Posts Tagged ‘writing’

Always. Forever.
The whole of the rest of time.
That’s when I’ll miss you.

I remember, as a teenager, discovering a Pete Atkin / Clive James song that had a line about “the few good books that really count”. That struck a chord. What really counts? Since then I have written a lot, including a few books that have gone to multiple editions, but I wouldn’t be so bold as to say that any of it really counted for much, or for anything at all. But how would you judge such a thing? Am I waiting for a Nobel Prize, or an international best-seller, or what? What would show that something I had written really counted?

This week I saw somebody on Twitter post up three lines from an old poem of mine. I think it might have been a haiku that I made in response to an online daily prompt, years ago. At the time I must have thought the lines were OK, and, as you do, I posted them out there into the ether to make their own way. And I forgot about them. But here they were  again, posted up on somebody else’s timeline with my name at the bottom  – almost as if I was a real writer, and this was a real poem.  I clicked “like” and I tweeted back my pleasure that they had found, liked and reposted my lines.

They tweeted back. “Oh yes,” they said. “Had I not noticed how they tweeted those three lines each year on this same date?”

Always. Forever.
The whole of the rest of time.
That’s when I’ll miss you.

And there it was. I have no idea what this day represents, but these  lines, for them, and so now for me, too, had counted for something. Enough for that reader to draw them back, each year, on this day, to do their thing. These are the lines they have chosen to do something better, for that reader at least, than any other lines could do.

Such a small thing, perhaps. Just one person on Twitter, whom I have never met, and is on another continent on the other side of the world, almost as far from where I live as it is possible to be, calls up my three sad lines each year on this date. For me, that’s my Nobel Prize, my international best-seller. Three lines that count for something, for someone. That’s all I can ask for.

But now I feel sad, that such sad lines of mine are in somebody else’s heart.




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Here is an extract from my next novel. This is the bit where Anna, the scientist, takes Martin, the artist’s agent, to the bridge at Kangerlussuaq and talks about art. This bit happens in Greenland in the late 1980s.


Reaching the doorway, Martin reached forward to push the door open for the girl, but found he was pushing on a door that opened to a pull. Anna laughed, took the same handle and pulled the door open. “You really need to learn a few words of Danish”, she said. “Look, it says ‘pull’.”

“No, it says ‘traek’ – what is that? Is that Greenlandic?”

“No, it’s Danish for ‘pull’. It’s a very useful little word. You should learn some of those”

As they went through the door Martin’s attention was caught by a large painting that filled the wall of the little entrance lobby in which they stood between the outer doors into the parking area and the inner doors that led into the transit hall. Anna was at the inner door, ahead of him, and saying “See? traek!” She opened the inner door for them both to go into the transit hall, where similar paintings were hung high on the walls all around. The style seemed familiar, and for just a moment Martin wondered…

“These aren’t your father’s, are they?”

Anna, surprised, looked up at the paintings. “No, no.” She laughed and turned to face the boy “Are you serious? They are nothing like his. They’ve always been here. I don’t know whose they are – perhaps they were commissioned by the architect – I have no idea. But it is a good job you didn’t say that to my Dad. The other AGA people at least seemed to know their art, and he respected that in them, if nothing else.”

“I know my art. I just thought…” He stood back from the wall and squinted up to get a clearer view of the painting closest to them. It was a soft impressionistic landscape of hills and a river with a bridge. “Is that not the sort of thing your Dad would paint?”

The girl screwed up her nose “He always says he doesn’t paint things, he paints the ideas of things. That one looks to me like just a thing. It reminds me of the thing, not of the way I think about the thing. So, no.”

Martin looked at the painting a little longer. “It reminds me of a bridge. It looks perfectly like the idea of a bridge to me.”

Anna sighed, perhaps a little impatient with somebody who turned out not to know as much about art, and about her father’s art, as she had imagined he did. Suddenly he was just a boy in London shoes standing in an unfamiliar place showing that he did not know… that he did not know her.

She said: “Have you ever been to that particular bridge?”

He said. “I have no idea – where is it?”

“If that were one of my father’s paintings you would know right away if you had been to that bridge because the painting would make you feel just the way you did when you were there. Look at it – how do you feel about that bridge?”

