Coming full circle...

I had the feeling that I wanted to write something. 

I had no idea what. 

Not having any idea or any sentence which came to mind, 

I sat and waited and waited...

Eventually, I settled for one word:

FALLING

Well frankly it wasn't much to go with. So I waited. I felt "falling" and it brought up "gravity"..."my gravity". I had found my "baseline", I had written "baseline" with a full stop.  

"Why bother with "baseline?" I thought.

"Full stop will do." 

"It has finality, it has an ending, a succinct landing." I settled the internal debate.

How long did it take?

I have no idea.

By the time that I had got to reflecting on "gravity" and its appropriate punctuation I had lost all sense of time.

I was engrossed.

I like playing with punctuation.

"Aller à la ligne."

"Well for hell's sake why not?" I thought, "So what if it is French?"  "If people don't understand..."

Well frankly I didn't understand what I was writing about...as often.

I trust myself to trust whatever comes out...when I am engrossed.

That is rather the point of it.

Playing.

Nothing more or less.

So why not "franglais"?

Exactly. 

I mix French and English all the bloody time.

I decide to ignore linguistic boundaries which are fuzzy a lot of the time.

Whatever comes out wins the fight for exposure.

"Aller à la ligne".

I had dropped as far as I could. 

I get a clear sense of verticality, of "gravity."

I start traversing from my original ledge: "Falling".

One can only fall so far...

I build horizontally using "ing" and two syllables words beginning with f.

I don't judge what I am doing.

Whatever I am doing, I claim diminshed responsibility.

Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be.

AMOR FATI.

I stretch out: "falling, feeling..."

"flailing" I don't like the sound of that, it just doesn't sound or feel appropriate here.

I reject "flailing".

I accept "failing", but rather "failing" as in the sense of "failing light".

"People can read what they like.." I reason.

I end up with "falling, feeling, failing" and wait and wait...

Next, the word  "fleeting" insists inclusion,  mainly, I think, because I love the sound.

I love its dissonance, "fleeting" it shall be an unusual verb, so what? 

I shall treat it like a verb and let its desire to adjectivise itself fight it out with its lot.

A mortal combat: adjective vs verb.

"Ha ha, ha, ha."

It is "fleeting" therefore I am...

I is not it, but it entails me. 

Whatever that may mean....pretension, pretention, oh whatever.

Who cares?

So I have some sort of vertical and horizontal and sonorous and dynamic (are those words) structure.

As often, it is loosely hanging together, fighting to get off the page.

Even if a word is unknown to me, or "incorrect", if a sound comes to me then it gets roped into action.

What the hell! Take all prisoners!

Legerté.

"Legerté" acts as counterpoint to  "my gravity".

I am both light and heavy, in this writing exercise (if that is what it is).

I can feel lightness and weight, or wait pulling me downwards towards a conclusion of sorts...or a decision to erase all...

I play with French and English, what if "legerté" exists as "legerty" in English?  I wonder.

I go off and find a dictionary.

Legerity.

Lovely word, unknown to me until then.

I go off and investigate.

I come back.

Now things get really strange.

I had a series of lines starting with A: 

a falling, a flailing etc or other words I forget.

The series of A plus two syllables suddenly recalls, plucks from the depths of my memory:

A Tisket 

A Tasket.

No good reason why.

Hell that will be something to explore, I decide.

Ella Fitzgerald.

I must have heard this before.

I have no memory whatsoever of it.

I enjoy these surprise appearances.

I particulary enjoy the play with nonsense words.

How often do we try desperately to make sense and end up making nonsense?

I will settle for playfulness.

I will settle for joy.

I will settle for discovery.

A tisket and A tasket are central to what this piece conveys.

It is less in the words than in the gestures, in the pauses, in the sudden jumps, the odd juxtapositions.

More sounds pop out, this time a rebuke, ironic here: "Tsk Tsk"(I should not be doing this, I should be doing something 'serious'.)

I immediately love the expression for its refusal to include any vowel.

