Ejector Seat

a sunny day the route was planned to pass  a guesthouse known to welcome international  travellers in fascism - Bormann-types after a seaside billet and Thule Society holidaymakers there was a fat man in shorts sitting  outside the breakfast-room bay windows smirking at our parade of lollipop placards signs offered VACANCIES the ancient-always invite

Boundaries are not safe; they occupy neither time nor space...they let things through.  Alan Garner, Boneland (2012) quoted in Foregrounding the Psychology in Psychogeography , Andrea Capstick (2019) I did not walk along Boundary Road EH14 trees heavy with shade   inspiring people who have blazed  I did not walk along Boundary Road G73 palisade fencing bent into shimmering curves   a guide to making representations  I did not walk along Boundary Road KA8 tarmac speckled white   similar businesses nearby: the lost world I did not walk along Boundary Road CA2 fenced in overgrown triangle   enhancer-promoter interactions were detected in this locus I did not walk along Boundary Road TS1 shuttered red building and a steel bridge   disoriented terms used are ritual I did not walk along Boundary Road TS6 bungalows scoping cricket pitches   subjects of the sun-descended king I did not walk along Boundary Road YO16 wild poppies surrounding a junction bo

I decided to do the ‘walk’ along every road named Boundary Road, partly as nostalgia for the first ‘shopping street’ remembered (pushed there in pram and more recently walked to hundreds of times since  – they could scatter me there after death) – however this walk was a confinement version using googlemaps – stroking a touchpad rather than striding along –  it being a case of any port in a storm in these situations – virus laws guidance and caution making this mass of streets temporarily inaccessible as a fabled Forbidden City / Lost World / Hidden Earth daily trips an approximate gazetteer conjured in pixels  creating the world’s double  – a bargain golem this action a minor stream flowing backwards through the surveillance channels transforming my peripheral cell into the panopticon’s central observation tower at first seemed like a pointless and pallid exercise – no way to pick up an object / smell the air / buy a pasty from Julie’s Cafe – no presence in the space 

  headlines reporting a different  quality of dreaming experienced by an immobile population  a slow wade through submerged streams of distraction now could be the optimum time to have comforting Lovecraft reimagined in friendly  terms – safer zombies  – a multiverse reboot calibrated for nostalgia – an edgelands fan site to suck down pleasing palliatives  to sink beneath piles of  sugar-dusted fun fur  to tuck in to fatbergs  clogging the entertainment conduits:  but the dream machine dreams dreams beyond the sponsors’ sightlines story arcs collapse revealing hidden vision the screen assumes the predictive power of weather-sensing seaweed nailed to the wheeled hut of a sepia downland shepherd – a workmanlike tool for prophecy flicking the channel blocks like tarot cards  illuminating unfixed locations commenced a regime a monastic marking of the Hours  using TV series as the objects of meditation: 9am walking flying bases with Mascot’s Agglomerations of Shift   2pm walking the curved