Martin was struggling. He raised his shoulders and squinted his eyes… and then gave up. “I have no idea – it’s just a bridge. I don’t think I recognise it.”

The girl was frustrated. “Remember now exactly how you feel about that bridge in the picture.” She paused, and the boy looked again at the picture high above him. He was starting to regret having mentioned it, and beginning to get a bit bored of the soft landscape with its little bridge.

“Now come with me. But remember that picture and remember that feeling.” Anna turned briskly and walked back the way they had come in. leaving the boy to hurry behind her to catch her up as she stood at the inner doorway out of the transit hall. She stared pointedly at the boy and down at the door handle. “Skub. Push. Now you know two Danish words.”

Martin reached down to the handle with the word skub engraved onto it, and he pushed. “There, said Anna, “you learn by seeing and doing” and she reached for the handle of the outer door herself, but the boy reached past her and they put their hands on it together.

“Skub” said the boy and pushed. The girl took her hand quite quickly off the handle and walked ahead through the doorway. She led the boy back through the little parking area, which was blocked completely by a truck marked with the TEC logo, and turned to the right along the road past the back of the airport building. They walked together along the road past the junction where the track up the valley split off to the left, and followed the tarmac around a long bend to the right that curved past the end of the runway.

“Kangerlussuaq is only here because of the runway” said Anna. Originally, when it was an American Air Base, all the buildings were over on the far side of the runway. Then for years there were essentially two separate airports using the same runway, the Americans over there and the civilian Danish and Greenlandic airport over here. Now everything comes through the Danish side and the old American base has been converted to things like extra accommodation and science facilities. The road goes past all of that and down to the river.” She stopped suddenly and turned to the boy who was half a pace behind her – “where there is a bridge!” She turned again and walked on.

“Ah, you’re taking me to learn about bridges.”

“No” she half turned her head to call back to him “I am taking you to learn about art. Keep up. If you can’t talk about art my father will never agree to anything.”

“You’re helping me?”

“Of course I’m helping you. We both want the same thing. Not the contract, I don’t care about that – although…” she pretended to look thoughtful “I suppose it would be a shame if you lost your job. But no, I don’t care about the contract but it would be nice if my father would move on, and painting again might help him with that.”

The road here passed over a narrow bridge beneath which the river from the ice hurried out towards the fjord. Anna leant against the railing, looking down at the water rushing underneath. Between the bridge and the opening of the broad waters of the fjord was a long stretch of tidal mud and sandflats, and before that, running right up to, and underneath the bridge, an area of curiously smoothed and sculpted rock, covering hundreds of square meters, through which the river cut a sharp gorge.

“It doesn’t look much on a day like this,” she said, “all neatly contained in its channel, with the sun shining, and the bridge here for us to look down from. Look around – see the flat grey rock stretching down to the sea. Look at the shape of that hill across the valley. Look, see the design of this bridge… do you recognise it?”

“Yes, yes,” the boy held up his hands as though in submission, thinking he had seen the girl’s point. “It’s the bridge from the painting at the airport. OK. I get it.”

“No, you don’t get it.” She shook her head and walked ahead of him to the far side of the bridge. At the end of the railings she turned off the road and scrambled down the embankment to the smooth rocky surface beside the gorge. The river was rushing, forced through the narrow gap like water bursting out of a tap. Up close the water seemed heavy with grey dirt, and surprisingly fast. And surprisingly loud. The sound echoed up off the walls of the gorge and back down from the bridge that was above them as Martin squatted down beside her.

“It looks different up close” he shouted above the roar, “I’ll give you that”.

“All this water,” she said, “comes off the ice sheet. Melted from ice that has been there for hundreds of thousands of years. Hundreds of thousands – can you imagine? The Romans were in Britain two thousand years ago, the Egyptian pyramids were built four or five thousand years ago. This water was ice, in that glacier just there, for hundreds of thousands of years. It fell as snow and then waited all that time, slowly moving out towards the edge, and then – this year, a particular snowflake, a particular ice crystal finally melted, flowed into the river and within hours, after thousands of years as ice, in just an hour after waking up and coming alive it is flowing through here and then,” she pointed at a spot on the surface of the rushing flow under the bridge and quickly swung her arm round with the flow and out towards the fjord “and then whoosh, it is through here and out in to the sea. And that little bit of the sea here that the river flows into, that goes out into the Davis Strait, which connects to the Labrador Sea, which is connected to the Atlantic Ocean, which is connected to the Southern Ocean, and the Pacific and the Indian Ocean. It is all one big world ocean that this snowflake evaporated out of when we were still Neanderthals living in caves and now” (she spread out the words one by one for emphasis) “after, all, those, years in the ice it is flowing, finally, back into the sea. It’s an amazing, amazing journey.”