Tsk and Pff and Zzzz marvellous subversions.

Please find me more!!!

So I go and investigate "A Tisket A Tasket".

I go away and come back and introduce Eminem's subversive rap "Without me."

The idea of this nonsense expression  "A tisket A tasket" journeying from children's play to Ella Fitzgerald to Eminem, is for me in itself glorious.

I love the connection, this weird connection.

By this time, I have lost all concern for appropriacy, I reuse "Tsk Tsk" for the hell of it, French for the hell of it, I introduce a voice of a reader, or my own voice, "Huh?",who can't make head or tale of what I or it means here.

"Huh?"

"Tsk Tsk, crétin! MDR!"

No doubt Eminem's Slim Shady has a lot to answer for.

His joyful stealing and remixing and goading of sacred American idols is infectious.

"Tâtonner" groping away in the dark.

I love the word for its feel in my mouth, its sonority.

I love the word even more for its circumflex...its little child-felt exoticism.

I could happily put circumflexs everywhere for the hell of it.

The ton, the ton, becomes an uncle, maybe Mitterand, "Ton Ton", for the hell of it.

The sound ton, goes from "tâtonner, to étonnement, to tonnement, to Ton Ton, to tonnère." for the hell of it.

Just the sound, that is the meaning, sound for itself, any other meaning is incidental.

"Tsk,tsk."

"Oh!"

And then down, down to a chute, to the plunge under water.

The image of plunging invites the Grand Bleu.

Why not?

Letting go, being at peace, being animal, being part of all.

Because.

Numbers pulse my hesitation, a silence , to celebrate the slowness of my breath.

Respiration, relaxation, letting go, mediation, meditation, emptyness, peace.

Play goddam it!

How long have I spent here? 

Who cares.

What does it mean?

I could feel an element of fear for the unknown.

I could feel a moment of fear for the ununderstandable.

It is enough to write fearing.

I let others deal with my expression of fear on arriving at a full stop.

Is it my fear, or their fear?

Who cares?

Is there gravity here?

Is there depth here?

Whatever?

Let others decide.

I have done enough.

Falling, failing, feeling, fleeting, fearing...

I go and find an image to transform with words.

I find that image of darkness.

I didn't bother to scrutinise it, or to inspect it carefully.

I liked the fact that it was indistinct.

I go and dig out an app that I had forgotten on Apple's server.

It comes back into use.

It becomes a starting point, and end point.

Falling, failing, feeling, fleeting, fearing...

Then I see what the image was.

In the darkness, a cave-writer has connected his lines with those of bears or lions.

He is both their prey and they his prey.

I go and post the "poem" the "play" the "piece" with a couple of hashtags and then expect nothing.

I am with the cave-writer extinct and at peace.

falling, failing, feeling, fleeting, fearing.

falling, failing, feeling, fleeting, fearing.

Falling,

I find my gravity.

Full stop.

Aller à la ligne.

Falling,

I find my legerté (fr), legerty (sic), 

Failing?

Tsk, tsk!

Mais non!

A Tisket.

A Tasket.

Rhyming Legerity.

Words, sounds, rhythms, rhymes, times, dimes,

A Tisket.

A Tasket.

Tsk, Tsk!

Huh?

Feeling, 

What?

I tâtonne in the dark.

Tâtonne donc.

Huh?

I tâtonne in the dark.

I collect sounds.

I collect words.

I collect songs.

Tâtonnement

I collect words par tâtonnement thus.

Huh?

Fleeting, 

I sense my pulse,

I sense étonnement.

Huh?

Suprise, astonishment.

I sense fatigue,

I sense peace.

I sense my soul.

Etonnement.

Tonnement?

Non, non, Ton Ton...

Tsk, tsk!

Tonnère fera ici.

S'il tonne au mois de juin, année de paille année de foin.

Huh?

Fearing,

Hold your breath,

Respiration.

One, two, three, four, five, six...

En apnée.

Huh?

