crescent moon, pink sin
fresh camellias, corrugated dreams
two chairs sitting back to back
(DANGER KEEP OUT)
crossing now to oak grove
walking past the tennis green
modern old lady disappeared between those trees
three dogs on a leash
four o’clock sun touching red leaves
lampposts fences tall tī kōuka over me
how can i still be hungry
I’ve made it a habit to have my phone in hand with the Notes app open when I go out on occasional strolls. I write down anything that seems interesting, everything out of the ordinary. Perhaps more enjoyable than the walk itself is going home and going over what I’d observed, always different from the last note even when the route I took was the same.
This particular one is different from usual. I was walking home from the public library in town. I’d usually go along the highway and through the park to reach our street. This time I decided to take the long way back on the other side of the suburb. Maybe because it was my first time there, everything felt poetic. Wintry but warm. The air smelled of wet concrete (a future) and burning firewood (daily life).
Walking has been a necessary means of getting somewhere since before the time of Pride and Prejudice. We know that walking as a basic form of exercise brings some kind of health benefit to our bodies. But more interesting is how it potentially improves our minds (especially in a greener, more natural environment). The street acts as a simulation of the brain’s neural sidewalks. Subconsciously, I am always trying to arrive at clarity.
On the connection between walking and thinking, Ferris Jabr writes, “Walking organizes the world around us; writing organizes our thoughts.”
To an extent and in some cases more than others, public transport allows the same process to happen. All throughout high school, my brother and I took the bus to get to town. I didn’t mind how long the travel took as I remember my peers then disliked. In fact, I enjoyed it. It was a chance to mentally prepare myself for the day ahead. Riding the bus gave me an extra hour of quiet before the first school bell rang, an extra hour on the way home when I could just sit, doing mostly nothing. In that space I felt liminal. It allowed me the introspection I now experience on foot.
I am dwelling on this now because I need to remind myself. Because I am tired of having to remind myself.
I am often too comfortable being indoors I forget how beneficial it is to go outside. Sometimes “outside” means, simply, literally, stepping out of my room in the flat. I am constantly reminded of old lessons still only half-learned.
In May last year I found myself taking a spontaneous bus trip to the beach. I wanted to get out of my room (head), to catch the sunset after a long time. The late autumn wind carried a chill. I stayed long enough to finally feel empty of everything that cluttered my headspace. I know now that clarity is short-lived. There will always be something else.
I guess this is life, then: a pattern of perpetual ebb and flow. They say peace is synonymous to contentment. Surrounded by shortcomings and regret and frustration on the verge of satisfaction, I am still learning how to get to the other side. For all I know, it’s as entropic over there as it is right here.
Maybe I’ll find out the next time I go out. Or the next time after that.
Counting my steps,
B