That Isle Full of Noises
From what I can remember where it started (if one can ever remember where these thing do start), I got off the train at King’s Cross, my little blue duffle bag in my hand. It was busy, and as I rushed through the darting, swirling crowd, I heard snippets of one-sided mobile conversations, questions about schedules with soft ‘c’s, and vowels of every kind smattered about the step, clack, tap, step, clop, clap of almost-late heels.
My trainers squeaked as I turned the corner after the stairs to pass the tube entrance. Numbers were announced behind me for departing trains--something to Aberdeen--and somewhere in the bowels of the underground I heard that unmistakable whir of the Tube gears after the b-b-b-b-beep of the closing doors we’re supposed to mind. Perhaps it was the revving of that Northern Line train that spurred me to speed up the stairs, taking two in each stride, using my bag to pull me forward with its momentum as I swung it before me.
In any case, the train or my bag, I nearly crashed into the crowd streaming past the entrance to the station--and stopped.
If I hadn’t been so struck by its particulate nature, I’d have been blasted back by all the sound in one swift boom. Here I was. Step, clack, tap, clack, clop, clop, clap: “I’m late”; “I hate these heels”; “I hope I haven’t missed the train”; “Where is she?” cobble-clopping by on every slab of concrete. The cabs ducked and dove through double-deckers fearlessly, honking victoriously as they brushed past, and motorbikes wove about with high-pitched squeals. All the people, transported or not, pumped through the great brick buildings in arterial streams, coursing life between the cornerstones.
Here I was. I dropped my bag, adding to the noise--I needed more. My heartbeat wasn’t loud enough to participate in this living symphony; I needed the city inside me. With a breath I inhaled the smoggy, sooty, lovely London sound and felt that clop, clack, clap pump through my own veins.
When I awoke I wept, and cried to dream again.
My trainers squeaked as I turned the corner after the stairs to pass the tube entrance. Numbers were announced behind me for departing trains--something to Aberdeen--and somewhere in the bowels of the underground I heard that unmistakable whir of the Tube gears after the b-b-b-b-beep of the closing doors we’re supposed to mind. Perhaps it was the revving of that Northern Line train that spurred me to speed up the stairs, taking two in each stride, using my bag to pull me forward with its momentum as I swung it before me.
In any case, the train or my bag, I nearly crashed into the crowd streaming past the entrance to the station--and stopped.
If I hadn’t been so struck by its particulate nature, I’d have been blasted back by all the sound in one swift boom. Here I was. Step, clack, tap, clack, clop, clop, clap: “I’m late”; “I hate these heels”; “I hope I haven’t missed the train”; “Where is she?” cobble-clopping by on every slab of concrete. The cabs ducked and dove through double-deckers fearlessly, honking victoriously as they brushed past, and motorbikes wove about with high-pitched squeals. All the people, transported or not, pumped through the great brick buildings in arterial streams, coursing life between the cornerstones.
Here I was. I dropped my bag, adding to the noise--I needed more. My heartbeat wasn’t loud enough to participate in this living symphony; I needed the city inside me. With a breath I inhaled the smoggy, sooty, lovely London sound and felt that clop, clack, clap pump through my own veins.
When I awoke I wept, and cried to dream again.