the loose words lose their tongue in the trying. you lose the words in their loose tongue tying. Trying to be them. Unsettles the equilibrium for a moment that is certain. To leave a mark on skin. Surfacing with these words. Propelled, expelled the nuisance of their knowing to you and I and we and they, and all else besides. The crypt of their forgiving, foregoing the air that they need to dwell down in their dingles.
angles formed by trying to fit their limitless dimensions to a frame that has no matter. Awkward angles that jut and poke and pull and scratch and tear and puncture. Punctuate angles, all elbows and knees. Knitting together a part for a matrix. Off spring, out spring words. Dangerous words. Where are they leading? Me. Hear. They are leaving almost as soon as they came. What are we left with? You and I but not the words now. The words know they have been (and gone). To pieces. Two pieces.
The gentle breeze turns the leaves a little and reveals a lighter underside. The blackbird sings.
herd, wording, saying, speaking, slaying, splaying, spying, there the words. Are lost to all that come this way and those that don’t. Do not take these words for granted for they will follow and that is most unfortunate to you and I and they. Will be left here in the enclosure for all that is worth. While I leave here to leave them there to you to do your wont. I wanted them to follow me but realise that they must stay.
stay, sing these words with your ear. My speaking words are hear for you. Fore ewe. To trust in them implicitly. They will stay and stray and change with years before your ears. How did I intend them to be? How could I intend them to be? A fine line flexed between me and them, I and they. Aye, and they left me here loosely wording the writing that you are reading now and then and there. And their motives are unsure, their sentience lacking? Whilst the sentences are stacking. Up. And down the page we sprinkle the ripe pickings of punctuation’s palette.
Too much. Must be done to change the approaching of the words; the words encroaching. On me here. Distance and disjuncture are required to be sure that I do not become words and they do not become me. The words become landscape. Landslide, words slide, down, scree-fall, clatter, (chatter), heap, cairn. Building to direct. Directing to deceive. Perceive a faltering path…a trod. Hazily present. Trods. Hopscotching between. Through heather and by lithic scatter. The words tatter this way with their own gowns. Grown down. To here.
[wearily] Who’s in charge here?…if indeed anybody should be in charge. The words won’t do what I want them to. The writing is becoming nominal much too quickly; there seems to be a lack of revelling in the (verbal) process of writing. The words have lost the freedom of the hills. The fun and excitement have gone and we (the words and I, and, unfortunately, you the reader) seem to be trapped in a rigid process of ordering and prissying. The atmosphere has become turgid. Insipid. Stultifying.
Maybe the desire to write what I think I should be writing has overwhelmed the writing. Maybe the preconceptions have become all too convincing and the words are jumping immediately into a traditional frame of reference; the writing has been bypassed. It is a curious thing for sure. The sudden jolt between the thinking of the typhic quotidian and the thinking of the writing does not help…the transition takes time (and the reverse of the process happens later in the day, equally painfully). It seems to be the thinking equivalent of an ecotone but the integration is not a fruitful one (it is more like a worst of both worlds situation). The days press in on me and the words sense it; they become nervous, skittish and unhelpful. They will hide. How to find the hidden herd?
I should walk or run to set the words in flight from their hiding places, to get the words fluid again. But the amount of information I need to retain for this to be worthwhile is beyond my capacities. I need it to hand. Am I being lazy? You see the flight of the words is their writing but it is subtly managed. Not by them or by me; instead, we are constituted by the writing. It is a joy when it is working. It so rarely works.
The green of the park trees is becoming heavy and the housemartins are flying amongst them; flying low. There will be rain soon. Let us hope that it is a fresh, revitalising rain.
Muddy running shoes, algal stains on clothing and a stiff back from sitting by a river overnight are the unusual reminders of a conference. The ethos and spirit of art.earth, Dartington Hall and Schumacher College pervaded proceedings of In Other Tongues. Billing itself as “a creative summit” was the signal that it would not just be a talking shop but would see participants embodying the activities of the two and a half days in Devon.
Amidst an atmosphere of support and respect a range of activities were available from traditional conference papers to workshops considering the possibility of “exploding human language” by communicating with (in multiple senses) trees, and from an immersive (literally) River-based workshop to collective writing workshops, along with a broad and varied programme of performances and film screenings. All carried out in the buildings, gardens and wider estate of Dartington Hall, near Totnes in Devon.