Seven, eight, nine...

Minutes, hours...days, years.

Seconds?

No, no time, no time at all.

Tsk, Tsk!

Plunge deeper...

John Lennon once said, "we've learned over the years that if we wanted we could write anything that sounded that just felt good or sounded good and it didn't necessarily have to have any particular meaning to us." #clmooc pic.twitter.com/wWeLuxixLi

— Simon Ensor (@sensor63) June 13, 2018

Footnotes.

Legerity

: alert facile quickness of mind or body

When "legerity" first appeared in English in 1561, it drew significantly upon the concept of being "light on one's feet," and appropriately so. It is derived from words in Middle and Old French and ultimately Latin that all mean "light in weight." These days, "legerity" can describe a nimbleness of mind as well as of the feet. A cousin of "legerity" in English is legerdemain,meaning "sleight of hand" or "a display of skill or adroitness." "Legerdemain" comes from the French phrase leger de main, meaning "light of hand."

A Tisket A Tasket

The rhyme was first noted in the United States in 1938^[3] as a children's rhyming game. It was sung while children danced in a circle. One of the number ran on the outside of the circle and dropped a handkerchief. The nearest child would then pick it up and chase the dropper. If caught the dropper either was kissed, joined the circle, or had to tell the name of their sweetheart.^[2] An early noted version had the lyrics:

A-tisket a-tasket

A green and yellow basket

I wrote a letter to my mom

And on the way I dropped it,

I dropped it, I dropped it,

And on the way I dropped it.

A little boy he picked it up

And put it in his pocket.^[2]

In some variants, the second line is "I lost my yellow basket". In other variants, the last line is "A little girl picked it up and put it in her pocket".

In nineteenth-century England, the rhyme used in the same game had somewhat different but evidently related words:

I lost my supper, last night,

And the night before,

And if I do this night,

I never will no more.

I sent a letter to my love,

I carried water in my glove,

And by the way I dropped it, I did so, I did so:

I had a little dog that said bow-wow!

I had a little cat that said meow-meow!

Shan't bite you, shan't bite you,

Shall bite you.

I dropt it, I dropt it,

And by the way I lost it.^[4]

Wikipedia.

Oh what the hell...

Well, before the call.

A change of rhythm.

"Is that how you write it?"

"Ahem. Are you listening?"

A sound.

We shall never know.

Oh what the hell.

"I may as well..."

"We may as well..."

A sound.

"What was that?"

The sound.

"Are you listening?"

Oh what the hell.

"I may as well..."

"You may as well..."

He never lived to tell.

It stopped.

Oh. What the hell.

Medieval

 

A crudely drawn scribble, frankly I have never quite given up on the child who would spend hours making bold statements on a page. 

Strange really, I could easily find the means to make clear lines, to adhere to the suprareal. I could just take a bloody photo, and retouch it with an application, to smooth away the wrinkles. 

No! I refuse to give up on the child - even to my children.   

I found a moment between things and started scratching away on the Paper 53 application on my iPhone. My fingers were too large for the screen, I felt like Gulliver in Liliput. After a short while,  I was rather surprised to find myself confronted by a brute in armour. He was staring out at something in the distance. 

Is he a Saracen, a Crusader? 

I know not.  I am not quite sure if the castle behind is on fire or set in colourful forest, either. 

No matter. It is the ambiguity which gives me space to dream.  

However dense the scribble, clear forms emerge.  

I have found a new restrictive playground, for all our playgrounds have their limits...

I messed around with the possibility to combine drawing and photo. 

These are early days, I have no idea where that game might lead.

I played around for about three quarters of an hour and put the sketchy results in a Steller folder.

The images inspired me to play with sound. 

I hopped off to one of my new favourite activities, Thumbjamming. 

I shall continue with this toing and froing from image to music and back.

I am beginning to really enjoy it.

Ephemerments...aagh.

It is quite bizarre how things almost don't happen.

I wasn't supposed to be writing this.

It is Amy Burvall's fault.