“And this river” she carried on, “if you look at the map you will see it carries all the water draining of a huge area of this section of the ice sheet. Even when climate is steady the ice is constantly melting at the edges and being replaced by new snow in the middle, but with climate warming more and more of it is melting. There is a huge amount of water coming through here. Even now, at low flow near to the end of the season – how much water do you think is coming through here as you watch?”

The boy had no idea even how to measure or count water flow “In what? Tonnes, Gallons?”

However you like, whatever makes sense to you when you imagine it.”

“OK, well…” the boy looked down into the water and tried to imagine it as a weight, because, more than he had ever noticed in a river before, perhaps because it was so opaque and flowing so fast, this water seemed to have real weight, real momentum as it flowed past. “I don’t know – a tonne every second” He thought he was wildly overestimating what was, after all, a fairly narrow river.

“Today, a quiet day, this is about one hundred tonnes a second, if you want to think in tonnes” Anna replied. Martin’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“We measure water flow in cubic meters per second, ‘cumecs’ for short. A cubic meter of water weighs about one tonne, depending on its sediment content, so we’ll just say a cumec is a tonne. This water is flowing at about two or three meters per second, it goes fast through the gorge, and the gorge when it’s this full has a cross sectional area of about thirty square meters.” She saw Martin looking unsure. “I mean it’s about ten meters wide and where it is up to today it is about three meters deep, so that’s ninety cubic meters, or tonnes for you, of water flowing past this point every single second. She counted them out loud for him as they passed: ninety, ninety, ninety, ninety. But this is the river being quiet. In one of the big floods they calculated the discharge, the volume of water flowing – you won’t believe this – was fifteen hundred cumecs – fifteen hundred tonnes of water per second. Per second. The water than was nearly six meters deep here, way over our heads, and going even faster. At peak flow in one of the big floods as much as a hundred million tonnes of water comes under this bridge in a day.”

“I’ve actually seen one of those floods, and even I, when I stand here on a day like today, even I can’t really imagine, or really remember what that was like. It’s almost too big to hold in your head afterwards. And look at these rocks.” She stood up and walked a little way down stream away from the bridge, and onto the smooth, polished rock between the bridge and the fjord. It was a landscape unlike anything the boy had seen before, It was bare rock, and he could see the same patterns of crystals and the odd striped structure that he had noticed in all the rocks around the airport and when he was out at the glacier, but here the rocks were not textured like rock but like glass, or like metal that had melted and flowed and then set into curious waved patterns and then been highly polished and burnished as if to make some kind of huge organic sculpture.

“Some people say that this pattern is caused by the big floods carrying so much sand and silt that they sculpt the rocks into this shape. Other people say that even a flood like that would not be so powerful to do this without just breaking the rocks apart, and they say that this happened underneath the glacier, when ice hundreds of meters thick covered this whole area. Under the ice, at high pressure, these floods were still happening, but pressed against the rock under the huge pressure of the glacier above, they made these shapes. Look.” She knelt down and ran her hand around a curious looping groove in the rock. She reached up and took the boy’s hand, and as he knelt beside her she guided his hand into the curve of the rock so that his fingers could feel how it curved up out of sight into a tight but complex pattern inside the curls and swoops of the carved groove. Imagine, under the ice, all those years ago, in the dark, under all that pressure, the force of what must have done this.” She let go of his hand and stood up “And now here it all is, this evidence – if you are a scientist like me – all this evidence in the landscape of what happened. You, you look at this and you see curiously shaped rocks. Me, I look at the rocks and I see that huge ancient subglacial flood.”

