Walking after walking.
Walking after walking. Indulging in the sun light dappling, walking slowly, pastures known unknown. Treading ground.
A walk with Richard Wentworth.
Event: http://visionarytradingproject.com/event/event-number-one/
As cast we walked. Sites of use, past use and the joy that someone is growing cabbages correctly with nearly tied string.
Meander as herd, the Guardian Cattle, the streets are our folly. Yet we have tact and stand to the side to let the “real” street users walk. He said we would unite. Somehow we have.
We don’t have a tortoise, yet still drift. Slowly with ease past monuments to an industrial past which none of us have ever really known.
Cities, like people can never really be known, in a state of constant becoming. Watching futures and past muddle, a nostalgia for times unmet. There are passages where we can sense home, some that are unknown, both create experiences we can mark in the book as urban.
I am struck by how fast these moments of pastness seem to fail, the old shops as herded into new malls. Cement over old engravings, double glazing to keep out and in meddles of interaction.
The blue house; a sigh; we already knew it was coming, the land of plastic fairies in suits, happy with fake tomatoes and to breathe only recycled air, just keeping the balance high, a man hums as he enters with his bulging tesco bag, I wonder if this paradise is the vision of success I am failing.
Brief drinks then back to the sunlight. Still
Indulging lines of the city’s poems repeating,
On return; I meet a group of boys, they threw water at me.
At first I am angry.
I am wet
I am upset.
I look back at them
They are young; they are really young, somehow the scene becomes tender; I see them as children; anger fades, a sort of sympathy emerges; almost a pity. I wonder if I should have shouted. I wonder if I should have made a scene. I wonder what they will become. I hope they see the sunset. I sat by the river drying off, and watched as they poured water over everyone who passes; it is funny; it is sad. A strange scene of discontent; yet we are all here by the river; doing as we do; watching what we want to watch as the sun settles for the night.
Urban re:passages 