We live our lives in repetition. So much of our comfort and discomfort is in the everyday cycling through sameness. Repetition can bring a type of death. It also can bring a type of renewal. Renewal to what might have become mundane; the ordinary transformed.
I've taken to like ending my blog each year with a poem post. Below is a year-long series of tweets by poet Ian McMillan, describing the same walk he takes every day, wherein he illustrates the possibility of transformation in an ordinary, everyday sameness. It is long, so freely skip and play in-between, allowing the impression of a new sameness to fall on open senses.
May 2014 bring the miracle of transformation in ordinary sameness to us all.
Each morning, I get up early and go for a stroll through my ex-mining village near Barnsley; just before 6am, I walk to the newsagent, then down a long hill and up a steeper hill and back home. It takes me about 40 minutes and I tweet about the stroll as soon as I get in. I’m excited by the idea of creating minimalist poetry about a limited canvas, trying to find something new every day from the same mile and a bit. The moon is a regular presence and so is the word “beautiful”. Here’s my selection of some of the tweets I’ve posted since Christmas Day 2012:
25/12: On my early stroll, by the zebra crossing, one Belisha beacon working, one not, Like the cheapest open-air disco you ever saw.
27/12: On my early drizzly stroll I pretend I’m in a film noir walking the mean streets of ~LA until a bloke with a dog says “ R8 kid! Cold ’un!”
28/12: On my early stroll I’m battered by the breeze, a skiff on the pavement’s lake. A bit of old Christmas paper like a gull with holly wings.
29/12: Early stroll. Find a pound coin on the pavement. Beats that 5p I found the other day. Moonlight alchemy!
30/12: On my early stroll I’m struck by the simple beauty of a No Entry sign. The red circle, the white line. It has the power of art.
5/1/2013: Different ways of looking at the moon: gaze, peer, peep, stare, glance, gawp. Pointing sometimes, like today. It was so beautiful.
6/1: Early stroll. The moon hasn’t turned up. I’ve been moon-jilted. Maybe it’s slept in. Sky like an empty purse with no coin in it.
8/1: Early stroll. Beautiful sliver of a moon low in the sky. I could almost touch it. I will. I daren’t. I might. Would it feel cold? I daren’t.
20/1: Just took the snowgrip things off my shoes. They feel like something you might find in the haunted wing of a lingerie shop.
21/1: Early snowy stroll. I find myself trudging, so I try to vary it: jazz trudge/hero trudge/tap trudge/thoughtful trudge/satirical trudge/trudge.
28/1: Early stroll. A man at the bus stop wearily lifts his arm as the bus approaches: it’s an exhausted hand-jive, an almost-signal, a wavelet.
16/2: Early stroll. I come across three discarded pens, and an empty pack of headache tablets. A poet’s passed by, I reckon.
23/2: Early stroll. Here we go, another day to seize, from aubade to nocturne, from first kettle on to last light off!
1/3: Early stroll. Birds fly across the moon, blossom begins to appear on a tree down the hill. I’m walking through a haiku, it seems.
3/3: Early stroll. I’ve eaten my apple then find another apple on the pavement. Tempted to eat it, so tempted. Barnsley: garden of Eden. Me: Adam.
8/3: Early stroll. I say Good Morning to a bloke in a camouflage jacket and he seems surprised that I can see him.
9/3: Early stroll. There’s a door in a skip and I’m tempted to open it, go through, find a mystical and magical land. Somebody stares at me from a bus.
10/3: Freezing early stroll. Grit wagon trundles by and sprays me. Now I’m gritty. I’ll go home and write a country song and a detective novel.
11/3: Early stroll. By the almost-demolished school, a bunch of red fire extinguishers like chess pieces waiting for a game. Snow speckling them.
12/3: Early stroll. I see the bloke in the camouflage jacket again, but walking behind is a man in a hi-vis jacket. His evil twin/ soul/conscience?
14/3: Early stroll. A big piece of gold-coloured wrapping paper, lifted by a breeze, flies towards me like a primitive sculpture of a mythical bird.
23/3: Early snowy stroll. A craving for colour in the white. So, thanks to blue bag in tree, green sparkly hat in front of car, crushed marker pen.
29/3: Early stroll. Cold, brilliant blue morning. By the flats where the farm used to be I remember a fire, burning hay. I was 6. My face warms.
30/3: Early stroll. An empty bus passes and I crouch to look at the moon through its moving windows. The driver slows down, thinks I want to get on.
7/4: Early stroll. A mystery by the demolished school: a small box with HARMONICA written on it but no harmonica in it. I stand and listen: birds.
8/4: On my early stroll my left shoelace unravels itself: so that’s what walking is, a gradual progression that leaves you naked. Better speed up.