“Well, not any more, now I look at them and I see…” He hesitated. What he saw was the girl, talking with such emotion about a world that she appreciated in a way that he had never thought of. He did not finish his sentence, and the girl carried on.

“If Dad painted this, his painting would not just be a painting of the bridge, it would be a painting of everything we just talked about, all that imagination, all your feelings, and where the water came from, and that enormous length of time, and the water being so old. But none of it would be there on the surface. It would be showing through, shining through… bleeding through from underneath.”

The boy looked out to the west out across the rocks to the fjord. Far, far in the distance, perhaps 50 miles away through the clear arctic air, mountains at the coast were brightly capped in snow. The girl turned to face the other way, looking up past the bridge, towards Sandflugtsdalen and the ice.

“After my mother was killed and I came out here with my Dad, I used to walk around these rocks thinking it was the last chance, the last place we might find anything of hers that had been washed downstream. Anything she had lost as she fell. I don’t know what I was looking for – not specifically the notebook. Just anything. But this water… The last time she was alive was in this water.”

Martin looked up saw that she was crying. She turned quickly away from him and walked across the rocks back towards the bridge. He caught up with her and she wiped tears from her eyes. “None of that is in the painting in the airport, not for me,” she said. “I can’t recognise this bridge in that painting. If my Dad had painted it, his painting would make me feel the way that I feel about this place, which I can’t even describe. When there are things that mean so much that you can’t even describe them, that’s what poetry is for. That’s what my Dad used to paint for. I asked him, not long ago, if he would paint this bridge, this river. He said it was too big. Some things are too big to paint. I think that is his problem. That’s why he stopped painting. Everything inside him became so big that he could no longer fit it onto canvas, and now I think it has all become so big that he can’t even look at it.”

With tears still in her eyes she turned again, but slowly this time, and they walked together back across the bridge towards Kangerlussuaq. They walked side by side in silence.


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The Rules of Writing

1. There are no rules of writing.

2. If you want there to be rules for writing, that’s ok. You can make some up.

3. If you follow rule 2, you must delete rule 1.

4. If you delete rule 1, you’re on your own.







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I suppose this will be a sort of travel book. Not the sort that is packed with tales of adventure on the high seas, or encounters with native tribesmen, I’m afraid. And not the sort that furnishes Sunday timetables to Sidcup. But it is a travel book, nevertheless. Of course, it cannot pretend to be one of those magnificent travel books in the classic tradition, bristling with names like Ulaan Bator and Kasakhstan, and accompanied by a short glossary of geographical terms such as steppe, altiplano and serac. When you shake a real travel book, faded steamer tickets and diamond-shaped baggage labels should slip out from between cinnamon scented pages. The book should carry the souvenirs of its travels as jewels of prose, and as incense in the aroma of the binding. The spine should have been restitched by an eskimo girl, using lengths of her own hair as thread, and you should still be able to smell the seal oil from that final night together in the igloo.

Now, this book might not smell of seal oil, but here is an interesting thing. Any child who has had to learn capital cities for a school geography test will have heard of Ulaan Bator. Anyone with a map of the world on their bedroom wall will have looked, and chuckled, and wondered at the name. But hardly anyone, at least in my part of the world, has ever been there.  And none of my friends, or family, or even complete and puzzled strangers that I stop on the street outside my house know of anyone at all who actually comes from there. However, the great thing, the wonderful thing, the thing that reaffirms my faith in Geography and imagination, is that I have never met anybody who doesn’t actually believe in the place. Ulaan Bator is an act of faith. It may or may not really exist, and for most of us it really doesn’t matter. For most people, the same is true of Stoke-on-Trent, which is where this travel book begins.

Unless you come from Ulaan Bator, Stoke-on-Trent might not seem like the most exotic location to start off a travel book. Now, I have travelled all over the world. I have trekked across the Arctic tundra with only reindeer for company, and I have seen the mighty ice bergs drifting out of Jakobshavn Fjord. I have climbed the ash strewn slopes of Chimborazo and Cotopaxi to see icicles on the equator and looked down on seas of  tropical cloud.  I’ve been across the wide Missouri, and along the Great Divide, and okay, so I haven’t ever actually been to Sidcup on a Sunday, but I have been around. I know a wilderness when I see one. I know what “remote” looks like. I know the sulfurous smell of hot springs that bubble out from beneath glaciers a mile thick, and I know the smell of the desert when leaking fuel soaks into the sand and someone siphons oily water from the radiator into a dented billy can. But in all my travels, of all the places I have lived, Stoke takes the absolute biscuit (or pemmican) for remote. It is a lost civilisation. An undiscovered tribe. There are people here who will reglue the spine of your tattered travel book with clay from their own boots, and bake a fine glazed tile of Eskimo Nell to decorate the front, using dust that they licked from the back of your faded steamer ticket. Stoke, believe me, is as strange and magical a place as any.

