Another moment has arisen where there is an outer beauty-this time golden light tree tips swaying on post rain fading evening light and I am aware of the immediate, apparently conditioned urge to describe it to the reader, yet I pull back and wait for upon closer scrutiny I know there is so much in the experience of this moment than is visible. I see that this golden light works as a metaphor or an association which I find pleasant. This sensation is pre-verbal and the reason I don’t go on to describe it is because I automatically behave as if the experience were the golden-tipped trees. But no, actually when I do look at the experience of the non-verbal sensation it links to warm feelings of cosiness, other lands, yes always there is experience of otherness in the face of these pristine forms such that I could say that it is not them that I am truly experiencing, more that I am experiencing what they point to. Or put in another way the experience of the trees both includes the trees exactly as they are and includes other associations and goes beyond the two, which renders a certain absurdity to the mere description of the trees as an attempt to show you my experiences. To some extent impressionism moves along this road but still you are given an interpretation of the trees rather than a full description of the experience of them and of what happened as a result of coming into contact with them. This all cements my urge to describe the innermost-where the action is- without at the same time drowning in existential introspection. For a while I'm rather agog, wondering if everything that has ever been adequately described. Was the creeping yellow dawn over Ben Nevis, described by a friend actually beautifully because of those external elements or was it the real beauty in the way it transported her to some half-remembered experience of childhood summer schools in Wales? Or barely perceptible dreams of other dimensions? Looking down at a crumbly flapjack, my fifth of the day, I wonder if I so genuinely adore its oatiness or whether those oats remind me of an endless summer spent in wheatfields sprinkled with wild oats with, their papery ears, translucent in the sun, dazzling next to the blue of the sky. When I set about munching the flapjack, my 5th of the day, I am in a sense eating that experience all over again. Similarly, I have noticed that potato salad (especially with chives) tastes of a canal boat trip I once took around the Warwickshire Ring.

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