Aagh..





I have work to do.

It might not have happened.
I might not have noticed.
I did.

Her blog post:

Ephemerments: Transient Beauty Spliced with Sound.

caught my eye and sparked my imagination...aagh.

She clearly has nothing better to do than to notice.

God damn it.

She noticed light dancing, passing clouds, palms swaying, kite surfers surfing and then went and filmed what she saw.

Not content with that, she then went and spliced the images together with music and then...

Aagh.

She went and shared them on her blog.

I shouldn't have noticed it this morning on Facebook.

I really have better things to do.

I have lost another couple of hours to play.

How many bloody hours do I "lose" to play?

Light playing on a kitchen wall and I am stuck for hours.

Light playing on the sea surface and I have to go and change my avatar.

It's inattention, that's what it is.

I do concentrate, but not on the right things!

I probably need some sort of medication to make me more productive...

If it had been just the pretty images that Amy posted, I might have resisted the temptation.

Unfortunately, it was the sound spliced with the video which got me.

I went and dug up some more or less frequently used sound apps.

AudioCopy which I use all the time for sound recording.

Figure and ThumbJam for beats and music making.

I uploaded a series of images (which I used for a recent Apehazard blog post) to iMovie which works pretty seamlessly with AudioCopy/Figure/ThumbJam.

I uploaded the resulting sound/music to Soundcloud if any wants to play with it.

If you have some tracks I can play with let me know :-)

Cello track made with ThumbJam


Beats/sound made with Figure


Beats/sound made with Figure

Version 1

Version 2

Version 3

Thanks to Amy, I shall now be wasting more time on not just collaging images but sound.

She has gone and created another hashtag: #ephemerment.

I shall resist this distraction.

I have work to do.

Aagh.

A field of sound.

My sound investigation continues...

I am beginning to get a better idea of how my composition is most often dependent on visualisation with the page acting as a window to imagination.

When I am writing here I leave my immediate context, I escape to other places.

Yes, that's how it feels in 'Touches of Sense..." - each new page is a door to an adventure. It is very rarely a piece of paper or a table on which I can sort through ready made ideas.

Ideas gradually emerge through my fingers.  Ideas are for me most often visual scenes.

This is what makes trying to compose with sound so destabilising and so revealing.

When I am writing orally, my immediate context is foregrounded, I escape within the place.

There appears, bizarrely to be more introspection.

I wonder if this will last?

Perhaps I am able to ignore the page in a way that I am incapable of ignoring the sound of my voice, the sound field in which I am immersed, the novelty of the sound recording interfaces?

In order to really grasp what is going on, I resort to typing out transcripts of my audio captures.

That's it - to grasp it, to touch it, to objectify my thought.

I see myself a different light.

I've been reading widely recently to map out my research.

I shall make a few notes to come back to.

I am putting together pieces to sort in a Flipboard.

I shall return to the pieces along the way...

View my Flipboard Magazine.


Aside the Field

ONG: "The field of sound is not spread out before me but is all around me." #digiwrimo

— Simon Ensor (@sensor63) October 9, 2015

Immediately, I am faced with a decision: shall I try to describe the foregrounded/backgrounded sound? I decide not....

Shall I italicise my spoken words? I think I shall...


Transcription

So here I am, I'm writing somewhere else. I'm walking...
So I've been thinking through this business of sound recording, while walking along a bridelway aside a ploughed field, in beautiful autumn sunshine....

I had to move aside a 4x4 nearly run us over. 

So clearly the running over bit wasn't scripted.

Jazz is pulling at the lead wants us to hurry up.

I have that feeling that I should be taking photos.
I have that feeling that I want to find out where those birds are. 

I wonder if you have an impression of the geography, of the topography.

I wonder if you can hear the breeze that I can feel on my skin.

This is writing differently. 

I'm more aware of the listening.
I'm more aware of wanting to listen...to myself while I am recording.

There's that light breeze which is picking up a bit of strength.

