Londinium
Men holding cans of weak lager produced mumbled soliloquies to the Embankment skyline, their wizened hands stretched out forlornly to caress its many curves. Their coats were stuffed with newspapers for warmth, and I hoped that the ink didn't run off onto their scrawny bodies during the chill, wet night.
A silent woman stood alone, eyes closed with concentration, body held in the stasis of her livelihood, while tourists caught her image in fragments that would probably later be destroyed. Her whole being was blacked over as though tarred; I wondered at the merit of her face being so thus darkened. Does blacking-up for the benefit of posing statuesque, count as racism? All I could think of was airhorns, in my status-quo-tinkering mind.
The wind whipped our faces raw as we pushed against its arms, striding alongside the river. The sky was apocalyptic, so I watched hopefully for the clopping hooves and the bleeding eyes emerging through the nimbus. Nothing appeared, and I turned my face away to the sight of children masquerading as gangstas, pivoting eloquently along railings and over tattooed concrete slopes. No dogs allowed here, their faecal matter would rearrange faces.
Ever noticed how a magpie flies with its tail flung out in an exclamation mark, how it wears its own wings as a cloak for that stationary moment before alighting on a branch? Oily irridescence. The Headmaster Ritual.
Wandering St James park, drowning in its own gold and futility. I love the juxtaposition of chill building and straggly woodland.
A Nicky Wire prototype crossed our paths, paying his respects at the war memorial. He wore a neon-pink midi dress over his regular jeans and t-shirt, presumably for the benefit of all others questioning their social abilities to be at Peace With Themselves and still Blend In. I saluted him.
We scoped our eyes over the memorial in search of our names, mine in particular, for on the maternal side runs a very deep thread of airmen. Then the fella got accosted by a couple of young foreign ladies, whom he mistakenly believed were asking for directions - until a pamplet was shoved under his nose, and their words began to echo the dull drone of those frequent and unwelcome JW housecalls - things like "Bible" and "beliefs" were dropped into the basket of conversation. I crept away before my hot grin could take out their eyes, leaving him to deal with the sloping inflections of their words when he announced he was an Atheist. I love that part. You can hear their tones dip with their smiles. Painful hilarity on my part. He's sworn never to give directions to anyone again unless it's to Hell.
(In which case, he need only point out the route to Dunstable.)
My dears, the books I "bought" at Waterstones with that lovely giftcard were a haze of socialization and character-panning. The kind that would probably find their way onto a particular shelf in That Camden bookshop, the one labelled "Sex, Drugs and Rock 'n Roll." The one that always makes me balk and laugh, for its pretentious allure, which I scoff at and devour at once.
I was a Camdenite too, once. Before Portobello Road. But that's another entry.
* Truman Capote's "Breakfast at Tiffany's plus other Short Stories". Holly Golightly remains one of my favourite heroinnes, and dare I say, influences. I'm thinking of my Prom night in particular.
* Joe Dunthorne's latest novel, "Wild Abandon". To date, he stands as my favourite author/influence, and will forever be a gem of 2011.
* An unusual little tidbit - "The Socialite Manifesto" by Christiana Spens, which is basically an adult colour-it-in book. It follows the one-day life of a character borne of London's social scene; imagine all the attributes of Peaches and the late Ms Winehouse, smerched into a slim book full of half-written entries, half-drawn pictures and Time-set blank pages - all begging to be filled in and finished.
I thought, Heck, why not? This is my life subverted. I can't wait to begin. It's going to be a careful project. If I figure out how to use the scanner at work without attracting attention, I shall surreptiously post all of the completed pages of this interesting little story-to-be on this site, for your delight and pleasure.
Because every now and then, it's good to be the complete antithesis of yourself, even if it's only for 24 hours.
That was the highlight of my materialism today. Everything else was a joyful rendezvous with the Big Smoke, a reaffirmation of my love for her eccentric architecture and benign, merciless citizens.