One of the wonderful things that I have discovered in travelling the globe is that these lost tribes, these closed and idiosyncratic civilisations, these strange and magical places, are to be found in the most surprising locations. Often they are alarmingly close to home. In the days when explorers penetrated dark continents by paddling upstream along rivers that came from who knows where, the mountains and forests in between the waterways stood as bastions of maplessness against the extending fingers of discovery and civilisation. Nowadays the same is true of the communities that lie in the dark and inaccessible parishes inbetween the motorways. The towns that through-traffic forgot. They survive as cultural refugia. Capsules of time and attitude where outsiders seldom visit, and where the sons of potters raise potters of their own.

Probably the most famous footballer of all time, and certainly the most famous English footballer, was Stanley Matthews. When I was a boy, nearly fifty years ago, his legendary footballing exploits were already the stuff of dim and distant history.He lived on in cigarette cards and old black and white newsreels, with knee-length shorts and rolled up sleeves, running with flickering, jerky, newsreel steps. I grew up in Birmingham, only 40 miles from Stoke, and never once in my entire youth did I hear of Stanley Matthews referred to in the present tense. He was a hero of the golden past, and I assumed him long since dead. Half a lifetime later, I moved to live in Stoke-on-Trent and I encountered Sir Stanley, in the present tense, almost daily. He was a pillar of the community. He opened civic parks and supermarkets built on redeveloped clay pits, he featured in the local press, he unveiled a brand new statue of himself in front of the brand new Potteries Shopping Centre. Stanley Matthews was alive and well and living in Stoke on Trent. And guess what. My own childhood hero, the England goalkeeper Gordon Banks, the greatest goalkeeper of all time: he was here too! I have heard it said that once you come here you can never leave. Perhaps it is for that same reason that we don’t know anyone from Ulaan Bator. May be, like Potters, they just don’t get out much.

I would guess that no one in Ulaan Bator knows anyone from Stoke, either. However, one thing I have learned is that the world is designed to surprise us. Or, rather, we are designed to be surprised by the world. For me, finding that I lived in Stoke was a huge surprise. I didn’t know I was coming here until after I arrived. Because of its peculiar local geometry, the natural laws of Geography seem not to apply. It is a strange but true fact that if  you really want to visit Stoke-on-Trent, you can only succeed by following signs to somewhere else. If you follow the motorway signs or take the train directly to Stoke, you will, as God intended, be surprised at where you end up. And if, when you get over your surprise, you start to follow signs for the city centre, they will take you several miles to a different town altogether, a busy little town called Hanley that really is the heart of the city, despite the fact that it bears a different name and has never been heard of outside North Staffordshire. It is almost as if Stoke itself is a cunning disguise, a front, a theatrical prop set up for outsiders. All the real action, the real Stoke, has been moved next door to another, secret, town. Like all the best hidden civilisations and lost tribes, elaborate concealments hide it from the explorer.

When I applied for a job at the University of Keele, the booklet told me that it was a quiet campus near some little town that I had never heard of in rural Staffordshire, easily accessible from the M6 motorway, and about midway between Birmingham and Manchester. I don’t recall them mentioning that, oh yes, by the way, we are more or less in Stoke-on-Trent. I suppose they must have done, but warnings are useless: Stoke cannot be seen when looked at directly. Whether light and sound cannot escape from it, like a geographical black hole, or whether the mind conceals what it does not expect to see, I don’t know. But Stoke can have been there all the time and you just didn’t know it. Just like Ulaan Bator.

