Friday, 29 May 2009

After days of storms, the weather is flatter and more consistent. The sun this morning is weak, but there, and the clouds a brilliant white against a morning indigo sky. May is nearly over, my one year anniversary in this city is approaching. These dates, as they stand, are like an underlying template against which I can match patterns of weather. Progress too can be mapped in this way, charts plotted against tired faculties and dog-eared learnings.

What can be read from this, what journeys would be revealed if marked against a icosahedron, laid out flat upon this wooden table and staked out with coloured pins? Beginnings and ends and all between laid out upon creases and folds; that which is three-dimensional becoming two-dimensional, form exposed in writing.

Looking back briefly through old mail last night, I found a distant set of communications between myself and best friends, contoured by a sense holding and a slow inevitability. Can it be that the words of others (or yourself, at a distance) are useful bellwethers for one's own expectation? Reading back those letters now, they serve as influence and prediction, a composite of practical advice, encouragement and redefinition. So the hollow, three dimensional shape of my time now is there, flattened. A shape of two-dimensions, reproportioned like so many global maps, a form adapted for ease of use, for ease of reading.

Within maps, distances are measurable, journeys can be predicted and chosen. Boundaries are cast and on this predications, entire nations set. I have been reading Jack London with a slow insistence over the last week, The Star Rover taking me on many journeys, tearing up maps. The book layers memes of isolation, political dissidence and reincarnation into psychedelic tropes of one prisoner's out-of-body experiences. Through these linked, episodic tales the reader is taken through the worlds of French nobility, medieval Korea and founding-father Americas. How long it has been since I last read an adventure! So, may a peaceful hour has been spent slowly drawn into these ranges of dislocation, perhaps reading whilst splayed out across a sofa or bed, or even down by the river. Sometimes I read in silence, but sometimes music is playing. Now, with welcome repetition, a male voice repeats into the morning,
goodbye old Paint, I'm leaving Cheyenne, goodbye old Paint, I'm leaving Cheyenne.

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