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Travelogue D1

April 1, 2015

If previous travelogues have taken to heart the possibility of the making of unwitting history or the establishing of a past long since gone, this will instead be a travelogue of incidents, at best an incidental one. Rather than setting itself at the heart of the places and scenes traversed, it will content itself to occupy their margins, not within them but without. The thought came to me, without doubt, upon glimpsing the fields of Franche Comté from the train. For I at once noticed that these fields were not set apart by mere fencerows, as our own with their crooked hedge, but comprised a rows of posts and wires to either side of thickets of brush and hardy breeds of trees. Anywhere from two to four meters in width, these thickets stood as a dense no man’s land, that delimited space left by humans to chance. It was to these spaces of chance that I turned my attention, limiting myself to the touch keyboard of my phone in the hope of parsimony.

Accordingly, this shall not be the story of Toul and the sun’s opaque disc behind its morning fog. Nor shall it recount the ugly unfurling of Dijon and the mystery townships surrounding. Instead, I have set my sights on such as the headless saints of Lyon’s Saint Jean cathedral and the Gothic fixings of its portals. For such is my lot to wonder whether they are content with or merely resigned to headlessness before the tourists.

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