Field Study's Man in E11 has an empty warehouse for a brain (I mean mind)

I have, for the last week or so, been clearing out a warehouse. Our distribution depot is moving from Bermondsey to Wood Green and this marks the beginnings of a significant re-orientation for Field Study's Man in E11's significant others; me, myself and I, in the guise of Julian Beere. Our workaday ventures will begin with a commute north west, rather than south west, from the flat-lands of Leytonstone. We will miss the Limehouse Cut and, at this time of year, the welcome cooling shade and shelter of  Southwark Park - oh, and the fume-filled mind bend of the Rotherhithe Tunnel. What about all those familiar strangers who appeared in my, or our, daily traipse? Were they ghosts, figments, unrequited imaginary friends invented to ease a fear of being alone, or worse, prey to the demons and monsters of the road, broadway, high street, mills, riverside, lock, cut, basin, tunnel and park? 

I imagine the field student is appalled by the withering output of Julian Beere. 'Don't we have anything to say?' he might well ask. 'You have got to have something to say in order to say it,' we reply. 'If you haven't got something to say, make something up,' the others shriek, like a demented chorus attempting to shatter a dull melodrama.

I have, for the last week or so, been clearing out a warehouse, in a vain attempt to recover the lost mind of Field Study's Man in E11. This has been a labour of some sort of love in a sweltering and voluminously airless void in which presence is simultaneously absence. All were and are traces. We discovered the dusted and desiccated corpses of dead rats and smidgens (okay, pigeons). I thought they were very dead until we imagined they came back to life in a diffuse and nebulous vision of dust particles drifting along the hot beams of disturbing sunlight.

We could not be distracted by the spectres of eradicated vermin. Our mission was to recover some traces of imagination sufficient to populate the new commute to work and beyond. First to emanate from beneath the layers of dust and detritus were the fossilized remains of the field student's brain. I brushed and swept away like an archaeologist excavating the most precious of remains.

I then began to undust the discarded thoughts and abandoned synapses of the field student. This was warehouse vacation (if not yet ruin) porn' at it's most wishful of thinking. We might well have been walking on and into the flat lands of the field student's psycho (geographic) interior.

What is evident in these inscriptions in the surface of the field students vacant warehouse of a mind (I mean brain)? Vacancy?

A whole morning of sweeping. It was (lunch) time for Julian Beere to attempt to infuse the excavated field thoughts with some intelligent life. The chorus laughed cynically and mockingly. Hey guys, give me a break! A thunderous groan in e flat droned, punctuated by flashes of lightning that illuminated the ritual unpacking of the lunch box, including a 'kindled' copy of 'To the Lighthouse' (Virginia Woolf). Am I really reading this or am I just looking at myself doing something that resembles reading this? We picked up one of the ossified thoughts and treated it with a dose of vile coffee. Could the caffeine stimulated synapse help penetrate the insularity of the narrative? No. Julian Beere woke up, finding himself with Mr Ramsay contemplating R as the limit in the alphabetical metaphor of his consciousness - or metaphor of his alphabetical consciousness. There was little or no recollection of A to Q. Which letter had the field student reached in all his expeditionary zeal?

Which letter is he capable of reaching?

An answer to that question of limits came later when Julian Beere (which could be me) delved into a book of critical theory - Penguin Dictionary of Critical Theory (David Macey). There is an entry for Virginia Woolf. She is cited as, 'one of the most significant figures in literary modernism and a very sophisticated exponent of stream of consciousness technique.' I pondered the possibility of a dire and basic limitation founded on the possible absence of a 'specifically feminine aesthetic' in the field student's psycho-sphere. This possibility may have been confirmed by the realization of a misreading of the critical text, for, in reference to Dorothy Richardson, the qualities of 'a woman's sentence' include more elasticity than the traditional (man's?) sentence. The misreading was thus - an elasticity 'capable of 'suspending the frailest testicles' of consciousness'. I realized 'testicles' was a misreading of 'particles'. I shuddered at the thought of all those unrealized misreadings and resigned myself to the limits of A in the great psychgeographic adventure of A to Z.