Once I know a town I draw it badly, which is to say I draw it as a kindness. The hill becomes a line. The confusing junction becomes a dot with a confident name. I have started to keep the earlier maps, the ones made in the first week, when the bakery was a rumour and the sea appeared only as a change in the light at the end of a street I did not yet trust. Those maps are messier and more true. They include the wrong turn that became a garden, and the bench I needed before I knew I needed a bench. A map drawn after arrival is a story about competence. A map drawn during it is a story about help. I know which one I would rather be handed by a stranger.#
This is an excerpt. The complete piece is in the print and digital edition of Issue 02.