Cycling through the new estates. Cycling to find their interstices, the scrappy woodland along the railway, the rivers temporarily emerging from culverts, the private road through the plantation, the golf course green beneath rotating sprinklers. What was it that eluded me? For what was I looking? But this memory is now inseparable from recounting, and the search from what is sought by writing.
Writing eludes itself – is that it? Writing loses itself in order to become real, just as it is nothing without this reality. And it is this that tells itself in every tale, or untells them, wearing them out.
I cycled through the new estates, passed the old barrows and the glade of tree stumps left by forestry. I cycled beneath an indifferent sky. And the page, too is indifferent. The whiteness of the page burns indifferently in the sky above my cycling.
Lars Iyer's Blog 