i am writing a revolution of words
day three: 3.650km, 6084 steps, 196.1kcal
today, walking towards the walking starting point, without the map which i stupidly left at home, where will the city take me?
its hotter and sunnier than they said it was going to be and im hot. my legs dont hurt but my bag is heavy. gerry signs in at two o'clock sharp
on the canal, a canoe swerves slightly, swishing rhythmically in the heart of rubble, spoiled only by the noisy flipflopping of my bag
objects found but not kept: one russell hobbs microchip country style toaster; white
first stop: (albion drive leading to) albion square. i do not have many thoughts as to what it might look like, possibly half expecting it to be a bit rundown. it isnt and is utterly silent in a daytime monday kind of way. i do not go around it as squares confuse me
then no, line painting is not line dancing, nowhere near as funny either
wilton way: i redraw the routemap from memory, strangely inaccurately, compressedly (music: fake plastic trees)
two red phone boxes which appear to be in someones front garden arent really. this is where dr who lives, i think
i follow the scent of the postmen as they spray their territories with red elastic bands (objects found: one)
middleton road: horror holiday homes (straight out of pinewood or elstree workshops) of beige and white and fake architectural details who lives there nobody can live there, next door to a holy mis-en-scene, saying, 'come in and hear life changing testimonies. you will be amazed.' as im writing it down, a pentecostal grin, 'you will be coming later then?' 'yes, cheers,' i reply
(we are in wilson road, an artist is giving a talk, the artist is scottish or from up north, his paintings depict building after building after building of beige brick; it could also be a different painter who painted similar brickscapes; both their names escape me)
how many policemen? seven? eight? two police vans and a car screaming up and down the road, a white goth girl sitting on top of a stone wall, her (boy)friend standing not far, the policemen are holding a black man, with his face to the wall, inches away from where the girl is sitting, two policemen firmly holding his arms behind his back, slightly uncomfortable, i transfer the notepad to my left hand, quicken the pace only just so, hoping nobody notices the camera ('what are you writing in there...?')
today, walking towards the walking starting point, without the map which i stupidly left at home, where will the city take me?
its hotter and sunnier than they said it was going to be and im hot. my legs dont hurt but my bag is heavy. gerry signs in at two o'clock sharp
on the canal, a canoe swerves slightly, swishing rhythmically in the heart of rubble, spoiled only by the noisy flipflopping of my bag
objects found but not kept: one russell hobbs microchip country style toaster; white
first stop: (albion drive leading to) albion square. i do not have many thoughts as to what it might look like, possibly half expecting it to be a bit rundown. it isnt and is utterly silent in a daytime monday kind of way. i do not go around it as squares confuse me
then no, line painting is not line dancing, nowhere near as funny either
wilton way: i redraw the routemap from memory, strangely inaccurately, compressedly (music: fake plastic trees)
two red phone boxes which appear to be in someones front garden arent really. this is where dr who lives, i think
i follow the scent of the postmen as they spray their territories with red elastic bands (objects found: one)
middleton road: horror holiday homes (straight out of pinewood or elstree workshops) of beige and white and fake architectural details who lives there nobody can live there, next door to a holy mis-en-scene, saying, 'come in and hear life changing testimonies. you will be amazed.' as im writing it down, a pentecostal grin, 'you will be coming later then?' 'yes, cheers,' i reply
(we are in wilson road, an artist is giving a talk, the artist is scottish or from up north, his paintings depict building after building after building of beige brick; it could also be a different painter who painted similar brickscapes; both their names escape me)
how many policemen? seven? eight? two police vans and a car screaming up and down the road, a white goth girl sitting on top of a stone wall, her (boy)friend standing not far, the policemen are holding a black man, with his face to the wall, inches away from where the girl is sitting, two policemen firmly holding his arms behind his back, slightly uncomfortable, i transfer the notepad to my left hand, quicken the pace only just so, hoping nobody notices the camera ('what are you writing in there...?')
posted by an_ impossible_ child at 12:29 PM
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