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Year of the Typewriter

Raining. Raining. Waiting for a window to get out with the typewriter. Raining.

Put a piece of typing paper in the forest to let the rain do the typing for %$&!* once.

Promptly forgot about it.

The oyster mushroom sprang into being at the bottom of Mt Elphinstone. I find them on fallen alder. I see them as typewriter keys, an echo of Agnes.
Soft keys, in the damp winter weather.

I pick them without my basket or my knife, just prying with my fingers every other one.

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November. When the path becomes a puddle.

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Lichen puddles on alder.

 

Petrichor: the smell of the earth after the rain. Especially after a long dry period.

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 The system of seasons;  spring, summer, fall, winter, isn’t nearly detailed enough for this Year of the Typewriter. It’s like language has rungs missing on the ladder.

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I mostly know Roberts Creek where it spills into the ocean. I’ve seen it in September when the salmon are running and the eagles circling. I’ve walked it with my kids in the summer along the wide path of stepping stones. Its not a small meandering thing, it’s a rushing roaring one.

On the subject of falling apart….

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Walking with a heavy heart after news of the Las Vegas shootings, so many wounded, so many dead.
Looking at chaos, destruction, riddling with holes from the perspective of the forest.

Thinking of the loss of this kind of natural knowing.
Gathering bouquets.

Return to Clack Creek Forest.
Slightly raining.

The day in photos.

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The Only Animal creates cultivates and inspires theatre work that arises from a deep engagement with place.