A Psychogeographical Saunter-Step

wait... no just wait. Do you hear that? No, really try. That's Moscow in the telephone, and they're waiting for a reply.

Now i've never been to Moscow. Mike has. I haven't. But i've known city streets like you wouldn't believe. Europe. North America. The Caribbean. South America. Australia. The Pacific. Don't believe me? Check the map. And with a fire amidst face and belly i've walked those streets looking for something, for anything really, trying to find more than just the next stop on the itinerary. Prostitutes in Valparaiso. Blind harpists in Quebec. Cabbies in St. Kitts. Homeless in Memphis. Coconut vendors in Tonga. Drinkers in Filey. Lovers in Paris. Pretty much what you might expect - more so if you expect the unexpected. Now. All of this has left me with no more than party conversation and dinner party stories, but here's the thing: I'm no storyteller. Like Dylan in the movies, i'm a farmer... and who ever heard of a storytelling farmer? What it comes down to, what it is that matters, is home. And where is home? Your guess is as good as mine. What does one do without one? "But surely!" you'll say, "One must have a home!" Well that's where your exclamation gets a little sticky. Because fact is: one mustn't. Or not necessarily must. If i were once again a college freshman i'd write a dictionary entry for "home," but those days are long since past and sadly. If i were a crocheting housewife i'd point to "home is where the heart is" above the mantle and say that's that. C'est ça, c'est la. But again... not so simple, pas si simple.

In his Introduction to a Critique of Urban Geography Guy Debord wrote that psychogeography, "could set for itself the study of the precise laws and specific effects of the geographical environment, consciously organized or not, on the emotions and behavior of individuals." Ok, ok, i know i'm defining like a college freshman (and Guy Debord no less), but there is something to this. He goes on to write, "The adjective psychogeographical, retaining a rather pleasing vagueness, can thus be applied to the findings arrived at by this type of investigation, to their influence on human feelings, and even more generally to any situation or conduct that seems to reflect the same spirit of discovery." Pleasing vagueness? Yes. But if you want direct straight arrow aim-is-true bastardized some kinda direct: The streets we walk make us who we are. I'm gonna write that again if for no other reason than to drive the point home and hard. The streets we walk make us who we are. Now. Like i said: I've walked streets. I've seen alleys and avenues. Boulevards and back gardens. Cross ties and cul-de-sacs. Have they made me a more of a person? Hell, no. But have they made me? Most certainly.

In Kushner's adaptation of Corneille's L'Illusion Comique there is a line spoken by the Maid, Lyse - and so well spoken - "To want. But to want less." It's one of the vaguest, most difficult to judge lines in the genre of modern classic theatre. "To want. But to want less." It isn't a strong character choice. Where does she draw the line? What is the difference in want and want less? Here's the tough part: there isn't. There is no line. There is no Haussmannian boulevard to barrel through the vague declensions of human desire. And that's the goal/problem/paradox of psychogeography. The smallest something is something, and the greatest something is still nothing. We can walk the streets of the world, Broadway from Battery Place to Yonkers, the grid of Chicago, the Boulevard Périphérique from Porte de Versailles to Porte de Versailles, but where does that get us? The same place from which we started, that's where. But with a something else.

What is that something? "I'm not sure of... i can't remember the name." And oh yes oh yes it's a nameable thing, but no one can remember the name. "It was down the street from my apartment. I used to go by there pretty often." Nameable but unknowable. "Once a month or so." Every so often we lock into these places. A name, a smell, an odd convergence of light. "It was set back from the street in a courtyard garden." And we think, if only for a moment, that we are home. "A courtyard garden. A winding path. A stone gazebo. A..." And the transmission is lost. But wait... something from the ether... something... "Beautiful tall windows and red stone walls." And the signal fades.

But if you listen close... you might hear Moscow in the telephone. "At every step, the riddle of human behavior and the nature of love appeared bound up with Russian." ...What?

Resignation of the soul? Or spirit of discovery?

"I never went inside. It was clear to me i should keep it as it was in my imagination. The most peaceful place."

Les Communards Sans Soixante-Huitards

we roll from banlieue to arrondissement avec triumphal arch all electric magentic cord attached to the back pulling it down in the process all the while a fuck you smeared across lips, and
- you changed your hair
- yeah
and then she was off with age old an older than expected but still not so very old yet not so very young should'a seen it wish em the best hey when's the wedding!

and we were left with the before all a beers bar sittin waitin to be somethin useful when all of a
- i know you!
- yeah you too!
and that was that.

next!

so this is what is a community... les commune? fuck i cain't keep up. just simple southern boy whooo-wheee just country boy tryin to keep from gettin too overwhelmed... when the reality is somethin more like: yeah. i got this. we run this town. the music playing in my ears is more like:
assassin for hire.

the ring road our castle wall parapet. we. are. les centre ville.

have you seen the city on it's own and famous holiday? i have. it ain't nothin all too much worth shakin over. i promise. grab a seat. watch a firework explosion and boom. that's all they is. the wine and roast chicken is worth more a somethin more for payin attention to.

- let's do this again.
- i like that idea.

you see... sometimes the painful tortured oh-my-god-how-can-i-ever-face-this-shit-again becomes the: yeah... alright. And against all better judgments. How does it happen? If you don't know then i'm not telling.

oh alright.

fine.

here goes:

¬ a couple outside relationship working
¬ a headphone music loud experience
¬ a new hair white t-shirt
¬ this time baby i'll be bulletproof
¬ questionable decisions
¬ bad decisions
¬ a vague email that is undecipherable to the point of giving up on
≈ is what is.

there you go.

oh is that not answer enough for you?

well goddamn aren't you a needy fucker.

let me put it likes this:
we roll from banlieue to arrondissement avec triumphal arch all electric magentic cord attached to the back pulling it down in the process all the while a fuck you smeared across lips.

still not enough? that's too bad. because that's all you'se gonna get.