If this is a travel book, it is about time that we embarked. I have warned you that we will not be going to Ulaan Bator with an eskimo seamstress, but you will want your money’s worth, and we should have at least an itinerary before we depart this chapter. We should at least have done some packing. First of all, we must have a motive. May be we need to open up a new trans-polar trade route. May be we want to find the untold treasures of the east. May be we have a lunch appointment in Sidcup, or may be we just want to get out of here.

In fact, Eskimos aren’t eskimos any more. They are called Inuit. And the people i grew up calling “red Indians” turn out to be Native Americans, with a hundred individual names that I don’t know. All the old imperial and colonial terminologies that defined Geography for English school children for generations hundreds of years have been replaced with labels and titles that are both new but at the same time much older than the terms that I grew up with, Geography is a wonderfully flexible thing. Most of it was made up on the spot as new things turned up needing names, and it can be altered, it seems, more or less on a whim. I had Canada all shaded in as a country I had visited, and then they established Nunavut, and I had to rub out half of my shading.  In case I forget to mention it when we visit Greenland later in the book, Greenland isn’t called Greenland, either. It’s called Kalaallit Nunaat. That means “the land where the people live”, because the name was made up by  nomadic hunters roaming the arctic who didn’t know that there were places, or people, anywhere else. I think Nunavut means pretty much the same thing, which could become confusing. And while we are at it, just for the record, the Fins call Finland Suomi, and Ulaan Bator isn’t called Ulaan Bator any more, so we couldn’t go there anyway.

The pages of my travel diaries are not for the most part cinnamon-scented. There were sticky cinnamon buns from the Auld Toon Café that we used to fetch in for breakfast when we were students in Aberdeen, but they are memorable more for sticky pink icing than for cinnamon. I used to travel a lot, and have a box full of little note books recounting where I went and what I did. Mostly the entries are cryptic to the point of uselessness as documentary evidence. “September 3rd. Helicopter late because pilot’s head chopped off. Arrive Kangerlussuaq 3pm. Cake. Snow.” Sometimes I seem to have been too busy to write much. I have one diary that just says: “Summer: USA, Greenland, Europe, South America.” May be I forgot to pack a pen. Since I moved to Stoke, I have gradually travelled less and less, until one day I found myself having woken up in the same bed in the same room every morning for two years. They’ve got me. I’m stuck. I’ve hit the Stoke gravity well. I’m never going to leave. I was talking to my next door neighbour yesterday. It’s mid-June, high summer, and he’s telling me that he just took the car in to have the winter tyres changed for summer tyres because he might want to drive somewhere. His car has only clocked up a couple of hundred miles in the last 12 months. He went to Halifax for the day once, and drove around Stoke, and that’s it. Well not me. They don’t get me that way. I left a trail of bread crumbs, or string, or something, and I can find my way out. A motive? Hell, it’s an inspiration! Let’s get going.

What you see up ahead depends on your point of view. To some extent it depends on how you feel about the things that you see falling into the distance in the rear view mirror. People seem to think the mirror is for checking out what is coming up on you from behind, but that’s not so. It is for watching the things you have passed slip further and further back. Watching the train of breadcrumbs fade into the distance. Watching the string roll out from the reel behind you and trail backwards in your wake. Showing you the way back. What would happen if you started to reel some of it back in? Like hauling a long submerged fishing line out of the water, covered in slime and tangled with old boots and bits of wire. And there in the line, fixed like beads, are the places and people and moments of your life. The milestones of the journey, large and small. Some well remembered, others, little colourless lumps encrusted with barnacles, long forgotten. This was your life. But most of it is hard to see. Shadows of the past. You can’t go back. You peer at some unfamiliar shape, some rusted scrap caught in the line, but the closer you look the harder it is to discern its original shape. If you look at it directly it vanishes from sight. It can only be seen when you look slightly to one side; only at the periphery of vision, when you are not sure whether you are really seeing it at all: not sure whether it is memory or imagination.

