The blog/question aims to draw up on a range of areas, people, events & notation with regard movement without a special interest in one way of thinking, so that the record or markers of movement may come from any area of reference; moving and connecting people, disciplines, activities, records, invention, things that heighten our enquiry of movement.

The blog aims to have no owner & no boundaries to it's enquiry. It is also vital that the blog attempts to use the reality outside of the internet to fuel it's encounters, i.e. that it should aim not to become a thing in itself, alone in cyber space, it should feed from and feed to the real experience of movement and heighten our awareness of it and too it.

To move in freedom is an increasingly difficult task, to experience the day in a series of unknown spaces and passages of undetermined connections is almost impossible to do with out our minds registering clocks or destinations that tie us back to homes or jobs or loved ones; we eternally attach ourselves to things and to sever these ties even only temporarily is awkward.

The Moment - Margaret Atwood

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

Never through a door  Tehching Hsich

Never through a door,

Never below a bulb,

Worn throughout,

Seasoned clips,

Carrying the need

Water logged  Roger Deakin

Most of us live in a world where more and more places and things are signposted, labelled, and officially 'interpreted'. There is something about all this that is turning the reality of things into virtual reality. It is the reason why walking, cycling and swimming will always be subversive activities. They allow us to regain a sense of what is old and wild in these islands, by getting off the beaten track and breaking free of the official version of things. A swimming journey would give me access to that part of our world which, like darkness, mist, woods or high mountains, still retains most mystery. It would afford me a different perspective on the rest of landlocked humanity.

In 1969 Acconci moved from the practice of poetry into photographic works that used the medium not to document an ephemeral event but within a systematic exploration of his body's "occupancy" of public space (the street, theater proscenium) through the execution of preconceived actions or activities. For Toe-Touch, the artist produced two photographs from the upper (hands over head) and lower (touching toes) extensions of his body; the results are less depictions of a scene than indices of a movement prescribed by the limits of the body in two directions. In Following Piece, executed daily over one month, Acconci followed one randomly chosen stranger through the streets of New York until he or she entered a private location-an activity where, as the artist described it, "I am almost not an 'I' anymore; I put myself in the service of this scheme."

To the Foot From It's Child  Pablo Neruda

A child's foot doesn't know it's a foot yet
And it wants to be a butterfly or an apple
But then the rocks and pieces of glass,
the streets, the stairways
and the roads of hard earth
keep teaching the foot that it can't fly,
that it can't be a round fruit on a branch.
Then the child's foot
was defeated, it fell
in battle,
it was a prisoner,
condemned to life in a shoe.
Little by little without light
it got acquainted with the world in its own way
without knowing the other imprisoned foot
exploring life like a blind man.
Those smooth toe nails
of quartz in a bunch,
got harder, they changed into
an opaque substance, into hard horn
and the child's little petals
were crushed, lost their balance,
took the form of a reptile without eyes,
with triangular heads like a worm's.
And they had callused over,
they were covered
with tiny lava fields of death,
a hardening unasked for.
But this blind thing kept going
without surrender, without stopping
hour after hour.
One foot after another,
now as a man,
or a woman,
above,
below,
through the fields, the mines,
the stores, the government bureaus,
backward,
outside, inside,
forward,
this foot worked with its shoes,
it hardly had time
to be naked in love or in sleep
one foot walked, both feet walked
until the whole man stopped.
And then it went down
into the earth and didn't know anything
because there everything was dark,
it didn't know it was no longer a foot
or if they buried it so it could fly
or so it could
be an apple.

The ability to get up and move is inbuilt, but has become the part of us that is subdued by our arrangements made

Can you live in an undetermined manner

Taking each step as it comes along

Not looking for the next pocket of movement

At the correct moment

To see the reality of the might and not the conditions experienced through arrangement

To wander  not plan

To uncover not decorate

To dwell and not be housed

To meander not travel straight

To stroll and not be passenger

This is a fight

The greatest thing, that the confused human mind can do, is to stop, look around and enjoy understanding what is going on and not try to control it.  

not when but how

Norman Mc Caig

Small boy

He picked up a pebble
and threw it into the sea.

And another, and another.
He couldn't stop.

He wasn't trying to fill the sea.
He wasn't trying to empty the beach.

He was just throwing away,
nothing else but.

Like a kitten playing
he was practicing for the future

when there'll be so many things
he'll want to throw away

if only his fingers will unclench
and let them go.

Interview with the man who creates a poem in the time it takes to smoke a fag

soy cuba

D H Lawrence Seaweed

Seaweed sways and sways and swirls
As if swaying were its form of stillness;
And it flushes against fierce rock
It slips over it as shadows do, without hurting itself

keep still