“…because there was nowhere to go but everywhere, keep rolling under the stars, generally the Western stars. –Jack Kerouac, On The Road
| It can be dangerous quoting Keroac, one of the most adventurous writers of the Beat Generation and who helped determine the course of what would be known as the youth decade, out of context, but I’m going to do it anyway. What he meant by…“there was nowhere to go but everywhere“…was checking off your bucket list; to do things you always wanted to do and go places you always wanted to go. But I want to expand and reinterpret it for this particular pause we are living through, given travel is now de rigueur. Instead of hopping on a plane, train, or in a Hudson Hornet and throwing caution to the wind, we could use our imagination to “go everywhere” – no passport required. And this is right up my alley. Specifically, back alleys. |
| Because you see, I am a flâneuse. |
| “Flâneuse,” you might well ask – “what is that?” |
| The male form, flâneur,is a French term for a person who ambles, meanders, and sanballousas the streets with no particular destination in mind, noticing little details and life along the way. The flâneur emerged from the imagination of Charles Baudelaire in his 1863 essay, “The Painter of Modern Life”. |
| And now given we are on physical distancing duty, strolling down back alleys is one way to walk mostly in solitude without constantly zigzagging. Besides, you probably need to practice physical distancing anyway…from the refrigerator. |
In my hubris, I thought I had invented flânerie. As far back as I can remember, whenever I visited a new place, I would immediately sling a camera around my neck and perambulate for hours, often every day.
Mostly I liked the back streets, the alleys, or laneways – as they are called in Australia – for that is where, through my peripatetic strolling, I can investigate and imagine another life of a place, it’s enigmatic secrets, it’s mysteries.
Back alleys hold a myriad of treasures: stencilling on buildings, sordid cars in disrepair, broken signs with interesting fonts, garbage-pickers, loading docks, cast off furniture, inspirational graffiti, shipping pallets, distressed brick, small flower gardens, electrical conduits, sagging porches, strains of radio music, patterns of low slanting light and deep shadows, peeling paint, battered bicycles, and layers upon layers of dirt and grittiness.
There is a lot of rich history, all the stuff you don’t see on a main street.
While strolling I look for photo opportunities. Taking pictures continues to train my eye, enlivens curiosity, and gives me a heightened meaning to a place.
Some of my best learning happens when I meander down a new path, wandering and wondering. I find things I did not expect and have an opportunity to know a place (or thing) in a way that sidewalks don’t afford.
We live in a culture where image is almost everything, and finding something truly authentic is increasingly difficult.
It would be hard, I suppose, to describe the mundane, the oddities, the detritus, as beautiful, but it can be truly fascinating and compelling.
I have two doctrines regarding walking.
Factoid #1: I have this thing about not walking back the same way I came. I would like to explain why, but there really isn’t a valid reason. Given my prescient history, I should have long ago abandoned this premise, replacing it with sanity.
Factoid #2: I don’t walk for more than two hours at a stretch without stopping for a a cappuccino. I obviously now have to review.
Factoid #3: I am out of toilet paper.
That was three things.
I like the rhythm of walking. I like being able to stop when I like, to lean against a building, or a tree, and make notes.
Michel de Certeau observes that “writing is one way of making the world our own, and walking is another.”
I walk because I have things on my mind and walking helps me sort them out. Thoughts come in a far clearer form when I am walking.
I also become less crabby.
And over sensitive? I can feel the word “pea” under 20 mattresses.
I walk because somehow, it’s like reading. I am there, but I’m not really there; I’m privy to lives and times that have nothing to do with me, but I may be able to imagine beyond what I observe. Even alone, there is always companionship.
Above all, I walk because it confers — or restores, a feeling of placeness, and allows for stillness and solitude.
But remember, if you do decide to venture out, please put on pants before leaving the house. Standards cannot be allowed to drop.
You know who you are.
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