On day two I led a session called “running a #DartingtonLangscape,” in which I invited delegates to join me on a 6km run around the Dartington estate and afterwards for a participatory performance presentation. Five people took up my offer of a run although I was left with only three for the second part of the session! No participants were harmed in the making of this work it must be pointed out.
During the run I asked participants to be aware of their surroundings and how their bodies were responding to the exertion. I collected words of response from participants and combined them with my own observations from running the same route the previous day. For the second part of the presentation I presented fragments from a paper whilst I ran up and down a small hill before the participants (inserting myself in the picturesque frame provided by the view). This presentation culminated in a participatory performance in which participants were invited to use one of their group words or phrases from the run and to repeat it how they liked whilst I continued to run up and down the hill reciting my own walk observations. The combination of running, repetition and environmental factors began to break the language apart…undermining meaning to give a language sound analogous to the experience of running…heightened awareness rough-cut with blurrings and mis-hearings.
Having only led group walks previously it was interesting to note how the exertion of running exaggerated the dynamic of a led-group. Although only six of us in total our little group flexed, stretched and extended through the landscape yet somehow remained a whole of sorts, signals were transmitted along the group and points were selected for re-grouping and conversation. Individually and collectively the attention required from running knitted us to the landscape through extended moments. The assemblage of the group retained a cohesion despite varying levels of running ability/experience and will also persist in some small way beyond the parting of the individuals after the conference as will the echo of the hills and hedges in the muscles and on the skin of participants. [Thank you to those who agreed to be part of this session].
Through the night following the run I and a few others joined Tony Whitehead on an “Overnight Sit” on the banks of the River Dart. This extended period of sitting (in silence) opened up for me a new reading of exertion and provided a valuable opportunity to explore the differences between this apparently stationary form of exertion and the mobile form experienced in running and walking. The hoped for sonic drama of the dawn chorus was somewhat muted by the slightly damp weather from 4am but the light show provided by the moon and clouds on the woodland trees which rose up from the opposite bank of the River more than made up for this, especially experienced as it was in that condition somewhere between being awake and asleep. Others spent an equally sleepless night but in much different environments as they avidly watched the events of the General Election unfold via their TVs, phones and computers. The riverbank of the Dart may have appeared detached but…
Hopefully some work will unfold from recordings I made during the run and the sit.
Thank you to the art.earth team for another stimulating yet refreshing few days in Devon.
Spoiler: I didn’t manage to complete the 2017 Dragon’s Back Race.
Whilst it must be remembered that Ancient Greek Cynicism did not give much value to athletic feats there are a number of Cynic principles that can be pulled in as analogues in considerations of ultra running. Primarily the concept of epimeleia is hugely relevant for ultra runners, this Foucauldian ‘care of the self’ applies personally to each individual runner prior to and during an event (from general care to avoid injury through stretching, eating correctly, selecting the correct kit and looking after feet) but this care also stretches out, in Cynic fashion, as a duty to those around the runner. The care that the runner takes over their preparation and performance creates a defence against the needs of others to compromise their own safety through having to rescue the ill-prepared runner for instance. It may also be that the runner who takes care may share their knowledge to guide and motivate others.
Further, the Cynic consideration of the two ways is relevant. Whilst ultras are by no means short they are arduous and certainly not taking the easy option. Lastly, a dose of Diogenean renunciation can come into play when the runner struggles to re-pack their kit bag for the nth time and wishes that it were a little less burdened by unnecessary items.