Walking along between the ploughed field and the stream.

It's very difficult to get an over-view.

I can't see a page.

I can't see the words...

There's a bird of prey circling above the field.

Let's wait. 
Let's wait.

Will it plunge?

It's circling.

That's Jazz getting impatient.

He runs back to me.
He runs into me.
He wants to go.

I suppose we had better move on...

Strange.

My writing has never been (pause as he remembers another walk described here) that often rythmed by dogs.

He's writing this too.


Post script. 

The time and the wealth of the recording are reduced to words...

A world is feebly annotated.


"senses make place and places make sense" Feld.

Our silenced voices.

I am only too aware of how I have silenced my voice.

How ironic that you might confuse this, my writing, with my voice!





The kids are back from school, they are watching 'Face off' on TV.

I've been gagged.

Can't you hear the mutilation in my written "voice"?

I could never interrupt the TV now.

Shh...they will never know that I am "speaking" to you.

Even the dog is unconcerned by my ham-fisted typing.

“The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is holy the hearers are holy the ecstacy is holy!”

Allen Ginsberg


A little while ago, I was venturing into new alien territories.

How do I "write" with my voice?

Here, I am blogging blasé.

Give me danger!

A few moments before, I was lost in Garageband, quite by accident, trying to give voice to my voice.

It is a question that I have been asking myself for some time now.

What is this voice that speaks through my fingers?

I think it through:

• What is this voice constrained in this dialogue box?
• What is this silent voice which moves me? 
• What becomes of the words of others once spoken by myself?
• What becomes of my words once written? 
• Do you hear my voice? 
• Do you hear your voice?
• Do we hear our voices?

So there I was, lost in Garageband, quite by accident, a Metronome (I capitalise without quite knowing why) took over "my" space.

Ha ha ha, "MY SPACE"!

You can listen to that Metronome if you click here.

How does giving voice to my thoughts aloud alter my thoughts?

How does giving voice to my voice alter my voice?

It is a medium with which I am yet unfamiliar.

This is ironic, really.

How silenced are those who write?

This is where Terry Elliott came along to help my reflection.

His 'voice' was there in the comment box.

And now it is here with us:

"Do you know the myth of Philomela and the shuttle? I think it applies: http://vos.ucsb.edu/myth.asp#cut2"

How reverential are we towards our written selves?

How disabled are we to hear our silence, our...punctuation once spoken, once given breath - our heart beats?

This is the challenge that I give you:

WRITE ALOUD!

Don't write before you have listened to your VOICE ALOUD!

I can hear another 'voice' echoing, that of Chris Friend:

"Make some noise: Voicing our written words."

Yes!

Give voice to your written words certainly... but that is not what I am proposing.

"We are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter."
Allen Ginsberg.

Make some noise, write your SPOKEN words!

Open a sound recorder, open Garageband, SPEAK!!

Yes!

A sound recorder will be your blank page.

Ha ha ha!

"BLANK PAGE" !!

Don't stop it. Do we stop silence? Do we stop nonsense? Do we stop hesitation?

Write what emerges if you will, if you can, if you dare...

Isn't that how it was historically?

Isn't that what we have forgotten?

We have power in our voices.

There is power in our silence.

Whose power does our silent writing maintain?

Have you ever tried speaking aloud in a library?

SHHHH!

Whose agents are there in this noisy silence?

Speak out now.

Write what you hear.

Write what you hear now.

Climbing trees.

I had watched my brother from afar, clambering up the tree.

However hard I tried, I was simply not big enough to reach...


to reach up far enough, to pull myself up...to be big.

I rather had the impression that I was fated always to look on from below and admire.

Growing up is never fast enough when you are five years old and tree-challenged.

My brother took pity on me, or got bored with tree climbing and gave me a foot up.

That first foot up was all that it took to get me upwardly mobile and free.

Once the hidden hold had been pointed out, there was no stopping me.

The tree became my escape, my playground, my kingdom, my best friend.

