Tuesday, 16th July 2013 Tiree Dear S, I listened to the recording and made notes - when you turned left I wrote left, right I wrote right, and when you described sounds or landmarks I made a note of them too. I woke up today feeling crowded. So this was good, to think of your route in another city in another country, somewhere I’ve never been, and to follow a set of instructions - surrender to them - to get lost here, somewhere so familiar, or actually not lost but to go a different way, against myself and notice different things. I thought I’d take a photo on my phone at every turning point and the photos could be my gesture to you. But then looking at the photos I thought I might describe them and send the words instead, or perhaps at the end I’ll give you both. one:
(through the gate in front of house) - pink buoy tied to blue and white rope, knotted onto grey rope, nestling in seaweed, a tangle of black on green grass. Left.
two:
Right. I walk until I reach the sea edge.
three:
Shallow waves, white bubbles over grey sand. Left.
four:
Grey rocks, green tufty grass, a fence cutting me off from land on the other side. Sheep running along the fence line. In my photograph, one sheep leaping. Left.
five:
Here you describe narrow streets, the sound of your feet tapping on cobbles. You walk over a bridge. I walk the line of the fence. At the gate a white plastic fish box with two smaller black boxes inside, holding someone else’s driftwood stash. Left.
six:
Sand. A yellow fish box holding one big burnt log, pointing forwards like a giant phallic arrow. Left.
seven:
More rocks, more grass, little green pools, purple flowers. I can’t remember their name. Right.
eight:
To the left a rock. When A and J were small we called it the Lion King rock. Walking quickly (here you see a yellow lamp, a window where there used to be a flag). Right.
nine:
Grass. Blue string. Buttercup. More purple flowers whose name I don’t know. Left.
ten:
Machair. A new stretch of beach, Gott bay, and an outcrop of land that becomes an island at high tide. Right.
eleven:
Here you see a wall with graffiti, letters in black and gold. In front of me is a massive rock, black, taller than me, its surface covered in yellow ochre lichen. Half closing my eyes it looks gold. Left.
twelve:
I walk along the sand. Pink crab shell dead at my feet. Here you play me music. Then describe the sound of water. I listen to the lapping of the sea. Birds start shrieking. Right, then left.
thirteen:
Straight ahead. (you walk past some lions/ a statue maybe? over a bridge, a pet shop with a sleeping cat in its window to your left). You stop. I stop. I’ve reached the outcrop that becomes an island. Above me birds, Terns I think, are circling, swooping, diving at my head. The recording ends.
Along the way I picked up a tuft of sheep’s wool and six blue grey shells, each slightly smaller than the first so they fit inside one another like a russian doll. When I see you next I’ll give you these too. Love I