Wednesday, 18:07, Annecy
I walk Annecy until I run out of steam. Leaving the apartment around three, over to the lake, tracking the shore, then over to town, up the small hill round the castle, and back to wander the canals.
Without distraction I follow my compass and desire, drifting through the town, anchoring to the map on my phone to not to stray too far. Walking until my mind runs clear. Absorbing, hypothesising, resetting, after the physical dullness from a cold.
I’m challenged by writing on the move. The pen moves laboured on the page resting on my thigh, my attention wavers, drawn to noises – children walking past jammering in French, the teenage girl on the bench next to me speaking on the phone, the organ from the merry-go-round in the corner of the park, toots of impatience from traffic stuck on the road behind.
Find your own deep meaning in everything
Follow your own nose. Your own nose that’s a compass
Not a pigeon brain magnetised to home
A human-animal brain, loved and loving
Quivering attention. Stammering pen
We’ll all go round the merry again