I won’t write an ode to my old hiking boots, no, I won’t. Nor to the paths trodden, forest, mountain, coastal, city-wide; the scents encountered, the views, the people; the shared or solitary pleasures; soundscapes, silences. The intense but never deadening tiredness after walking in all weathers, mile by snaking mile; the blisters, scratches, bruises, nature’s exuberant citations; lungs filled with yonder; real hunger; deep and satisfying sleep. No use retracing steps. Much is forgotten.
Here’s to embracing a culture of horizontal hierarchies (while needs must). At my lying best I reside on the sofa in the living room; next down the rungs: on floor, on bed, rock bottom: in. If only I could read and write all day – life in the mind might do me. In the end prostration is all-pervasive: one’s gaze streams like lengths of string, the river of words runs dry. Sorrow grows, flows out the door, the town, the land, frets by the sea (where I most want to be).