Back in the USSA.
Last night the spectre of the Queen Mum Floated above my bed. Her wrinkles glowing like Jesus fire and her thin bejeweled fingers reached out towards me. Her lips glowed like red embers and her voice whispered like a thousand armies on quick-time march as she utter this phrase: "Come back. You are one of us now!" I threw my pillow at the spectre and screamed that I was true to my flag as I cast about my room looking for something red white and blue to ward off the angry spirit. I took up my blue duvet and tore off my shirt revealing my pasty white skin then tore at my chest 'till blood issued from the scratches. "There!" I shouted, "there is my country!"... The Queen Mum was horrified. A shocked gasp emerged from her pursed lips like a million chavs stumbling on a shoe sale and left amid a cloud of smoke that reeked of tiny cucumber sandwiches. She returned only to tell my to wash the duvet immediately with soda water. And again to point out that the British flag was also red white and blue so I was being silly, and should really get a plaster for the scratch on my chest.
As I stood there clutching my chest and my duvet feeling cold and alone with a vague craving for tea, I began to weep. And I called out, I feel on my knees and begged her, begged her to take me back to biscuits and brunch, to Tubes and Topshop, to Parliament and plays, to Thames and Tesco, to royalty and Regents park, to Camden and Convent garden, to double-deckers and dignified ladies, to sandwich shops and snooker, to bowling and bangers, to pubs and parks, to goths and garage beats, to football and fresh-cut grass, to left-side driving and little frou frou dogs, to preening ponces and pre-packaged sandwiches, to cricket and kebabs, to rainy days and random haircuts, to indie music and indian food, to museums and marmite- actually, I fucking hate marmite, but I'd eat a whole jar to get back... But she was gone, and so is my dream of Europe. Of Edinburgh, of Brussels, of Madrid, of Gent, of Stratford Upon Avon, of Winchester, of Antwerp, and of course of London.
London. London, that great sprawl that encapsulates most of the culture in the world so it's neigh on impossible to feel out of place, and yet never totally in. It gives no answers, asks only questions and yet cradles you in it's arms and makes you feel loved, loved by a city and by its' people. I love London, and one may find that weird, but I do. It may have its' yobs and its' chavs and its' rip off artists, but at no point, if you ever really needed it, would these people not help you. Londoners understand the social democratic compact acutely, that helping everyone benefits everyone. Socialized healthcare is just the most obvious tip of the ice burg, but there's an underlying current of care that keeps London afloat as an organism. If New York is held together by negative energy then London is by positive. Like two magnets turned the same pole the energy keeps new York supported, yet isolated; creative but not close. London has positive energy: everything is drawn close together into tiny roman streets that mix and meld like subatomic particles. Yet the paradox to London is that it is clearly separated by section: ones area code clearly defines where one lives and what type of neighborhood just as ones accent used to.
I woke up this morning at 5:30 my body clearly believed it was about time. My mind trying to figure out which one of my myriad of clocks was correct: my watch set to GMT, my alarm clock still on daylight savings, my laptop set to... Iceland?, my ipod set to Brussels. I finally settled upon my verizon cell phone which was automatically set by the local tower. 0530. I usually keep my watch set to my old time so I can quickly check what time I think it is and figure out why I'm hungry or tired at a particular time. But the time made me nostalgic. I wished myself back in my little slice of independence, where I am exotic, I liked be exotic. I want to give that to my kids raise them in Europe and then unleash them upon the US to shock and dazzle the slack jawed fat Americans with Marlboro Lites hanging over their warm beers greasy from resting on ketchup stained NASCAR tee shirts with salt lines around the armpits dried up like their manhood which rests shamefully in a puddle of beer slowly soaking into their 3 day old boxers stretched to the limit of designer specifications and the laws of physics by the funyun sale at Costco... But my kids will bring the culture, bring the sophistication, the language, the history, even an accent. They will be kings among intellectual peasantry. And I'm talking good kings, with power and the wisdom to not have to use it.
But that's all in the future, and hopefully I'll have gotten back by then.
For now I'll live in the past.
As I stood there clutching my chest and my duvet feeling cold and alone with a vague craving for tea, I began to weep. And I called out, I feel on my knees and begged her, begged her to take me back to biscuits and brunch, to Tubes and Topshop, to Parliament and plays, to Thames and Tesco, to royalty and Regents park, to Camden and Convent garden, to double-deckers and dignified ladies, to sandwich shops and snooker, to bowling and bangers, to pubs and parks, to goths and garage beats, to football and fresh-cut grass, to left-side driving and little frou frou dogs, to preening ponces and pre-packaged sandwiches, to cricket and kebabs, to rainy days and random haircuts, to indie music and indian food, to museums and marmite- actually, I fucking hate marmite, but I'd eat a whole jar to get back... But she was gone, and so is my dream of Europe. Of Edinburgh, of Brussels, of Madrid, of Gent, of Stratford Upon Avon, of Winchester, of Antwerp, and of course of London.
London. London, that great sprawl that encapsulates most of the culture in the world so it's neigh on impossible to feel out of place, and yet never totally in. It gives no answers, asks only questions and yet cradles you in it's arms and makes you feel loved, loved by a city and by its' people. I love London, and one may find that weird, but I do. It may have its' yobs and its' chavs and its' rip off artists, but at no point, if you ever really needed it, would these people not help you. Londoners understand the social democratic compact acutely, that helping everyone benefits everyone. Socialized healthcare is just the most obvious tip of the ice burg, but there's an underlying current of care that keeps London afloat as an organism. If New York is held together by negative energy then London is by positive. Like two magnets turned the same pole the energy keeps new York supported, yet isolated; creative but not close. London has positive energy: everything is drawn close together into tiny roman streets that mix and meld like subatomic particles. Yet the paradox to London is that it is clearly separated by section: ones area code clearly defines where one lives and what type of neighborhood just as ones accent used to.
I woke up this morning at 5:30 my body clearly believed it was about time. My mind trying to figure out which one of my myriad of clocks was correct: my watch set to GMT, my alarm clock still on daylight savings, my laptop set to... Iceland?, my ipod set to Brussels. I finally settled upon my verizon cell phone which was automatically set by the local tower. 0530. I usually keep my watch set to my old time so I can quickly check what time I think it is and figure out why I'm hungry or tired at a particular time. But the time made me nostalgic. I wished myself back in my little slice of independence, where I am exotic, I liked be exotic. I want to give that to my kids raise them in Europe and then unleash them upon the US to shock and dazzle the slack jawed fat Americans with Marlboro Lites hanging over their warm beers greasy from resting on ketchup stained NASCAR tee shirts with salt lines around the armpits dried up like their manhood which rests shamefully in a puddle of beer slowly soaking into their 3 day old boxers stretched to the limit of designer specifications and the laws of physics by the funyun sale at Costco... But my kids will bring the culture, bring the sophistication, the language, the history, even an accent. They will be kings among intellectual peasantry. And I'm talking good kings, with power and the wisdom to not have to use it.
But that's all in the future, and hopefully I'll have gotten back by then.
For now I'll live in the past.