14/4: Early stroll. I walk past a door and the smell of toast and the sound of someone whistling and I want to go in and eat and whistle.
15/4: Early stroll. Beautiful visual image of five garage doors in a row, each door a different colour: a green/a blue/a green/a brown/a blue.
20/4: Early stroll. A row of black socks on a washing line seems to be walking in front of a tree just beginning to sprout pink blossom. I find 50p.
21/4: Early stroll. I wish I knew the proper names for clouds, but I don’t. So I’ll call that one George, that one Thinking, that one Yesterday.
25/4: Early stroll. Meet my brother who looks just like me. Our voices mingle in the morning air. Our breath hangs in sibling sentences.
26/4: Early stroll. I often see that horse in that tiny field but this is the first time I’ve seen that trampoline in the corner. Possibilities.
27/4: Early stroll. That house joined onto the dancing school is To Let. Imagine living there, living near rhythm. Living near jazz and tap.
2/5: Early stroll. I’ve walked up and down these hills for fifty years so I must have worn a groove. I’m erosion on my own.
4/5: Early stroll. I stand, as I often do, where the long-demolished football factory was, to listen for the sound of ghost footballs being made.
12/5: Early stroll. An abandoned ironing board near the paint shop. Six snails move towards it. A bread van lurches as it passes: inside, rolls roll.
16/5: Early stroll. A runner gasps by. The grumpy bloke who never returns my Good Morning returns it grumpily as we walk through fallen blossom.
18/5: Early stroll. Dandelion clocks in verges. Abandoned football on top of a bus shelter, looking like the moon. Clocks/moon: time/space stroll.
19/5: Early stroll. A tiny snail rushes towards a huge snail. A discarded lipstick sits on the floor, waiting for a smile.
26/5: Early stroll. Bright sunshine, and a full moon dawdling over my brother’s allotment, which is bathed in sunlight, moonlight, lettuce-light.
30/5: Early stroll. It’s such a lovely morning that I feel my shadow wanting to skip. I try to resist, but my shadow insists. Roof pigeons watch.
2/6: Early stroll. Equine excitement on the street: four escaped horses corralled into a front garden by a passer-by. House owner still asleep.
3/6: Early stroll. A plane makes a chalk mark across the sky. Passengers look down and say “there’s @IMcMillan on his stroll. We’re in his tweet”.
4/6: Early stroll. Under a sky the colour of boredom I hold my stomach in as I pass a Slimming World poster and almost tread on a slug.
5/6: Early stroll. Sculptures: the wheelie bin monoliths, the single stone placed on the low wall, the imperfect pavement circle of spilled pop.
13/6: Early stroll. A home-made (stick and string) bow and arrow on the floor. I pick them up. On the corner: a hubcap that could be a shield.
15/6: Early stroll. Muggy, damp. Two snails make their slow way towards two discarded beer cans near the roundabout. Party time next Tuesday.
30/6: Early stroll. A helicopter flies very low over my head just as I walk by a huge white arrow in the road that’s pointing at me. I walk faster.
6/7: Early stroll. Mist over the valley where the pit was. An empty eggshell on the floor as though the mist has escaped from the egg.
9/7: Early stroll. A fridge-freezer in a garden like the start of a fridgehenge, and a bus full of people in hi-vis jackets like a sun on wheels.
27/7: Early stroll. Dozens of snails climbing Mr Moody’s garden wall. Slow music on a brick piano. Rose petal patterns on the path.
28/7: Early stroll. Two small blue betting-shop pens on the floor tell a tale of hope. A single stick of rhubarb points Northward.
30/7: Early stroll. Someone has placed a hubcap on a low wall; it’s like a grey metal sunrise. I lean to try and align it with the real sunrise.
31/7: Early stroll. That brick-shaped piece of polystyrene means that someone, somewhere is building a polystyrene house. 4th little pig, maybe.
2/8: Early stroll. I find a single jigsaw piece by the empty houses. Turn it over: a blue sky. The man on the mobility scooter waves.
19/8: Early stroll. A vivid sunrise over the old pit then, unbelievably, a single orange button by the bakery. The sunrise represented.
22/8: Early stroll. Mist over the valley, the trees poking like broccoli. The man in the Men at Work sign is still wearing wellies. The moon hides.
23/8: Early stroll. In the soft-edged rain I buy a big bag of porridge at the shop then trudge down the street like a disappointing/surreal Santa.
24/8: Early stroll accompanied by the nihilistic dance music of a burglar alarm. Three party poppers stuck to the wall of the betting-shop: win!
26/8: Early stroll. The few pink clouds fade, reflecting the pink rose petals scattered on the pavement. Beside the chip forks. And that biscuit.
