Notes and thoughts on Writers on Walking: http://hackneypodcast.co.uk/2011/01/episode-20-writers-on-walking/#more-596
The body becomes fluid while walking, the man said. It's like slipping into a stream of memory. Whoever I'm paraphrasing said a writer must engage with the world - for him, the morning walk provided contact, observations, strangeness ...
But to walk around a small town and to walk around Hackney are two very different things. Is is even possible to Drift in the country? Perhaps I need to know the land better. Like, if I knew the names of the birds and clouds and flowers would I then have more to write about? There are not enough people to spy on here! Where can I eavesdrop? (Country strangeness is different to city strangeness). I don't know the land well enough. (The land is not a person to me yet - I don't know her creaks and lines).
I had an early summer evening walk. I mapped it and gave names to the landmarks and it was, I suppose, a way to make my world more mysterious, more story-ish. But now the nights are too hot. The plums have all fallen and I know who the moaning man is.
The body becomes fluid while walking, the man said. It's like slipping into a stream of memory. Whoever I'm paraphrasing said a writer must engage with the world - for him, the morning walk provided contact, observations, strangeness ...
But to walk around a small town and to walk around Hackney are two very different things. Is is even possible to Drift in the country? Perhaps I need to know the land better. Like, if I knew the names of the birds and clouds and flowers would I then have more to write about? There are not enough people to spy on here! Where can I eavesdrop? (Country strangeness is different to city strangeness). I don't know the land well enough. (The land is not a person to me yet - I don't know her creaks and lines).
I had an early summer evening walk. I mapped it and gave names to the landmarks and it was, I suppose, a way to make my world more mysterious, more story-ish. But now the nights are too hot. The plums have all fallen and I know who the moaning man is.
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