Saturday, 12 July 2014

There comes a time when all slots, deep lock feather tails of the dove. The sweeps and troughs of endless stories locked in the sandstone worlds, come to make sense. The Moors now hinge on new unstable walls. The world, the animals seem detached from what hangs. But surely it's not?

When the past is this good and one's not quite sure which way your times a-spinning, then what does the future even matter? What's gone is so great and that's maybe where we're heading. He, who was in the past, I that am now in the present and you, that occupy the future, something strange happened.

Sunrise, isn't really sunrise at all. I start to wonder what that name was about and what there even happened. He spoke such nonsense and did things you and I don't understand. What I do is nothing, for I'm not even a climber. You, the whole world rests on you, all focus in he and I is upon you, but you don't even exist, not yet. Or do you?

We're all living in the future. The past is dead to us, but it's also swamping our present all of the time.  Traumas and joys are nipping at us, steering us away into new things we never wanted to do. The future's stronger though. It drags you around and takes you to do things you don't even want to do.

You end up a vegetable. Everybody does. You end up as I, all the time, if you push the I enough. But then why would you want to? What is even going on?

Starting to look back at the arete at Maiden's Bluff and starting to try and think about what I was doing. I don't get it. I don't get what was going on. You can come out with all the platitudes you like, but you end up just roaring.

Snap Back H9 6c

The route doesn't exist if no one repeats it! Those moves aren't even climbing, but you need a noggin that slipped out through your ear for a bit, before ambling back through the dunes.  It sees the wall and sees you. Cup of tea for two - you and the wall.

It's a funny old world, when you're feeling normal. I'm going to have a really nice breakfast today. A bit of bacon, a fried egg. And when you've been on this route, you stare at your egg. You see a little puddle of oil on the surface of the white and your eyes, they don't stay a-far, they home, they zoom, deeper and deeper, further into the world that no one ever sees. You see, there in the oils, the line of Sunrise, Snap Back. You see the arete and that move. You see the way your body pivots across the air, all the dust in the wind pushing you back in, but the invisible force hauling you back out across to swing, wild into the skies. You see it all there in the egg, the yolk losing its steepness as it gets to the centre, the opposite of that wall. You see the yolk, the egg, your wall and all the other thing's you've seen - that hare at Maiden's Bluff, that one that stands and stares at you with no fear. Inquisitive, it stands. Has it climbed that wall? How do you know? That curve of wall, that arete, the way it dull shines and reflects things that aren't there. The way that smooth turns to sharp, the way it threatens your neck. I come back out of all of this and find myself still on the egg, the knee-deep yolk rich and thick and all over me. A full body cuddle twig says. Yes! Yes! That's just how it is. The egg is there, inside a cuddle and outside the same, but not here. The route roars raw here, but somewhere this isn't so, or so the hunch tells me. The hunch is just as real.

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