A couple of days ago I was laying in bed with hardcore stomach cramps, running a fever, when the memory of similar moments came flooding back: like the time I lay huddled against a betel stained wall of Mumbay's airport . Thoughts of travel led me to ponder once again the differences between neo-wanderers and nomads, the latter shrouded in the sound of songlines collapsing into Chatwin. Thinking of writers, I am reminded of Henry Miller and of how he was always going for walks, dreaming his world into existence during his strolls around Brooklyn. Then I think of current experiments like annotate space and 34n118w and I cant help but image myself wandering around NYC searching for Miller's thought blog on street corners, disused theaters and chinese restaurants.
Henry Miller walking around Paris, thinking up Tropic of Cancer, a novel that defied many previous literary conventions.
Finding new ways to tell stories; defining new ways to roam through space.
Walking and talking.
Evolving, transforming storytelling.
Vast landscapes that come into being through narration architecture.
And then I think of how delicate such stories could be. How fragile their permanence in time. How similar in essence to oral traditions. How vaporous our current digital production is. Websites that disappear, early software that can no longer be accessed, silent hardware. Will streets that start talking still be heard in decades, centuries to come?
And are there already stories embedded around us, we can no longer hear? Is technology linked to magic?
Then all questions, thoughts fly away as marixxx walks in and kisses me with paradise-soft lips full of haikus.