The spaces between places are where Fugger can be found on his psycho-geographic ramblings. Disused tram tracks, derelict train tracks, the grass verges by motorway lay-bys. Strange places that evoke that unnamed emotion, the one like melancholia but not sad. The one that probably remains unnamed in case people seek it out. An emotion that is obviously contrary to the compulsory hustle and bustle of life and ‘progress’.
Strange things can be found in the dappled light of spaces between places. Various existential anachronisms. Ignored ghosts. Clues to mysteries no one could be bothered solving. A baby’s shoe. A dropped choc-ice. Fox shite. A tattered holiday brochure. A lost polling card. A snorkel mask with a snapped strap. A broken badminton racket. The skeleton of a red setter that died with distemper. A taxi driver’s moustache. The tears of apprehended shop lifters. The regretful sighs of spinsters. The malign intentions of middle-aged teen-disco attendees. The bassist from Adam and the Ants. A mechanical drawing clip. A lost film clip. A paper clip. A hair clip. A harelip. A finger tip. An uneaten chip.
Have you ever noticed how maps look like nervous systems? Dendritic. Initially incomprehensible but, on close scrutiny, revealing of essential information. The spaces between places are on these maps too, just as they offshoot our nervous systems. They are not extraneous. They reveal the greatest secrets of all. These places are imbued with a strange magic, the Urban Arcane. The discarded objects found in the spaces between places can be flung into a cauldron and boiled. When you drink the concoction you gain the power to kill a man just by pointing at him. Yeah. I can do it. I haven’t yet. But I might.