In an attempt to maintain some semblance of a psychogeographic tradition, ritual, or mechanism for postponing overwhelming urban banality that develops when I become complacent and comfortable, I decided to go for a bit of a stroll. The original intention was to find a soft patch of Elysian grass and settle into a new book, but the short trek from home to ridge got enough blood moving to motivate a full on exploration.
I have always been keen on a line of Washingtonia robusta that punctuate the eastern ridge of Elysian Park. I had been admiring them from afar for far too long, and before I knew it a mission had been set*. I had been deployed and the derive was underway.
*Note: This is an activity I like to call, “find the tallest thing you can see and then get to know it well”. During the activity I seek to answer: Is it as far as it looks? How far is far? Is the space between interesting? Does the space between become part of the object? How does your perspective change from point A to point B?
I started to walk along the fire road trail that I walk regularly – at least on the western side of the park. In an attempt to honor the meandering nature of the derive I tried to keep to the roads less traveled, attempting to go against my guttural inclinations and follow the paths that were new, foreign, and unpredictable. I didn’t know where I was going so it didn’t really matter either way. I had all day to get there, and in the worst case scenario I still had my book and could easily justify calling off the mission to pretend to read for a bit.
Elysian Park’s trail system is interesting, a network of mostly dirt fire roads (I’d assume) in varying states of use and decay. I quickly became intrigued by the rock outcroppings flanking the trail, especially after crossing Stadium Way and into uncharted terrain. Most, if not every rock, had some strange geologic striations, anthropocentric tellings of the culture clash between unmonitored urban surfaces, Krylon, and quartzite. A psychogeology of sorts. I pondered this observation as I continued my walk, photographing these features like a rather pathetic Ansel Adams, with dusty boots and shattered iPhone.
Halfway through the trip I discovered a new tree perched on an even farther ridge. I knew I had to change trajectory. What good is a mission if you are aren’t afraid to break off in favor of a new one?
The beauty of personal ritual is you can do whatever you please – a healthy practice of the wanderer. I passed many more graffiti-covered outcroppings and countless vistas, looking out over the Los Angeles River, the interstates, and across to the mountains. I finally came upon a paved road, its sighting soon accompanied with people, sports fields, litter, and laughing. I hopped onto the road for a bit, walking its hardened path until I saw my destination. I skirted off the road, back into the dusty dirt, and scrambled up a small footpath.
Upon seeing the tree I was surprised and shocked that it actually had surpassed my expectations. A lone giant perched on a hill. Covered from roots to canopy in spray paint scribble and adorned with a tattered rope swing. I was obviously not the first person to play this game. This was a destination for many. But there was not a soul in sight as I climbed the trunk to take in the view.
I found a praying mantis making her way up the trunk as well. Universal appeal. I hung around a bit, took some photographs, and then made my way to the next ridgeline to find those Mexican Fan Palms, so that I could finally make my way home satisfied.