Jennie has been busy updating her Picasa album, which is full of great stuff that makes me think I should get a better camera, or better still get her to walk backwards in front of me taking pictures, like the unacknowledged camerapeople who film intrepid TV travellers.
Here’s me, in a cafe in Brighton’s Sydney Street, the day after Boxing Day, checking out a book I had just bought in Sandpiper Books a few streets away: Beat Collection, edited by Barry Miles. The first piece in the book is by Jack Kerouac. It features none of the roadtrips, jazz, or marijuana one might expect: ‘Home for Christmas‘ is an account of his walking in deep snow to visit some of the meaningful places of his childhood, during a seasonal visit to his parental home. Coincidentally similar to what I’ve been doing these last few days but in my case without the snow, ‘distant snake of a hundred-car freight’, ‘blue mill eternity windows’ or ‘French-Canadian paisans…stomping their feet on still-screened porches, Christmas trees on their backs.’ The specifics don’t matter, of course; I expect we all want to return somewhere, to find ‘heat and warm joy’, to be told “Eat, honey, after your big walk you must be hungry.”