Far From The Madding Crowd

i have discovered i like to pace.

Not fast, not maniacal, not the type when your feet beat out, no hang on whisk, nice word whisk, out a response to some inner turmoil; i had thought whirl but whirl leads to dervish and i’m not sure dervishly is even a word.

And that is too cartoon like, too hairy, too stupid looking.

Anyway to pace.

To pace slowly. Press heel to toe heel to toe heel to toe to heel.

i saw somewhere it was something done to self soothe.

I don’t like the title.

Makes me think of stroking myself, there there, it will be ok, pat pat. Thumb in my mouth, well not quite that, but you get the picture.

And its best done with the sun on my face.

It reminds me i’m here.

Padding out a marking on the lawn.

Grass leaning forward toward my toes, spinging back up again. A bird. Some dew. The ground, the wall, the dilapidated garden shed

The neighbour talks to his dog a lot.

“What are you looking at there?”

“What’s that boy?”

“You like that”

i enjoy his voice.

And so does the dog, but it doesn’t answer.