And what if we turn forwards, looking out across the bow of the ship? The line stretches out ahead of us, dipping under the water like a ferry chain. As you pull it towards you out of the water you pull yourself forward along your path, and as the line comes out, there are the little beads. The jewels and the plastic baubles, people and places and events of your life. Some are new. Some are surprising, but some you recognise. Some you are revisiting. Here is Stoke again. There’s Sir Stanley, older than you remember him. That eskimo girl isn’t showing up again, but look, there’s Aberdeen. There’s Oxford. Look, they knocked down the pastry shop where Marty used to work. Who’d have believed it.  I wonder whatever became of Marty: hey, let’s go and visit. And no sooner have you decided than here comes Marty, hanging onto the line and waving hello. “Long time no see. What brings you?” And then you realize: what comes up from the unseen deep and rises along the line to meet you is partly your choice. It is you that hauls in the line, and you that chooses which of its jewels to seek out and recognise. To revisit. Where you go next is up to you. You can’t go back, but you can go again.

[This entry is an edited version of something I previously wrote on my web page, years ago, but I’ve added here because it fits so well as part of the new  “Places We Have Known” category]

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There are many books that recount the astonishing adventures of brave individuals in fabulous locations. I could not write one of those books. My adventures are not so astonishing. I am not so brave. But some of the places I have been are fabulous, and I have one thing in common with those brave authors: the urge to write something about where I have been and something about the adventures – however small they were – that I have had. No, I am not even Prufrock, let alone Prince Hamlet, but although I never saw those attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion, I did at least look into the night sky, and sometimes I remembered what I saw.

At least, I think I remembered what I saw. As time moves on, it is increasingly hard to be sure, and it is uncertainty that gives me confidence. Unlike the brave authors of those astonishing adventures I am only going to write about things that happened so long ago that they may as well have been forgotten by now, and if I remember them at all I will be forgiven for remembering them imprecisely.  And because these things happened so long ago, it is inevitable that they happened in places that no longer exist. Yes, Greenland is still there; Iceland, Ecuador, San Francisco, Oxford, Birmingham – they are all still on the map, of course. But what defines a place is not necessarily what you can see on a map. Marcel Proust wrote: “The places we have known do not belong only to the world of space on which we map them for our own convenience”. Revisiting a road that he had known well many years before, and finding that the people he associated with it were no longer there Proust wrote: “The reality that I had known no longer existed. It sufficed that Mme Swann did not appear, in the same attire and at the same moment, for the whole avenue to be altered,”

Enough time has passed, and the cast of characters is sufficiently changed, that, even if you were to visit the site of one of my adventures, it would be gone, in every way but on the map.

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I am starting a new category within this blog to house posts for a new writing project. So if you see anything new with the “The Places We Have Known” category you will know it is part of that project, and if you decide to follow that project then you can just look up everything in the “The Places We Have Known” category! If it takes off, I’ll move it into a new blog. If it dies the death, it may as well do so here, quietly, while nobody much is watching. Whether this is part of the empire or part of the termite army remains to be seen. Watch this space but, as always, avoid holding your breath. Why is it called “The Places We Have Known”? It’s from Proust: “The places we have known do not belong only to the world of space on which we map them for our own convenience.” Like everything, it is about Geography, History and Memory.

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An idea: a blackout book!

How about this for an idea? I’ve written previously about “blackout poetry”, inspired by the work of Austin Kleon. (Here’s that previous post)  The idea is that you make a poem by blacking out most of the words on a printed page of a newspaper, leaving just a few words behind. Previously, I tried it with the first page of a Geography text-book as a way of teaching. Now I’ve had an idea… rather than just doing odd pages, how about doing a whole book? Blackout Kerouac. Blackout Hemingway. I could do a separate little poem for each page of the book, or perhaps they could be tied together into a blackout poetry epic stretching through page after page. As with my idea for using blackouts to help students find deeper meanings in text-book pages, I could make the blackouts into a book-within-a-book, telling a deeper story, or a counterpoint story to the one originally printed. So… what book to use as a starting point? I’m thinking something from classic literature like Moby Dick or Anna Karenina. But, then, that would be a mammoth task. Perhaps I want something smaller. Heart of Darkness? Death in Venice? Yes, there’s an idea. Watch this space but, as ever, don’t hold your breath.

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This week I have been putting together material for a book chapter about glaciers in literature, film and music. I was looking for an example to start the chapter to show how glaciers are often used as metaphors in art. I went with this one.

