travel writing
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travel writing
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For this edition the travel section is keeping things current as Patrick Davidson pays homage to William morris’ News from Nowhere. I’m sure this piece will resonate with many of you.
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‘…Yes, surely! And if others can see it as I have seen it, then it may be called a vision rather than a dream.’ – William Morris, News from Nowhere
News from Somewhere by Patrick Davidson
Stepping out of the train I was glad that I had come to Wednesday, not having been here for a while. I read about it all the time, and it is summed up and swept along in so much we have on our shelves back home, or our heads with us always. Being there I was at once struck by the differing ideas of public spaces that exist in the place. We have a similar series of streets to it, around Whitehall, back home in London. Wednesday’s streets are different. There public space is not held as an emptiness to honour, to fill with nobody. They might even have taken this to extremes, in fact, as I found myself pressed on all sides around and with very little space to spread out my arms with all the people there. All space is full, in Wednesday, and the noise is bubbling froth, loud to the ear around. What do they say? Well, it is important for the people of Wednesday to express themselves with level mind and clear intention. Iago may have spoken falsely when he spoke of wearing my heart upon my sleeve for jackdaws to peck at, but in the place I now found myself it seemed the done thing to hold little back that sat, or brooded, in the head. Expression was held up, and it is not uncommon in Wednesday for thoughts to be written, however tidily or otherwise, and held up, carried along. I was uneasy at first, as I am averse to propagandist announcements. The government of Wednesday keep loudspeakers in the streets that hold the citizens, and every so often a reminder of communal purpose, or exhortation to passionate affirmation would be blasted out of these speakers. But I have walked the streets of oppressed states, and the cheering and euphoria, be it real or feigned, that followed these announcements was most warming, and so set apart Wednesday from sadder, more limited countries. My instant reaction was such that I considered such interventions in private reverie acceptable, if it indeed produces such apparent happiness. After several hours or so, at the height of the day, the public spaces embark on what can only be described as a ritual of some form or the other. Movement is encouraged along specially dedicated aisles and channels of the thoroughfare, and so I joined and we went along, all the inhabitants of Wednesday together. And passing by the high houses and places of work, those
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PROSE who were unable to follow as well cheered us on, and aimed at us small devices which emitted a sudden flash, and prompted much joy among those set on their way. Tobacco and ale was enjoyed in moderate quantities, and gave fuel to the fearless nature of open hearts and minds that this midday marching seemed set on. As the march goes on, old buildings, kept in place to remind the citizens of Wednesday of older, past government, are the subject of much sanctioned mockery and remonstration. They seemed, to look around, wholly alien to the place and people that they intruded upon, and I marvelled at the contrast between the edifice and citizen. As the day wears on, however, there are rites to be performed, though only by the deeply religious. Towards dusk the committed souls gather at a higher building, built of glass and concrete, with an arena-like forecourt from where the ceremonies are performed. I went to push through to the front of the crowd, but found my process difficult and tiring. Standing at a distance, then, I saw the auspices of ritual at work. First, the written thoughts carried aloft through the day were divided into worthy and unworthy, with the latter being piled high on the ground of the forecourt. Then, with a flash, the pie was consumed in some administered liquid that burned fiercely. As I stood and watch the blaze glow I could not but be reminded of Hughes, and how he wrote of the Martyrdom of Bishop Farrar: ‌ out of his eyes, Out of his mouth, fire like a glory broke, And smoke burned his sermons into the skies. More the flames grew, and the ashes of the words swirled in the air, littering thought upon those gathered. The second part of the ritual was reminiscent of when I saw the dervishes of morocco, or the breaking of glass in a watchful synagogue. Several officiates moved to the obviously prepared glass sheets that made up the building’s base, and backed by the cheers and consternation of their companions struck blows at the glass. I lost count how many, but soon the blows cracked, bent and warped the sheet, that seemed to writhe in their committal to the ceremony. Then they fell, and like the invitation to the altar as the priest delivers the Eucharist, the faithful entered the space behind. The third part of the ceremony I craned my neck to see, and then, atop the building, I saw that the officiates had ascended. Colours and words were unfurled and displayed from above. Around me the joy was palpable, and Wednesday seemed to come alive. Aware of the shortness of my time, I turned to begin my long way home. As I walked on, further officers of ceremony passed, dressed differently from their colleagues, in bright yellow and silver, and bearing offertory plates and staves, which I presumed to be given in celebration of such a day. Returning home to my cold bed, I marvelled at the rarity of such a place, its joys and cares shared by all who visit, and how little it resembled those streets of my everyday, had more around me the time to visit, and take from it such joy as I have!
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