I've begun to consider the city, not the city I live in or have lived in but the city as heterotopia - the imaginary of the city as it perceives itself.

I love that Xenakis allows the city and buildings to be subject rather than object - I WANT this city, my city to have a voice and opinions.

I also want to focus my post-doc work on this idea of the city and this requires me to finish my thesis - a scary proposition!

So I've been collecting images of my city from all the cities I visit or learn of and file them carefully for this future work and I've begun a project called reading the pavement. Its simple work, i walk and take photographs and begin to attempt to read these images as text. Its difficult but I'm loving that I'm learning.

So here are some of my images and the first of the writing of the reading.

And here is the piece Ive been writing:

Reading the pavement.

I’ve started a file of photographs of pavements I walk and the idea of reading them occurred to me some time ago. This suggests the pavement has become in some way a text that is possible to read and this supposes language and syntax and the possibility of meaning.

The elements within such an analysis are both within the photographs themselves and within the relations between photographs. I walk the footpath and take photographs of items and scenes which intrigue me. Usually this is a visual engagement, although I love to collect rusted and flattened bottle tops and other small objects which have been affected by their presence on the footpath. I particularly love what happens to corrugated cardboard in this environment and I hold them for the tactile experiences they allow. My daughter and my sister dislike that I pick up these objects; such things are dangerous, and may hold contagions. These are nonspecific but harmful and by picking up these things I am endangering myself and also my family. Such things they tell me are disgusting and should be left in situ. When questioned they cannot be specific but they know these things are dirty and they know I should not be handling them.

I read the footpath as a new learner approaches initial readers. I need simple syntax, simple words, simple structure; the subtle nuances of my visual understanding  still escape my ability to unravel their presence in the interaction of the text with its imagery, it confuses me I cannot articulate my understanding. I am reading the pictures not the text and whilst this allows me to create the narrative of the footpath it does not allow the subtle interpretation I crave.

This gap between what I understand and what I can explain frustrates me; it causes me to spend hours looking at the images I have made and the relationships I assume between them. I assume extra data and use this to create possibilities within my reading. Positioning becomes important and time; a relationship between me, these objects and the processes which have placed them here. I consider removing them from that context, allowing them only their immediate and visually apparent context. I will read the text as it is written not with a subtext or an implied text, this becomes difficult. For example I am intrigued by bottle tops; as objects they are functional, they hold things in bottles but once removed they become detritus and merge slowly with the footpath. I collect them because they intrigue me and I find uses for them in my collages, but to read them places them in an entirely different category.

Sometimes they are solitary, flipped from a bottle and left in the gutter. Here they rust slowly and the small spiked edges allow them to become small receptacles for smaller objects that collect in gutters that are not regularly swept clean.

I find them in parking buildings and have often walked down all of the isles picking up these small rusted discs and putting them in my bag to take home. These tops tell a different story. Flattened by the wheels of the cars that park here every day the rusting process carves into the material in subtle ways. Some are flattened evenly and others into ellipsoids. On one of these collections I was helped by a woman who on sking me what i had lost and was searching for was fascinated enough by my answer to want to experience what i was doing. A trio of young people from the nearby bottle store pointed me in the direction of a small hoard of tops and explained, ‘That’s where the guys sit and drink at night.’ Much as they sat smoking, leaving a pile of cigarette butts others gather to drink.

I am reminded of the underground car park at the Housing Commission tower in South Melbourne, advertised at the inception of the tower as a huge advantage to the tower dwellers but now locked and empty because as the commission worker I met there said, ‘People just kept doing bad stuff down here.’ Also reminded of Jack in my reading group who told me he and his friends would go down to the back of the parking basement to smoke dope because, ‘No one’s gonna come down here to find us.’

Walking the footpath I look for these markers, these words in an alphabet that writes a story of the city in which I live and compile a list of objects and construct the field within which I will examine them. I am checking both the words and the book in which they are held before I begin to read.

I think to read graffiti walls in the same way. These are not barriers nor are they markers, they are pages and can be read in the same way footpaths can be read. Layers of image, paint and paper, glue and stencil there are layers of narrative here too. I come here to peel the layers of pained paper to create collages and to remake these objects for my own meanings. I write in fiction the stories of the city I cannot quite read in the footpaths and walls.

This is for my friend mark who has introduced me to the beautiful idea of one hundred word fiction - I think that's what they're called. I love them - they're what would happen if short stories met haiku at a bar one Friday night!!!

anyway here's my first one.

Shona Withers lifted her right buttock and grunted silently as she farted. She  felt it move into  her knickers and billow slightly before meeting the resistance of the wooden bench. 

She sniffed with satisfaction recognising the familiar smell of her bowel; smiling as she considered a god for whom the finding of her watch was more important than starving infants in Africa and wondered  if the bacon she had thought to have for lunch was enough to consider inviting the vicar.