Ned Selfe is a musician who grew up in the deep south of the USA and is now based in Hawaii. His main instrument is the Steel Guitar. In 1995, when he produced his first album, he chose the title “Glaciers Come, Glaciers Go”. It didn’t seem an obvious choice of title for a rock-jazz new age album by a Hawaii-Southerner with tracks called Castaway, Wavelength and Ocean Avenue, so I wrote to ask him why. He explained that he wanted an image that would allude to the transitory nature of human consciousness: we all tend to inflate our current problem or obsession into a giant megalith that seems forever unchanging and all consuming, when in fact it will soon melt and fade into the next thing that will occupy our thoughts.

Selfe told me that the idea of using the glacier for that metaphor came from  his reading of M. Scott Peck’s book “The Road Less Travelled”. Writing about how we choose a map for our life, Peck wrote: “… the biggest problem of map-making is not that we have to start from scratch, but that if our maps are to be accurate we have to continually revise them.  The world itself is constantly changing.  Glaciers come, glaciers go.  Cultures come, cultures go.  …the vantage point from which we view the world is constantly and quite rapidly changing… we must continually revise our maps.”

You can say a lot using glaciers as a metaphor. Even if you say it from Hawaii with a steel guitar.

In 2000 the film maker Ruth Meyer made a short dance film “Breath Crystal” in memory of her grandparents who died in Auschwitz. It was a choreographic interpretation of the Paul Celan poem “Weggebeist” from Celan’s volume of poetry Atemkristall (Breathcrystal) written in commemoration of the victims of the holocaust. The film’s message about our fragility and yet our ability to overcome is delivered through a dancer’s journey across the ice of the Turtmann Glacier, Switzerland, and the glass objects that he encounters while Celan’s voice intones the lines of the poem over the soundtrack.

People have used glaciers to say a lot of different things in a lot of different ways.


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One of the hearts of Geography is the search for a sense of place: the quest to identify, capture, record and represent the essence of a location. Japanese haiku poetry does much the same thing. Sometimes at the scale of a bug under a leaf, sometimes at the scale of a view to the distant horizon, Haiku try to capture in a succinct and tightly formalised way the essence of what a geographer would call a landscape.

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As I get into the “actually writing” stage of my current book project (Glacier, for Reaktion Books) I find myself writing quite differently from how I’ve written previous books.

Previously, I’ve had ideas, developed a plan, and then written stuff down – looking up any facts and figures that I needed as I went along. It seemed to work OK, and it was pretty easy. Perhaps because this new book ranges into areas where my prior knowledge was less complete than my knowledge for the previous books, I set about this one in what I imagined to be the way that real authors work: I started by doing some research! With the “How to write your dissertation” book, for example, research had not really been required. Everything that went into the book was already in my mind before I started the project. All that was required was for me to think of a neat way to say much the same things that I had been saying to students for years. Similarly with the old “Glaciers” book: I pretty much knew what I needed to say, and just had to check details as I wrote.  This one has been different. For a couple of years now I have been collecting, with terrific help from my wife, all manner of bits and pieces of information that are quite new to me, and I have discovered all sorts of things that I previously knew nothing about! I’ve been helped by people such as musicians, art curators and historians with whom I don’t normally have much to do and I have accumulated a mass of material that now needs to be sorted, arranged and turned into the content of this book. So far, I have worked through the accumulated notes and documents for a couple of the chapters trying to put them into an appropriate “narrative”, and I have to say it is quite difficult! It’s a bit like being a student again – setting out to write something on a topic about which you are still learning. Perhaps this is a bad thing. Perhaps a real author should have already discovered everything about the topic, internalised all that knowledge and turned it into understanding, and be ready at the point of writing to present the fully polished pearls. Well, I’m still polishing the pearls as I arrange them into a sensible order.

The difference between the two approaches is a bit like the difference between trying to make something out of a collection of pearls (which I seem to be attempting this time) and trying to make a pearl out of some stuff in my head (which is what my previous approach felt like). I have a feeling that for me this new approach is going to involve an extra step in the end: when I’ve made a string of polished pearls I suspect I may decide that I didn’t want a necklace after all and may have to condense and refashion it into… well, I don’t know. And that’s where my new approach is just like my old one: part of the fun of writing is not knowing quite what you are going to turn out to have said!

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