Part of the pleasure of playing the flâneuse or flâneur is finding the time and space to observe. We slow down and allow the city to flow around us. We take mental snapshots as the crowd passes by, recording faces, clothes, movements, and interactions, the expected and the unexpected. We revel in the infinite wealth of detail that sails by us on the street. As we walk, we encounter others who, unlike us, do not have the time to stop and stare. For them, the city and its street life are something else entirely. For the worker running late, the crowd is an irritant, a mass of moving obstacles to be circumnavigated. The hasty walker rarely sees the city’s wonderous detail. Their focus is on direction and time (or the lack of it). As you approach them, they see straight through you to their destination. Either move or be moved. The volume of pedestrians populating the streets of the great 21st-century cities means that there is little time for politeness and little consideration for the dawdler. I once overheard a passerby push past another and exclaim: “you’re blocking progress.” The city’s energy is generated by a perpetual need to move forward. Few come to the city to stand still (literally or metaphorically). We too cannot live perpetually in flâneur mode. It is a luxury we enjoy when we are able. Bills need to be paid, and sadly, most of us must at one moment or another become the tunnel-visioned worker rushing to an appointment, while the spectacle of the city slips into a blur.

Are there fewer opportunities to play the flâneuse or flâneur in the early 21st-century metropolis? Perhaps. I was about to argue that this is because the pace of the city has increased. That can’t be strictly true. A walk becomes a run when we exceed 4.5mph. As far as I can tell, the majority of pedestrians today aren’t running about the city. Pace isn’t the issue, the issue is impatience. Cities are becoming increasingly impatient spaces. We live in an impulse society, accustomed to swiping our smartphones with the expectation of instant gratification. There is little regard for slow discovery. We are expected to move quickly, choose quickly and move on. When discussing walking meditation, the Vietnamese Thien Buddhist monk, Thích Nhat Hạnh, wrote: “Even if your surroundings are full of noise and agitation, you can still walk in rhythm with your breathing, in the commotion of a big city, you can still walk with peace…” This achievement requires a certain degree of disconnection from the surrounding world. The flâneur or flâneuse cannot disconnect in the same way because the commotion of the city is part of what they seek to observe. Yet, it is difficult not to be sucked into the pace of contemporary city life to the degree that we miss out on its spectacle. When among a crowd of impatient pedestrians, it takes courage to slow down and observe. We almost expect to be berated, jostled, or urged to hurry. Similarly, when sitting at a pavement café, watching the world go by, it is not uncommon for the bill to arrive as soon as the waiter spots your empty cup. It is a gesture that suggests we should not linger too long.

Please do not follow such suggestions. Sit in a café for as long as you desire. Sip your cappuccino ever so slowly, smile at the passersby, and at the impatient waiter, and take your time watching the glorious catwalk of city life for which you have a front-row seat. When you’re ready (and only when you’re ready) stand, brush the croissant crumbs from your overcoat and go for a leisurely amble. Care not a jot about the angry businessman chewing on your shoulder. Let him pass. He has somewhere important to be. Navigate skillfully but slowly through the sea of oncomers who refuse to look up from their smartphones. Stand at the crossing at the end of the block, take a deep breath in, and a good look around. The city remains as marvelous, mercurial, terrifying and intriguing as it always was. It may be more difficult to take our time in 21^st-century cities, but that does not mean it is not worth the effort. In doing so we step outside the stultifying grind of life (and perhaps also the narrow tunnel of our online existence). I believe that playing the flâneuse or flâneur is more vital now than ever before: it is a slow but certain pathway toward reconnecting with life and enjoying each passing moment.

The talented writers published in this, the thirty-seventh issue of our magazine, understand what it means to step away and observe the crowd. They are: Geoffrey Aitken, Jan Ball, Sam Bootle, Nicky Carter, John Ganshaw, Laura Glenn, Dominic James, Tom Kelly, John Short, Theo Stone and Jean-Sebastien Surena. Our cover art comes courtesy of JC Alfier, whose collages all begin with paper, scissors, glue, and construction paper.

I would also like to mention the reissue of Lilies on the Deathbed of Étaín and Other Poems, the latest collection of another great poet and flâneur, Oisin Breen.

Enjoy the issue, and the forthcoming festive season.

Yours faithfully,

Darren Richard Carlaw

editor@stepawaymagazine.com

Sometimes the bookstore was like a cocktail party
attended by poets, artists, scholars, neighbors,
our stint often highlighted by beloved eccentrics. “Look!”
you’d exclaim, “It’s Rollerena” (who worked the stock
market by daylight), skating in, through, and out
the wedge-shaped roomful of books,
wearing pointy rhinestone glasses and tutu—
vanishing our cares with the wave of a wand.
Or I’d whisper, “Here comes Marguerite,”
with her drawn face and long dowdy dirndl skirt,
flanked by a coterie of young men.
A fiction writer, time and again, she advised me
to marry an Irish prince, live in a castle,
finally, one time, adding: “and invite me to visit.”
Sometimes in summer, when the door was open,
Cecil would grab ahold of a parking meter like a mike
and belt out a creditable imitation of Diane Ross.
I’d love to go back to one of the jubilant nights,
or one of the quiet nights when we browsed books like customers and talked.
A gentlemanly poet we couldn’t peg would comment on how high
his pile of books was, and tenderly neaten it.
(Decades later he’d win the Neglected Master’s Award.)

