manifesto, Eyeless in Gaza does so much to introduce Huxley's ideology and personal journey to the reader.
Wowee I’m so glad all these porn blogs are so keen to hear what I have to say about the world yep
The third week feels like a copy of the first. But instead of an over-frantic energy demanding productivity, it's a lull. Perhaps two more days of other work would remind me of the limits of this stay. Too much freedom is like being stranded in the ocean. You've no idea which direction to move in. Every start feels like a false one, and you just want to conserve energy until you see a sign, a flare or a boat, to give you something to move towards.
*
And perhaps whatever reality there is in the notion of coherent individual continuity is just a function of the physical existence. - Aldous Huxley, Eyeless in Gaza
We assume personalities exist because bodies do, and personalities seem inextricably linked to the body. But the post-human world atomises 'personality', produces multiple identifiable selves. These extraneous selves are either absent in body (text-based expression, which embodies the self in vocabulary used) or adds additional bodies (in the case of avatars). In the second situation, online behaviour which contradicts that of the physically based personality (the person you know in 'real life') is seen as a false incarnation of the behaviour and body. But if personalities, in the traditional sense of a self emergent from the body, do not exist, then these online-exclusive personas are just as fictional as the 'true' personalities. It's not as Zizek says because they are all spectres, all snow flakes melting in our hands. Mask, avatar, persona: none are a true 'personality', simply different manifestations of thought vis a vis environments and experience. Continuity of a certain self is only true if there is continuity of environment. We all know the person who claims to have completely changed during an extended time elsewhere, only to return to typical behaviour on their return.
The reality of the coward behind the computer screen is as legitimate as the online persona. Neither self is superior, only that the personality of the computer screen is more contingent on digital technology being available. You would not say that a dog who sheds its coat in summer is not the same dog, simply altered in state.
*
I'm thinking about how beautiful the waves are before they break and how I wish we could freeze them like that, all concave planes and jagged peaks. I think of ICE-NINE from Cat's Cradle and how, despite the total destruction it would bring, it would for a moment create a moment of complete beauty.
Then I think of mountains and their beauty, not too dissimilar to that of the ocean, but monstrous, the ragged grandeur of clashing tectonics, of worlds butting heads.
And no wonder, then, that the sea attacks the land endlessly. The mountains have a permanence of form that the sea envies. Throughout its many forms the sea forms an assault, and withers away the object of its envy. The rain attacks the peaks and plains, the steams carve up the mountainsides, rivers the flats, and water nourishes the plants whose roots further churn and devour the earth.The sun dries the deserts. It feeds the plants too.
The earth, the most human facet of geography - hard, industrial earth - throws its hot sticky bile into the air and tries to blot out the clouds and the sun. Its counterattack takes much of its energy: it is not in the earth's nature to change state. It heaves dust into the air from emphasemic lungs. It works for a while: the sun retreats, the plants are scorched, the heat makes the water vanish. All is dead, dark, and dry.
But after this the plants ferociously advance, aided once again by the water. The dust is fodder and hungry cells gobble up the pyroclastic offering.
Perhaps, after all, the earth only wants to be like the water: flowing, changing, free.
*
The snow has body. This much is certain. A body is an object that has experiences and contains evidence of those experiences. This is often confused with an identity or self, but the body is the record of events. The 'self' only exist in activity, in becoming. In the way that a photo album can contain evidence of an individual's history, it in no way can dictate what will happen, or how they will act, despite vague predictions being possible. That moment of selfhood, of becoming, only exists in the press of a button.
But the snow certainly contains experience. It is a record of all earthly history up until this point. I choose to compliment the snow as it is water in its least 'active' or 'functional' state. It doesn't quench thirst, it doesn't cool drink or beers, or provide a home for polar bears, fish, dolphins or coral. It doesn't block the sun or provide us with a hot bath. It sits, meditatively, on everything. In this moment I want it to experience something warm, literally and metaphorically. This moment of exchange alters the snow too, physically and spiritually. I want for the snow to embody kindness, emotional warmth, support, etc. The snow changes me too, becomes active when receiving - my hands go numb with the effort of holding it, no longer able to feel it. My touch destroys it, and its touch numbs me.