28/8: Early stroll. Moon like a half-constructed emoticon. A runner pounds by so I increase my walking speed momentarily. As does that ginger cat.
30/8: Early stroll. Bright cool morning. As I pass the streetlights they go out and I try to ignore the stone in my shoe which nags like a memory.
6/9: Early stroll. A few leaves on the floor like scouts for autumn’s wagon train. The temporary traffic lights are at red and I stand very still.
11/9: Early stroll. Three white vans pass, followed by a black van, then a white van. Like a chess game on wheels. One overtakes. One turns off.
14/9: Early stroll. Couldn’t find my glasses so the sunrise glowed like a three-bar electric fire and the grumpy bloke shone like a shaky angel.
15/9: Early stroll under shifting, dramatic skies. A white van trundles by, the passenger holding a map. I see it twice more: lost, wandering.
20/9: Early stroll. The moon slips in and out of the clouds, auditioning for a horror film. I stand in front of the new CCTV camera, holding a cucumber.
22/9: Early stroll. The moon hangs in the sky like an idea I wish I’d had. Two carers rush to change a flat tyre. Someone waits in a room somewhere.
23/9: Early stroll. Single lights: the security light illuminating the cemetery, the car with one headlight like a radioactive monocle, a bathroom.
26/9: Early stroll. Dark and quiet. The man on the mobility scooter nods as he rattles by, crushing a discarded Bob Marley cassette, tape waving.
30/9: Early stroll. I eat an apple from my tree under a fingernailclipping moon. The two grey-haired ladies walk by me laughing. I spit a pip high.
6/10: Early stroll. Vivid constellations remind me how small I am. A man says “Has tha seen a white dog?” Is that it there, shining in The Plough?
14/10: Early stroll. Morning still as a coat hanging in a wardrobe. I find a shiny penny beside a red removal van from Cornwall. A man’s cig glows.
15/10: Early stroll. Five minutes later than usual, so I pass different people. The bus shelter is empty. That light is on. That light is off.
19/10: Early stroll. Can you be dazzled by the moon? This morning I was. A red necklace lies on the path like a jewelled snake. Two shattered brollies.
21/10: Early stroll. A white cat looks at a white car, as though trying to decide what kind of cat it is. Two people ignore my cheery “Morning!”
22/10: Early stroll. The scaffolding on the pub throws beautiful shadows in the pavement. Raised voices from an upstairs room. A hedgehog bustles by.
30/10: Early stroll. I wish I could save this morning’s light in a shoebox and release it on a gloomy December afternoon.
1/11: Early stroll. In the heavy mist, a discarded 2p coin gleams like a fallen moon. I pocket it. Hens cluck at me from behind a hedge.
3/11: Early stroll. The sky is a delicate, questioning blue. That green box I moved off the road yesterday waits for me on the pavement, frostily.
5/11: Early stroll. Rain flecks my glasses and a man in a black coat and black hat passes with a black dog on a lead. Only the lead is visible.
18/11: Early stroll. A light goes off in a bedroom and on in a kitchen, as though light has fallen downstairs. Loaves are put on the bakery shelves.
22/11: Early stroll. Perspective and slope make that man as tall as a tree. A red van parked by a white van: wine on wheels.
24/11: Early stroll. A tennis ball sits in the pavement like a failed idea; the two older women who walk most mornings smile at the Christmas lights.
26/11: Early stroll. The moon is a huge grin in the sky. The dead cat by the Post Office looks oddly peaceful. The paper boy’s head is down, hood up.
28/11: Early stroll. The moon is in and out of the clouds. My old house is empty, but it has new windows. I lift a fallen bin. It clatters.
30/11: Early stroll. A clear sky vivid with stars and an astonishing sliver of almost-orange moon. Two skinny men in tracksuits appear from shadows.
2/12: Early stroll. Over several months that cardboard box has turned to mulch. It has a time-based beauty. I slip on it, laugh, slip again.
3/12: Early stroll. I’m held by the sight of leaves falling from a tree in the cemetery. The man in the paper shop draws his wife a map.
5/12: Early stroll. Those hedges have been trimmed so the view down that back street is different. I refuse simile, even when I see a red glove.
6/12: Early stroll. A woman in bright white shoes waits in a darkened bus shelter. A kid goes by on a bike with his hands in his pockets. Puddles.
7/12: Early stroll. Sign on a lamp post: LOST BLACK LAB. A man whizzes by on a bike, coat flapping like a super-hero’s cape. Cycleman!
8/12: Early stroll. A man comes out of his house, looks at the ladders on top of his van as though he’s contemplating climbing them to the moon.
13/12: Early stroll. The ginger cat beside the tarpaulined caravan. The tattered circus poster. The lit snooker table in the empty pub.
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