I remember when you told me you saw black-and-white print in color,
~like Rimbaud’s “U green . . . divine shudderings of viridian seas”~
and I wondered what it was like to be you.
Other times, I was depressed—my boss said I could improve
the poetry section, then he never ordered the books.
More distressing, we were both obsessed
with impossible men. How unspeakable life might have been
if I hadn’t met you—anchor, friend—though
back then after-hours we’d swim or sink
into mixed metaphors and drinks,
trying to sort out our lives at a restaurant’s dimly lit table.
There, unknowingly, we were painted by a stranger—
though it wasn’t our vision (he’d painted
a trace of a frown on my face, didn’t capture your luster). We didn’t buy it,
but later, seeing it for sale on the wall near the bar,
you took a picture that, decades later, you photocopied and sent as a card.
In the wee hours, before heading home, sometimes
we’d resort to the neon lights
of fortune-tellers in tiny, dark rooms—who knew
you’d become accomplished, yet hold on
to your quirky charm? If we went through enough,
might one get it right?

Laura Glenn

I’d love to make a right onto 88th street,
and show you the apartment buildings
too many uber drivers
have left my food at.
Show you the spot where the
gray truck was parked
for 3 years before finally getting towed.

But truth be told, I spend way more time
in my head than in my neighborhood.
As I walk up the winding path we call 153rd,
with the engraved benches
I swore I’d write at one day,
my mind is navigating winding thoughts,
talking in circles.

At the entrance, we see the present moment.
At least, as I understand it;
sensory information – what I hear, and smell:
cars whizzing past, grass.
Then you make a turn from there
and enter my perception,
where I rely on a deeper type of sense.

One that sometimes shows me the future
moments, like how the elderly couple
down the street will tuck further into themselves
when my hoodie and I pass by.
How that sparse grass I see will cease to be
when mother nature decides she’s had enough
of our carbon trampling.

Sorry, I’m rambling.
So here to our right is Bank of America,
the pigeons like to flock there in the evenings.
Like they’re coming to rest after their day shifts
If you keep walking down the block,
you’ll see the shopping center with the
Chase bank I use when I need to pay someone
to do my nails, or my laundry.
The little things that keep me feeling lavish.

Next to that is the laundromat we thought about trying
when my dad was done thinking about leaving my mom.
She wasn’t quite the same after that, though she
wasn’t the same before either,
disease eating her from the inside.

Inside me wasn’t the same after that, I must confess.
See, when you pass my perception,
you make a left into my memories,
or whatever mess is left up there.
I’ve been struggling to discern lies from reality,
it all feels like me, the voices sound like me.
But if I’m to trust them, then I’m not happy
and I’ve already told everyone I was fine
and now I’m at a dead end realizing
I took too many wrong turns and
I want to go back.
I really do.
I want to return to that laundromat, take your hand,
and show you the supermarket, the pizzeria,
the store where I got you those flowers you love.
But my world is a mess, and I can’t possibly
fathom walking through another one.

So I just can’t today,
I’m sorry.

Jean-Sebastien Surena

John Ganshaw

nor can i bear the prowl
of cat wander
beyond house restrictions
                 during the night

and i detest church bell toll
on Sundays
that replaces native bird call
        flight alarmed long ago

by human sprawl
emptiness
in oil drip trays of avenue garages.

Geoffrey Aitken

The Ballast Hill’s lost to flowers
from Spain, Portugal, Heaven
wherever that is.

Jarra Hall our castle on the hill.
See the bandstand where we play nowt but the fool.
I have not seen Bede, we sing, ‘Glorious Saint Bede’
at school but I have not seen him. Yet.

I walk up the Church Bank, heading home
to Hope Street, where I pray at the coal fire
that spits like next door’s cat.
I sleep and dream
I am lying in deep grass.

Tom Kelly

When I first cycled down Dock Road,
the brooding gates were locked, hiding
buddleia and sandstone rubble, the pall

of discontent hung heavy on the walls,
frustration on the razor wire.
I did not really understand your history.

My flat was in the Georgian Quarter,
back then, they were Red-Light roads.
I could see the hand jobs and the blow jobs

in the alley opposite, the givers looked
the same age as my mother,
receivers seemed much younger.

When I jogged the honey-coloured pavements
they crawled beside me in their Volvos.
I stared in disbelief at the baby seats and toys.

I gave them just a finger
and a posy of expletives.
I was much braver then.

My first job, one of many,
was in the basement bistro of The Casa.
Can you make soda bread? they said.

I couldn’t, but made it anyway
and on concert nights served what felt like
all the Philharmonic Orchestra,

with soup and bread, and Higson’s beer.
With hindsight it was probably
just brass and second violins.

Nicky Carter

The urban path snakes
behind my childhood’s back
in ceaseless dialogue
with its arcane history.

Years hide in undergrowth,
I turn to look at bridges
and it’s like a former century,
a slice of forgotten time.

