Chath pierSath is the author of several books including the poetry collections “Echoes Lost to the Wind,” “On Earth Beneath Sky: Poems & Sketches,” and “This Body Mystery: Paintings and Poems.” His paintings have been exhibited in Europe, Asia, and North America. He holds a graduate degree in community social psychology from UMass Lowell. Chath lives and works on a family farm in the Nashoba Valley of Central Massachusetts. He is a past contributor to this blog.

 BOOK REVIEW: The Hikes into a Higher Consciousness: A Mental Map of Then to Now

By Chath pierSath

Paul Marion’s “City Hikes: Field Notes” is a profound journey into the memory of a place. The book explores a landscape of sweeping changes across American cities—a landscape where the present (“Now”) is inseparable from the past (“Then”). In its pages, one can revisit childhood villages and memories: the taste of an icy lime rickey drink, the excitement of baseball, hot dogs, and riding in a parent’s car, all set against a backdrop of window shopping among fellow pedestrians searching for deals and a good place to eat.

This nostalgia is central to Marion’s work. He guides us through Lowell, his beloved birthplace, which has endured centuries of transformation. Lowell is known for its constant revival, having overcome decades of physical and psychological depression. Its historic rocks, stones, and New England bricks stand as enduring monuments. When the light shines on the cobblestones, it clearly evokes childhood memories for Marion, and perhaps, thoughts of his predecessor author, Jack Kerouac—the constant traveler, philosopher, and dreamer, whose words are inscribed on stones in the downtown park dedicated to Jack.

A Walk Through Memory and Change

“City Hikes” is a form of meditation, almost twenty thoughtful strolls through the city’s industrial past and present. Those who have traversed its grounds will fall in love with its history—both the good and the bad. Like the changing seasons, the city evokes potent recollection. Though the streets and neighborhoods remain, the inhabitants are new, speaking different languages, practicing diverse cultures, and working to be absorbed into this new environment. Over time, these new generations claim their right to shape and reshape Lowell, their acquired memories defining what the city means to them. Shops, cafés, and restaurants now display signs in multiple languages and scripts, welcoming visitors to a flowering city. In this urban garden, more flowers mean greater shine and vibrancy—from the rainbow dust of its canals, dug by the sweat and tears of Irish laborers, to the old pubs serving lagers and ales.

As a Cambodian-born resident who lived in Lowell for seven years, I recall the map, the streets, and some of the neighborhoods Marion mentions during his walk. The book is a document, a poet’s search for purpose and meaning in the ordinary yet extraordinary presence of the Merrimack River, forever flowing and rising against the stone banks of its beautifully architected mills. As Marion points out, some mills are abandoned outside the national jurisdiction, much like the ancient ruins of Cambodia, left for tourists to wander in awe of the great Khmer empire.

I picture Marion walking, sometimes alone, sometimes with a friend, asking the same questions I’m asking: Why was this then? Why is this now? I walk with him page by page, following a map divided into distinct sections: The scrappy Acre, the better-off Centralville, the French Canadians descended from Little Canada beside the later Greeks, and now, the Cambodians, Africans, Indians, and Vietnamese. The sound is now a plurality of new languages and cultures, replacing the almost too well-known echoes of the past, when the noise of the looms drowned out the simple sound of young girls giggling down the hall about prom dresses and boys.

I mourn with Marion, yet I am more in awe than despair. I welcome the changes from then to now and embrace the seven years of literary memories I acquired learning at UMass Lowell. I remember the bank on Merrimack Street and nearby café where I felt free to love any man—black, white, red, or brown. Everyone there was my friend until 2 a.m., when we’d head to the train car diner for breakfast before the Saturday noon sleep.