the m john harrison blog

A continual autumn of new maps. None of them any use out of their own moment, yet there being no way to understand the following moment except by them. They are of all two-dimensional shapes, arrow shaped, heart shaped or shaped like butterflies; truncate, lanceolate, linear. They are of all colours, but from a carefully desaturated palette. Their secret is that of being impossible to navigate by. They shower down! Eventually their very inapplicability, that signature lack of commitment except to a moment already passed, a context already dissolving, is their sole contribution. The only promise an author can make is this: I mapped myself to death & spread the remains at the base of the tree. Look how it grew.