Day 1: 53km and 3800m of ascent. A 7am start from Conwy and once through the congestion and queues along the town walls the filed began to spread out nicely. A good day in the 3000ers of Snowdonia where my background in mountain walking levelled the playing field (metaphorically) against a few of the runners at least as the rocky ground and steep ascents/descents reduced most to walking. Navigation was simple through the first half of the day but low cloud and drizzle meant tight nav was required particularly in the crossing of Crib Goch and the descent from Snowdon. (12hours 0minutes 1second)
Day 2: 58km and 3600m of ascent. A 6:15am start. Lowish cloud meant that Cnicht and the Moelwyns required careful navigation. A couple of errors put me off the best lines and left me on a damp cliff wondering whether to go up or down at one point. No major disasters though. Back down to valley level and the day was warming up. After the support point stop and up the Roman Steps my eating wasn’t going too well and I struggled through the Rhinogs and down through the forestry to Dolgellau. Finishing quite empty and unable to eat much dinner. (13hours 58minutes 13seconds)
Day 3: 71km and 3500m of ascent (26km and 1362m of ascent). A humid and murky day, struggling from the off to do anything but walk steadily on flats, ups or downs. Seemed to have little more go on the initial road hill up towards the foot of Cadair Idris but that soon faded. Still unable to eat anything but Kendal mint cake and the little energy I had soon disappeared. Broken low cloud and military jets added an unwanted atmosphere of foreboding. I Hauled myself up and over the summit of Cadair Idris and then along its interminable ridge to Tal Y Lyn and dropped down through the mandatory section to the valley below. My heart sank looking across to the climb around the side of Bird’s Rock. I reached the road near Dolgoch as a husk. I struggle now, with a week’s hindsight, to recall just how impossible it felt to go on. I was behind the cut-off for the next summit but possibly could have got through in time for the Machynlleth one but truth was I felt utterly empty and did feel able to enter the next twenty kilometres of the Tarren’s domain knowing them well from my training runs. Gutted I (along with two others) claimed a lift back to Machynlleth with a kind couple who had been watching the race with their son. Back in Machy I found an appetite and ate lots and then collapsed at the support point to get a lift to the overnight camp. (4hours 4minutes 4seconds)
Day 4: 71km and 2400m of ascent (36km and 963m of ascent). Deciding that I would like to do the whole of Day 5 I opted to do the second half of Day 4. A frustrating hour or two at camp and then a lift to Elan Village preceded my start at about 10:30. I felt ok, had eaten a reasonable breakfast and was looking forward to a good afternoon. It was hot, very hot and I started out steadily but beautifully runnable grass above Caban-coch Reservoir couldn’t be resisted. Through Rhiwnant and along a track and then pathless moor brought me up onto the uplands and Dragyn Fawr. The ‘early’ start at Elan had left me near the front of the field. Somewhere around here Jim Mann had taken a shorter route and passed me during his bid to reclaim the race lead (a battle far from my thoughts apart from as a fan of the sport!). Down from Dragyn Fawr and onto the first long road section through Abergwesyn and then up and over a lovely little bwlch to the Llyn Brianne Reservoir road. Although all on tarmac the 9km or so down the Tywi valley was softened by the spring glory of the landscape arriving at the campsite in good time to wind down slowly and even enjoy the local pub and a bathe in the river. (5hours 9minutes 42seconds)
Day 5: 63km and 2200m of ascent. After two unexpected shorter days I was feeling much better today. I had eaten well the previous day and rested well too and was ready for the final day of the race. I was away soon after 6am into a glorious morning with barely a cloud in the sky. Our days destination of Black Mountain was clear on the horizon, again I took it fairly easily to begin with, revelling in the conditions and trying to absorb as much as possible. After about 2 and a half hours I passed through Llandovery and grabbed some food and drink—a jam doughnut for then and sandwich for later. The bottles of Ribena and Coke didn’t last long but fuelled me for the run through to the Usk Reservoir support point where ice creams also awaited us courtesy of the race organisation. Then onwards and upwards through more forestry and out onto open upland moor. I was slightly concerned about the climb up onto Fan Brycheiniog but I took it at steady pace and reached the summit with little distress. Then it was west along the ridge using some route tip-offs I had been given and an unexpected ice cream van at a high car park for further cold drinks and ice lollies. The going underfoot was tough around this section as the rocks didn’t permit easy progress although the sheep trods (once found) were a godsend. Dropping down off the end of the ridge and then up and down through farmland and tracks. Passing Carreg Cennen Castle (and another opportunity to grab a cold drink) and then the final few downhill kilometres on tarmac. Kind words of encouragement from Carol Morgan (eventual winning lady) spurred me on downwards to finish the day and race at Ffairfach. (10hours 2minutes 45seconds)
A heartfelt thank you to Ourea Events and all the staff and volunteers who presented such a succesful and entertaining event. I will be back to complete the dragon in 2019.
[I may add further detail to this text over the coming weeks]