Every day, on getting up and finishing breakfast, I would head out and up towards a future adventure.

The tree was an adaptable play partner.

I was a pirate in the rigging, Tarzan, lord of the jungle, a secret agent, a mountaineer...

On Sundays, I would hide and scare the ladies dressed up to the nines for the communion service.

On other days, I would practice walking out as far as I could on the higher branches to see how far they would bend down so that I could jump to the ground and scare my mother.

On one special day, I found that I could climb over a wall into a secret hiding place, protected by dense undergrowth and dangerous nettles and brambles. This would become my headquarters for planning operations.

It may not have spoken much, but I didn't let its mutism prevent me speaking for it as I included it in daily conversation.

I confided to the tree that it was a very special friend.

It was a good listener.

That tree lived on in my memory long after I had grown up and moved on.

Forty years later, I took my kids to see the house where it had been.

I was desperate to show them that tree.

We arrived, it had gone.

They probably wouldn't have understood its importance anyway.

In 2014, I shared my tree in a blog post entitled Suspend Disbelief...

It stood for a sunlit childhood past, just before the darkness of a Dickensian funeral.

If it is coming alive again on this page today it is because of an unlikely impromptu connection.

Please listen to Kevin @dogtrax Hodgson's tree story for #adhocvoices for #clmooc.



I too had imaginary friends...

A child sighs...

As Kevin says, we need those trees to step up and get a wider view of things.

We need our personal vantage points, our refuges from the mass of traffic.

We need time to dream, to tinker, to establish relationships with objects, trees, and people.

I remember my first collaboration with Kevin.

It happened maybe two or three weeks after he asked others to remix one of his poems.

It became Steel my poem.

We can never be late to create.

#CLMOOC may be organised around weekly outputs of prompts.

Don't rush yourselves to keep up with the flood of posts.

We need to take our time.

Don't ever forget to ask for a foot up.

As Kevin says on his blog:

 "IF YOU DON'T LIVE IT, IT WON'T COME OUT OF YOUR HORN." ~ CHARLIE PARKER

Yes my friends we must live it or not at all.

After my first meeting with Kevin in January 2014 we have intermittently and consistently worked together, moving along the criss-crossing branches of our respective trees.

I realise now that these tree-root systems interconnect even across oceans.

Perhaps my tree really was a pirate ship?

@dogtrax Here is another offshoot to add to your  "Tracking the flow of an impromptu make".

Try listening to the growing number of sounds here, add yours, you never know who you may touch.





Maybe one of these sounds will have resonance for you, for others?

Maybe you will trigger reflection, a story, a picture, a collaboration?

Who knows where I, you, we will venture?

Who knows?

Adhoc voices

One forty nine pm. Saturday.

Frustration. 

I am up a ladder folding clothes.

Suddenly it occurs to me that I am listening to the radio. If I am listening, I could also be speaking while folding clothes. 

One fifty two pm.

I prop up the smartphone on a shelf go to Audiocopy app, hit record, then speak.

There was no time for preparation, no time to do other than speak and pause and fold. 

One fifty five pm and seven seconds.

The recording for #clmooc is finished. I upload to Soundcloud and I share on Twitter with four people mentioned in the recording.

I add a hashtag for good measure #adhocvoices. 

I ask the four people to add their voices to mine.

I tweet it out.

Approximately one hour later, my voice is joined by Kevin Hodgson's. 

He speaks not of being up a ladder but being up a tree. 

I make a mental note to create something directly connected to trees. 

I wonder how Kevin knows the crucial importance of tree-climbing in my life. 

I immediately feel myself again brought closer to Kevin.

It seems an untruth to say that we have never met.

Five pm.

Our voices are joined by Susan Watson in Ballenger Creek (where??) who shares a sixty second #clmooc confession. 

She later tells me that last year she wouldn't have dared do this. What is it that makes us so vulnerable sharing our voices??

Hearing a friend's spoken voice for the first time after a year of working closely via blogging, I find moving. 

