Bio Wall Kart.

Yesterday I did some autobiography by mistake - I had been writing 'around' my dissertation topic of the relationship between walking and art.

People have been walking for a load of years, nobody knows when it started exactly, and why would that be important anyway? I started walking when I was years old, but it wasn't until another couple had passed that I began to draw. Drawing was for me preferable to speaking because I could do it alone. I didn't want to talk or to be noticed. I could walk and and enjoyed it, always staring at the ground to avoid dog shit and find treasures by the kerb. I spent a lot of time beach-combing, slow and far behind my family, obsessively scanning the stones for anything interesting or magical, which was my version of beautiful at the time. An object at which I could stare or use in a game, or break into pieces, that was my goal. I wanted to discover something, I was happy enough looking but much happier finding. So when I walk today I see from a greater height but they are the same eyes. I quickly spot abnormalities in my familiar surroundings and novelties in the new places. Nothing seems as exciting as it used to, since I have become used to it. I still love to walk and look and collect in moderation.

So walking came from us as a family not being greatly rich and collectively lovers of the beach and the woods. The Kentish countryside was there, free to all and endless to a child. I once got lost in the woods and had to find the perimeter in order to reach the entrance. I remember being friends with a dummy that had lost its teat, it was light blue, I called it 'Tish', it was my mute flying saucer. I remember family walks where I would be scolded for stamping on a puffy fungus - the sound was magnificent but I had to disguise my joy, first with accident and later with 'oblivion'. Another time we passed under a pylon, I loved the dangerous and friendly sound of that, electricity alive.

During our walks I would be in my usual dreamworld, noticing things that would drag me out, berries or ants or empty packaging. I can never repay my parents for giving me all of that time and space to develop my own world, one which I do not really want to leave. I am not as involved with the popular reality as some others. I have my interests that have come from our explorations, from lifting bricks and opening pods, from the outdoor world and not books, from nature [the living things and the objects that remind us of our existence] and not from technology.

So I can honestly claim that this subject fascinates me, and I can finally stop deconstructing things because that is a mental cycle that has drained its own irony. Of my creation.