It burrows through planning
disrespectful of modernity;
you come out on the other side
amazed at the connections:

a city you presumed to know
has kept secrets hidden
as you realise, all your life
you only had a partial story.

John Short

Primrose Hill then Camden down
to Hyde Park Corner where I find her,
sweeping by serene, apps on, all-go.
My way is more pedestrian.

I tramp the morning paving stones
among a crowd whose faces mirrored,
mostly, sunk in a beguiling blue,
thumbed texts and services

belong to work and sleep and tube.
Not me. Reflecting on the mortar’s grain,
dangers of the kerb, a biker’s mate
who calls dispatch: Um,

E’s been absolutely bitten to bits
by bedbugs. No! Man. Is that a fact?
And at the Devonshire last night,
taps ran cold on a punter didn’t plumb

the locals’ view for harping on the global.
Even off the Euston Road pubs hold
a median of courtesy
and can’t abide a show off. Big mouth

giving everybody grief. Poor soul,
dazzled in the traffic lights of his own
Go Stop Go, cannot get on
he makes such halting progress.

Two salesmen in the park slow down,
banging on, every busy buzzword
and here no breach of etiquette.
One says: She’ll come to me. It’s lovely,

I don’t do any outreach.
And the runner comes between us,
spirited, disappears among
the trees with easy countenance.

Dominic James

Cycling beyond the map is one of the two options if you’re commuting to the middle. The other is the bus, and yet cycling remains an activity both brave and maddening. Weaving through the midst of traffic and pedestrians through just-wide-enough lanes and around the multiplying bollards breeding like rabbits on the tarmac. You recall finding yourself shooting through the city exposed to speeds you can only dream of on public transport, cocooned inside the metal boxes, cushioned by the bodies of others, communally suspending our lives as we wait to get back across the river.

The trains from Victoria are a third option, but to use them everyday is to commit financial suicide if you don’t live far enough away, and where exactly is that nowadays? But you’re at Waterloo and ready to begin the journey proper, so you might as well commit; the tube won’t take you far enough, it’s a half hour walk to Victoria and waiting at Clapham Junction is too much today. It’s quiet, warm. The sun’s still up and there’s enough of a breeze to make you commit to the pedals. Coupled with the constant vigilance needed to avoid becoming an interesting new piece of street graffiti, there’s enough to acknowledge the trade-off you’ll have made in exchanging a bench for a saddle. Cheaper too, mostly. Who can really afford to be in the centre?

The bus surrounds you from the back. Inexplicably white, advertising a movie that was meant to come out at the height of the pandemic when the streets were a paradise for your tastes, London abandoned by the lumbering familial bricks that have since returned with a vengeance to plague the lives of those outside them. Still, everything but them is on the right route, your route; the route you need to get back home, so you’ll be merged together as you make your way home.

The Old Vic whizzes past, patrons already sealed within as Bernard Shaw is once again revived inside. Get to the roundabout, streets and streets about as you stop and go and stop and go and stop and dart around pedestrians who shoot out for the challenge or for a mutual test of reactions. Horns scream and the bustle doesn’t relent but eventually you’re at Elephant and Castle where the waiting picks up as your companion releases a compilation of passengers. The process repeats, you get to Camberwell , that hamlet, near-isolated by transport and then to the hospital, waiting as an ambulance pulls in and visitors take their leave, those times having passed hours ago.

Champions Hill they call it, and they’re not wrong. Climbing steadily, slowly, legs igniting. The bus pull into a stop, leaves, repeats. You feel yourself overtake it, get overtaken by it, steadily dancing in between. You ascend together. Others get off because of exhaustion or geography, you keep your place. You’re seeing this to the end, you have no other option. Patrons of the hillside pub stare at the combination, but only as a passing interest. It’s too warm to move to go inside and too expensive to find something else to cool down with, solidarity on that part.

At the top it flattens out, a mild relief. The pain dissipates, you carry on, that awful dance between yourself and the passengers continues. TfL couldn’t have more perfectly designed this, there’s no delay and you have to concentrate. Stop start, stop start, dive in, dive out, dance together, don’t break the mirage. Somewhere within the velodrome on the other side, Beryl Burton would demolish records, and you feel good, maybe you could too if you commit to training? In this moment you have that confidence, you’re that far inside the dream. You continue. Down, down, descending carefully, aware of the stop at the bottom; the traffic lights immediately afterwards. It’s red, people ahead of you want to leave.

Respite again, but then they’re off and then it turns green and the whole thing restarts. You dive back into the rhythm. Flat now. Slight rise. Herne Hill to Tulse Hill, into West Norwood, that lane in between. Homeward bound and there’s nothing much to separate you from the end. A rarity this season, the festivals would usually send something out onto the roads, at least you don’t have to see the fun you can’t afford.

It’s a crawl to the finish. The surface deteriorates. Every bump and crevice jostles into your spin, but soon it’s the end. You indicate, you feel yourself swing into the shoulder. You stand, you’re off, finished. Practically home and it’s time to walk. You stare at the bus as it drives away, still emerging from your imagination. It’s been six months since you’ve been off the bike and you can’t fight the emptiness.

Theo Stone