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Joy of learning

Anne Jones

as we while away the hours, it’s hard and hard not to adhere to an idle and industrious vigil with its formatting of the day’s functions. drifting and darting desires and designs have always burrowed their stings in precisely mechanised patterns into my flesh, heightening that sense of being taught. to construct through tears and holes we devour carefree experiments, following where error leads us forth. systems of all living matter could learn to thrill at the delight which falls out of being taught back-to-front with a naturally chaotic beat. step-by-step instructions guide us towards some form of nebulous activity as we daily play with learning, prioritising line, rhythm and joy. the function of a function subtly de-forms, fizzing in my setting blood as I remember all these failures. simply skipping every moment to accord and match-up means a playtime not distant, not puffed up but

in this manicured environment the glint of heat-wobbled star-scape can become the diamond function of cutting, pasting, drying and tying, no matter how much or how far. through our play the system will continue to rush towards some lazy lily-pond, some endless scaled path, some puffed up emerald-buzz with shadow castles in the margins. always dumbfounded, rhythmic and husky, we watch butterflies lead forth the crumbling walls. from that sense of becoming, the system will continue a way of being in the world, a back-to-front play of spattered letters as I remember all these conduits. the colour of fresh blood is masked by local perfection, merging desires and designs after all. the uncensored right to question stings my tracks, burrowing its flow in the day’s drifting functions not idle, not fizzing but

in our beat and flux we daily form and de-form the glint of chrysalis husks, playing with some sense of the system. a dehumanised cul-de-sac of spattered letters can become a tendency shaped like lipped edges merging, and it’s hard and hard not to lead forth. life-shrinking systems seem to stop in my tracks, emerging bleeding, defeated and torn. being taught something of the briers and thickets of unexplored anticipation sets us drifting and allows us to climb, precisely de-forming the patterns. as we format our functions with that sense of the enclosure, we learn a back-to-front way of being in a world richly and intensely depleted. the tendency to question is shaped like two triangles kissing and can become a reward – a line, a rhythm, a flow. here we daily fizz, being taught to fall out, while the function of a function reconfigures the frontiers of the unknown. whiling away our hours, lopsided with joy, our desires and designs continue building castles not simple, not industrious but

mistakes can become step-by-step reward a way of being in the world,with that sense, of the colour of fresh blood. something calcified is hard and it’s hard not to prioritise living matter as we’re taught and we learn to be intact. precisely unknown patterns of letters grind against each other, drifting and darting, spattering us in their play. the system will continue, a lopsided square, a game of cutting and pasting which calls upon the child to lead forth. this ongoing wrestle between air and breathing matter echoes whirls of appetite and laughing which support the welfare of the whole. across this surface, viscous and enclosed, a snail finds a day-dream gaping. golden ink-stains grasp at empty narrow routes, proud of this interior blemish large enough to sink an island. by imagining it all to be a straight and narrow route, slotted in like an appendage, we vacate untried ground, not lipped, not thicketed
but glinting.

always glinting
on a threshold encrusted with barnacles, the voice of the Spirit calls us forth. a fragile sense of joy offers an alternate route, smashing the derelict balance for fear of offending, swirling with vortexed colour in an atmosphere of life-choking grasp. long-held customs and traditions, normal and ordinary, daily and de-forming, begin to sag with the weight of our play. some sense of the system will continue being taught through spattered tendencies, and it’s hard and hard not to skip. a back-to-front play stings our heat-wobbled shadows, puffing up our sense of the function. self-enclosed designs mistake some forward-looking blast, littering its interior, echoing and kissing the rules. it’s never as straightforward as an intact will to flourish, although richly idle turf keeps our principles full and devouring. all that is vital wrestles with a daily learning, engaging fully with the task gifted for flourishing. with gaping tears and holes, mistakes support the inner world, teaching fervour and intensity in the raw. as we while away the hours our flaws vacate life-shrinking systems, funnelling the rich manure of play. the life-blood of the Spirit is a margin for mistakes, not formatted, not unexplored but