‘To Ski means not only to enable me to make rapid movements and to acquire a technical skill, nor is it merely to play by increasing according to my whim the speed or difficulties of the course; it is also to enable me to possess this field of snow. At present I am doing something to it. That means that by my very activity as a skier, I am changing the matter and meaning of the snow’It may be a stretch to suggest that I feel that I am ‘changing the matter and meaning’ of the road but there is substance to Satres words, there is something about a clear, long open road that makes you ‘feel’ like you are in some sort of possession of it, there is a curious unity between yourself, your car and the road. And this feels good, enriched by the comfort of my car, my feeling of control, the changing landscape and my station of choice, Radio 4... When I say ‘control’, I should really say ‘relative control’. Always, at the back of my mind when driving, no matter how suppressed, is the fear of collision. My mind is not able to resist running through a selection of horrific scenarios. How would it feel if the car presently coming towards me from the other side of the road lost control and collided head on to my car? What if the car I am overtaking suddenly decides to change lanes without looking and veers into me? The physiological experience of driving has further dark sides. The average town dweller observes the vast majority of our islands native species either on the BBC or lying squashed on the side of Britians motorways. It is at this point I am glad that I am passing with speed, only with quick and fleeting glances do I see the gore. Imagine this level of death, decay and violent aftermath on a quaint country walk? It would be truly shocking. At about the half way point, 4 gigantic concrete grey towers, stark, minimal and imposing, emerge from an unassuming, green and typically British rural landscape The buildings identity quietly revealed by an unassuming and strangely appropriate minimal sans serif logo. This is the British Sugar factory. At first glance you could be forgiven for mistaking the building as high brow Brutalist architecture. The combination of ugly/beauty set in such contrasting landscape gives the building an unexpected enigmatic quality. I can’t help feeling both amused and horrified by the visual association of the enormous stout towers (presumably for housing vast amounts of sugar) and that of Britains increasing obesity epidemic. Other than a halfway marker, The British Sugar factory also marks another landmark, the start of Radio 4’s desert island discs, a rich and insightful program that is new to me. I am often intrigued that a shift in a persons routine has a whole host of unanticipated repercussions, namely, that I now listen to desert island discs. And this is another good thing, apart from the fact that I arrive at my destination before it finishes, whereby I am faced with the choice of whether to be late for start of my teaching session or to turn off. I choose the latter, obviously. Despite ending an interesting program prematurely I start my teaching session refreshed and happy, which suprises me, any London commuter would testify that the above experience would be extremely rare is downright unthinkable. This led me to ponder, what makes a good journey? Firstly, there needs to be a minimum of ‘crowds’ involved, not so little as to feel isolation but not so much to create unnecessary obstacles, secondly, you need a good background soundtrack, radio program, good friend or book. Thirdly, you need interesting changing landscape that provokes thoughts and ideas and last of all, the travel must not be too repetitive. When the alchemy is right, good travel creates a sort of ‘in between’ space outside of normal day to day life, through necessity you are forced to stop and slow down in your thoughts, even of you are travelling at speed, in fact I have often though that high speed and relaxed, slow meandering thoughts were a particularly pleasing combination. Which explains why, in this over crowded, work driven culture, why bad journeys are common and good journeys rare, making them all the more sweeter when they do happen.
A blog of experimental poetry
On the journey from Cambridge to Ipswich
The journey to Ipswich is a functional journey in order for me to travel to University Campus Suffolk, where I have been working as a visiting lecturer in Graphic Design/Illustration from Feb 2014. It is a once weekly repetition that I assumed to be a necessary evil but have found to be surprisingly illuminating, the experience has inspired me to write a short piece about my meandering thoughts on emerging spring, roadside architecture, Jean Paul Satre, road kill and the pleasure of an ‘inbetween’ space during one of these hour and 15 minute long car journeys.
Week 7 was by far my most pleasurable and insightful journey. The sun had not yet burnt though the haze, creating a subtle light, the lack of contrast intensifying the colour of the collective, newly emerged tiny lime green leaves on the Hawthorn hedges by the side of the A14. The conspicuous yellow rape fields that were definitely not here last week had now arrived, filling the fields with pop-tastic colour.
Ipswich is not the choice destination for the Cambridge hoards at 8am, consequentially the roads are clear and long. The experience recalls a paragraph about skiing on fresh snow in ‘Being and Nothingness’ by Jean Paul Satre that I have never forgotten.