Second Walk
After the tunnel, I wanted height. Not elevation in the romantic sense, but the kind that exposes your balance and makes you wobble. I chose the upper ring road of a multistorey car park in Milton Keynes, which I have long suspected was designed by someone who disliked horizons.
I arrived early, before the cars had finished clocking in for the day. The building was still warm from yesterday’s engines, exhaling faintly, like a concrete animal. I began on the ramp, walking against the arrows, which is to say against intention. This is important. Arrows are bossy. They assume urgency.
The car park reveals itself to me slowly. Each level is the same idea, though with a different opinion about the importance of light. I climbed until the ramps ran out and the sky arrived abruptly, as if someone had removed a lid. Up here, the town arranged itself into a diagram: roundabouts like punctuation marks, trees pretending to be labels on a flowchart. Milton Keynes is famous for its grids, but from above they soften, as if confused by their certainty.
I walked the perimeter. This was the rule I set: one full lap, no shortcuts. The edge had a low wall that invited parkour. I declined.
What surprised me was the sound. At this height, traffic becomes aural liquid. The rush below was no longer aggressive; it was tidal. I found myself matching my pace to it, a collaboration between feet and traffic flow. Occasionally a car arrived on my level, circled me like a cautious animal, then left. I nodded, they looked confused as I used the space incorrectly.
Halfway round, I stopped again. This is becoming a habit. I took out a small piece of chalk I carry for emergencies. I marked the floor with a thin line, then stepped over it repeatedly, counting not steps but hesitations. How many times does the body flinch at a meaningless boundary? The answer, it turns out, is more than you’d like.
Clouds drifted through the open roof like uninvited critics. Shadows slid across the concrete, temporary paintings I could not keep. I thought about my studio, about how much effort I expend trying to make work that feels unfinished. Here, everything was already at the dress rehearsal.
As the day filled the building with cars, the walk changed character. The perimeter became a negotiation. Engines coughed. Doors slammed. Someone asked if I was lost. I said yes, which was accurate but unhelpful.
When I finally descended, the ramps felt steeper, as if gravity had been rehearsing without me. At the bottom, I wrote: I walked around a town without entering it. I borrowed its roof and gave it my time.
The journey ended not with arrival but with a ticket machine refusing my coins.
