My friend was talking about a painting by Magritte, of a pipe that is not a pipe. Straight into my head, with calm fidelity, I saw an image of a pipe, floating in space - the sort of pipe water flows through, with a right-angled bend in its shiny metal. I looked up the painting, to be sure, and I'd got the wrong sort of pipe all together. It was not a pipe, but a pipe. Hmm... Maybe I was thinking of the cover of Mike Oldfield's Tubular Bells? Out comes the phone again. Closer! The background is as I imagined and the material is similar, but still no pipe. Unsurprisingly, this floating monolith is a triangular tubular bell. So where did I see the pipe? If I did see the pipe. Which is of course not a pipe (of any sort) anyway...
The call of the wall, periodical, methodical ascent with intent. Route schematic; left-foot, right-hand, right-foot, left-hand, leap and swing, match and detach and on to the next. Choosing, falling, grooving and improving. Next day, wrists of clay, crumbled and stiffened, once agile, now fragile to any of the many daily demands on the hands. The habit was leaving on a wind of healing, fraught and caught and taken away, to be perennially a memory, a delight consumed by the violent bite of history.


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