Related
Walk21
Walking is the most fundamental form of mobility. It is inexpensive, emission-free, offers important health-benefits, is accessible for all – except those with substantially impaired mobility – regardless of income, and for many citizens is a source of great pleasure. Too often walking is a neglected transport mode, despite being at the start and end of all trips, it is rarely captured in government statistics on mobility. It is often overlooked and under-valued in planning and policy development.
On the Road to Nowhere – Walking Writers Salon with Ken Wilson
Ken Wilson’s singular experience of walking alongside the decidedly pedestrian-unfriendly Regina Bypass, all while situating the highway within the ongoing history of settler colonialism in southern Saskatchewan, Canada. In conversation with Andrew Stuck, they discuss his new book Walking the Bypass – notes on place from the side of the road.
• 
• Related
Walk21
Walking is the most fundamental form of mobility. It is inexpensive, emission-free, offers important health-benefits, is accessible for all – except those with substantially impaired mobility – regardless of income, and for many citizens is a source of great pleasure. Too often walking is a neglected transport mode, despite being at the start and end of all trips, it is rarely captured in government statistics on mobility. It is often overlooked and under-valued in planning and policy development.
On the Road to Nowhere – Walking Writers Salon with Ken Wilson
Ken Wilson’s singular experience of walking alongside the decidedly pedestrian-unfriendly Regina Bypass, all while situating the highway within the ongoing history of settler colonialism in southern Saskatchewan, Canada. In conversation with Andrew Stuck, they discuss his new book Walking the Bypass – notes on place from the side of the road.
• • In the passenger seat
on the Sintra road,
late afternoon spills into gold and purple.
Each kilometre stretches the hesitant sun,
each bend prolongs the moment.
L. drives, quietly.
I surrender to the dead man’s seat —
absorbing
light,
engine,
voice.
Etta James bends time.
The car follows her breath.
I realise
I could reach for the wheel.
I don’t.
On Estrada de Chão de Meninos
Casa do Preto rises —
sugar in the air,
something already lived
returning without asking.
I arrive, inevitably —
yet it is here,
between bend and chorus,
that I remain,
not choosing,
not lost,
almost
at home.
Credits
“I am the/a creator of this work”
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