Five twenty two pm

Our voices are joined by Terry Ellliott's and those of assorted cats and chickens.

I immediately feel at home on Terry's farm. 

These are familiar sounds from our ad hoc #clavpicnics. 

Those few seconds spent in his company  today evoke a mass of imagery, a rich sensory ecology. 

My brain is immediately attempting to orient my body in this space. 

I am blind all the more to see.

Six oh eight.

These voices are met with that of Scott Glass on the road in Arlington. I listen to this late in the day. I hear a local firework display which punctuates and blends with the traffic on the highway which surrounds Scott's voice.

I love the impression of movement in Scott's narrative of his roadtrip and look forward to the next episode. 

Even if our contacts via #clmooc have been brief, his name is one that has marked me, with this recording, I feel a developing friendship.

One twenty six am.

Autumm joins us from her parent's home. I hear someone (her mother?) clattering plates behind. 

She shares her projects, her plans, mentions she is working in her childhood room.  

I feel hesitation in her voice, it's authenticity, its immediacy. There is no performance here. The recording adds to an impression of vulnerabilty. We are sharing with the world. 

It is an act of generosity.

I feel a tinge of sadness. 

I am transported to my parents' home, I hear my mother busying herself in the kitchen. 

My father is sitting reading the sports news. 

He will pause, lower the newspaper and I will share this story with him and he will marvel. 

There will be a gleam in his eye.

I remember the time I spent looking for a cassette of him speaking.  I never find his voice again. I only find the one of my uncle giving a sermon. 

There is no no twinkle in his eye when he speaks. He is a hard man, hiding hard secrets behind his ecclesiastical attire.

One fifty two am

I am transported on waking to a New World. 

Wendy Taleo shares what she sees and hears with us. 

I am immediately met with a profusion of colour, of exotic vegetation, of unheard of birds, of beauty. 

My brain is in overdrive trying to make sense of the sensory stimulation. I begin to understand the wonder of New Worlds. 

I can see nothing but I can see so much.

I am reminded of the films of Terence Malick. 

I am reminded of the peace of human voices which fall silent to hear what is essential.

I have travelled so far today from folding laundry.  

Those three minutes of creative abandon were worth every second. 

Please join our #adhocvoices with yours and let us dream together.

https://soundcloud.com/simon-ensor-1/sets/adhocvoices

Ajar.

I have found myself in the wings of #clmooc over the past few days.

Last year, I spent much time drawing with Paper by 53 

I can't remember how that happened.

#CLMOOC community opens doors.

It catalysed an escape into one of my favorite past times.

That led into visual mashups.

I gathered stuff together here:

http://pinterest.com/sensor63/artwork/

This year, like the year before, I am hanging out in the margins.

I know you're busy making stuff, tweeting at a rate of knots.

I am not pushing it.

Stuff clicks.

I love this type of moment.

I am a bit tired at the end of a very busy year.

I chill out. 

I am getting that urge to play with music apps again.

Why????

I am drawn to doodle not so much with images but with sounds, beats, spoken words, sound effects. 

I gave up playing music early.

I felt I was playing for others...

There were so many silent years.

I am beginning to miss listening.

There are so many unexplored avenues. 

Terry Elliott made a brilliant sound companion to a spoken voice piece which featured in Made in Entropy. 

You can listen to it here:

 

I love how he chucks another log on the fire to stoke up creative dialogue.

Here I am tapping away on a smartphone, while the others sleep, listening to a clock tick.

I open up the laptop to do a couple of embeds and tidy up the formatting.

I wonder if the video has uploaded yet?

23% only...

UNINTRO.

What object am I?

I am ajar

36% processing...

I am impatient.

97%

I sleep-engaged in a #clmooc Twitter chat. 

What was Q1? #clmooc @telliokwup @eatcherveggies http://t.co/FwDWWcpN3W via @giphy

— Simon Ensor (@sensor63) June 25, 2015

Finalizing video on Youtube.

I need to sleep.