Distant days, those from years past, now stretched out long behind us. Remember those days? Remember them with me, even though there is nothing to write here (I do so only to maintain a habit).
The courtyards, the stark bridges over gleaming railways lines at sundown, the endless rows of tenements. Coloured, placed graffiti at the foot of each one, oppositional systems of representation. We are moving constantly towards speech that is moving away.
The circuits and circles we made were traced today are a map placed upon another map. These journeys today were undertaken with an old friend after a late morning, a slow breakfast, too much coffee. The past week's murk had lifted and finally, it seemed, summer was returning. We ate and talked and worked for a while before heading into the street, I leading him on lost traverses through the local streets, heading for places we never reached. Speaking of improvisation, as we were, lead to further conversations about the purity of a day lost to wandering, about hospitalities, about fonts, about craters and sculpture.
Know this though. Nothing here is as lost as it was. No longer do the far-reaching water-coolers in the east, nor the tumbledown train stations, nor the bowed branches of the trees that line each street amaze me in the way they once did. How quickly is it that one adapts. How much do I know and how little?
But these walks, with him, he and I, were necessary movements to be undertaken. Something of an original form was once more created, like echoes in writing, intentional or otherwise. In a way, that original form of last summer is realised only now the the quiet muster of this. And, how it is marked out by these great flags of weather! That I have just realised. Before there was no comparison, but now, in a climate still subtly different from the ones I grew up with, this first cycle - I will have been here one year on Wednesday - is recognisably complete.