I've lost my ability to wander, W. says. But did I ever have it? Did W. only imagine my ability to promenade? Of course, he is a man of the promenade, W. says. He walks slowly, his torso held erect, looking about him. He's interested in the world, not like me, who am always bent over, always looking at the space on the pavement immediately in front of my feet.
He's open to surprises. – 'But you're open to nothing!' When the chuggers approach him on the street for a donation, W. thanks them and politely declines. When marketers ask him to contribute to a survey, he looks them in the face before he says, no thanks, thank you anyway. But I look down, W. says. I glower, and when a stranger approaches me, I hold up my palm to say: stop!
'And you walk so quickly!' What am I trying to escape?, W. wonders. – 'Yourself? Well, in that case, you're doomed'. Once, he and Sal saw me from afar, a pedestrian among other pedestrians. They saw me as a stranger might see me: a derelict walking at a furious rate, head down, glowering. What was wrong with him?, they wondered. What's his problem? And then they saw it was me, and they know all about my problems.
Lars Iyer's Blog 