Furious masturbation of the purse strings at the Inner Circle, while tramps sat lost among the bulk of the rubbish covering them. It was only the shape of his arms as he clutched himself in sleep, that gave his human form away.
I wish him warmth tonight.
A silent woman stood alone, eyes closed with concentration, body held in the stasis of her livelihood, while tourists caught her image in fragments that would probably later be destroyed. Her whole being was blacked over as though tarred; I wondered at the merit of her face being so thus darkened. Does blacking-up for the benefit of posing statuesque, count as racism? All I could think of was airhorns, in my status-quo-tinkering mind.
The wind whipped our faces raw as we pushed against its arms, striding alongside the river. The sky was apocalyptic, so I watched hopefully for the clopping hooves and the bleeding eyes emerging through the nimbus. Nothing appeared, and I turned my face away to the sight of children masquerading as gangstas, pivoting eloquently along railings and over tattooed concrete slopes. No dogs allowed here, their faecal matter would rearrange faces.
Ever noticed how a magpie flies with its tail flung out in an exclamation mark, how it wears its own wings as a cloak for that stationary moment before alighting on a branch? Oily irridescence. The Headmaster Ritual.
Wandering St James park, drowning in its own gold and futility. I love the juxtaposition of chill building and straggly woodland.
A Nicky Wire prototype crossed our paths, paying his respects at the war memorial. He wore a neon-pink midi dress over his regular jeans and t-shirt, presumably for the benefit of all others questioning their social abilities to be at Peace With Themselves and still Blend In. I saluted him.
We scoped our eyes over the memorial in search of our names, mine in particular, for on the maternal side runs a very deep thread of airmen. Then the fella got accosted by a couple of young foreign ladies, whom he mistakenly believed were asking for directions - until a pamplet was shoved under his nose, and their words began to echo the dull drone of those frequent and unwelcome JW housecalls - things like "Bible" and "beliefs" were dropped into the basket of conversation. I crept away before my hot grin could take out their eyes, leaving him to deal with the sloping inflections of their words when he announced he was an Atheist. I love that part. You can hear their tones dip with their smiles. Painful hilarity on my part. He's sworn never to give directions to anyone again unless it's to Hell.
(In which case, he need only point out the route to Dunstable.)
My dears, the books I "bought" at Waterstones with that lovely giftcard were a haze of socialization and character-panning. The kind that would probably find their way onto a particular shelf in That Camden bookshop, the one labelled "Sex, Drugs and Rock 'n Roll." The one that always makes me balk and laugh, for its pretentious allure, which I scoff at and devour at once.
I was a Camdenite too, once. Before Portobello Road. But that's another entry.
* Truman Capote's "Breakfast at Tiffany's plus other Short Stories". Holly Golightly remains one of my favourite heroinnes, and dare I say, influences. I'm thinking of my Prom night in particular.
* Joe Dunthorne's latest novel, "Wild Abandon". To date, he stands as my favourite author/influence, and will forever be a gem of 2011.
* An unusual little tidbit - "The Socialite Manifesto" by Christiana Spens, which is basically an adult colour-it-in book. It follows the one-day life of a character borne of London's social scene; imagine all the attributes of Peaches and the late Ms Winehouse, smerched into a slim book full of half-written entries, half-drawn pictures and Time-set blank pages - all begging to be filled in and finished.
I thought, Heck, why not? This is my life subverted. I can't wait to begin. It's going to be a careful project. If I figure out how to use the scanner at work without attracting attention, I shall surreptiously post all of the completed pages of this interesting little story-to-be on this site, for your delight and pleasure.
Because every now and then, it's good to be the complete antithesis of yourself, even if it's only for 24 hours.
That was the highlight of my materialism today. Everything else was a joyful rendezvous with the Big Smoke, a reaffirmation of my love for her eccentric architecture and benign, merciless citizens.
Furious masturbation of the purse strings at the Inner Circle, while tramps sat lost among the bulk of the rubbish covering them. It was only the shape of his arms as he clutched himself in sleep, that gave his human form away.
I wish him warmth tonight.