This snow, forever altered, will enter back into the water system. My wish is that it will imbue other water with this loveliness, this positive experience. Like ice-nine this form of water will envelop the planet. We brush our teeth with love, drink tea and coffee of selflessness, water our plants with kindness. Like holy water I am placing a spell on this snow. I wield it like a divine instrument. But it is not the divinity of God it contains, but the divinity of one body trying to connect with another.
Now is a turbulent time. I'm in a position where I should, in theory, sail through relatively unscathed. However there are millions of others who will suffer. I cannot do much, treading water to stay afloat as I am. But I can offer what I little I can. Little though it may be, like that handful of snow, if it catches then our collective handfuls of snow might be enough to ease the plight of those worse off.
Location: Iceland (4)
There is no commercial pathogen to hijack and interrupt one’s attention here. No false gestalt marketing giving a sense of absence through lack of ownership of something. There’s comfort of course. There’s more than sufficient development for that. But there is no indulgence aside from chai lattes being on the menu of the coffee shop. A necessary concession perhaps.
Another reason why commerce is not as inviting a distraction is that many of the shops are indistinguishable from the houses. It’s hard to try and enter a building, scared you could intrude on someone’s private residence. The buildings are all functional, and not all shops are exposés of goods. It’s not pornographic. There are, of course, shopping centres. I visited one, and there are glass-fronted shops peddling their wares, of course. But it’s to such a modest scale that the threshold potential isn’t reached. The action potential cannot begin.
Akureyri is a small place – it’s easily smaller than Shrewsbury. It’s got a few inclines, an ‘old town’, museums. The bookshop feels like the hub. There are teenagers studying, older couples relaxing, and Mothers watching their children while drinking smooth coffee. There’s Christmas drawings on the windows made by children. They’re drawn straight on the glass using paint pens. The glass, where usually lavish goods are spread to be gazed upon and lusted after, is now a place to show the warmth of the community.
It’s the same coffee shop I’ve been in a thousand times before. Tables strewn about, a selection of sandwiches and cakes to satiate the yowling belly of the weary customers. (It is assumed they are weary: why else would they want coffee?) There are photos of fresh coffee being made. What is different is the relaxed atmosphere. I cannot hear the mad banging of milk jugs on the counter every two seconds, no soupy hum of voices, no porcelain stampede hurtling through the potwash. Instead, a swift tap of the milk jug perhaps once every ten minutes, tiptoe dialogues in the background, occasionally celebrated with a collective laugh, and a petit tintement de la piano céramique.
Tomorrow, I will remember this time fondly. Being made to wait is the reason this coffee shop feels so productive. I have no choice but to do.
*
Since Monday I have felt feverish. Not with sickness, but with an intensity of wanting to do. It is no coincidence that this fell in line with two days of unproductivity. I helped out at a local museum that is setting up for its first opening. It’s a museum about the history, ecology and exploration of the arctic circle. The museum houses about 200 taxidermy birds, along with a handful of other arctic inhabitants. The birds ranged from 20-50 years old, making most of them easily older than me.
It explains the number of bird spirits on the island. It’s not a long flight from the museum. The museum is modern, clean, but when you face the birds the smell of their death is inescapable — like old books, but less inviting. Animals do not make such successful tomes as trees.
The island’s air is crisp, like drinking fresh water. The spirits are crying to get away from the fermented air of arrested death. I got a bad headache after working there for two days. The body knows not to linger around death: it’s catching, and muscles which usually tenderly clasp the skull start gripping-pointed yellow nails dug in fast. Like any death there must be a mourning period. Once away from the birds it still took a day for the grip to release on my skull. Taxidermy is a mocking of death – an absurd human response to the inevitable, the impermanence of all things.
*
I am coming to understand today why taking time to think is important: thinking takes time. A whole month for one piece of work seems excessive but really it is a perfect amount of time. I’m learning to not rush things along, to give them the attention and care they are due.
*
I was walking in knee high snow – which is a great way to boil yourself. It takes such effort to hurl your body through the white marsh, and if swimming through snow were possible it would certainly be the most vigorous form of exercise. The body prefers to move through less dense atmospheres where possible. I wonder though – pound for pound are fish stronger than humans? And if a being existed and made its home in a world where the air was more glutinous, would they have a higher degree of strength than us? One wonders.
I needed somewhere to kick my boots against to get rid of the thick, snowy tubers that stuck fast to my socks and calves. The closest option was the wooden stump declaring this as a mindful and positive energy spot: it seemed cruel to kick that.