Hold Tight, London
It's surreal, seeing a huge wedding take place in spaces I've stood in. The rose-rimmed black marble plaque embedded in that stone floor, the red carpet. That sidewalk I've walked on that goes behind the abbey, past the sign that says SOVEREIGN'S ENTRANCE. The Quire where a lot of the action was is the most beautiful man-made structure I've seen in my life. No picture or video I've seen of it ever does it justice. You find out within seconds that it's no mistake that a block of folding metal chairs is set just opposite the pipe organ. It's to keep a disorganised pack of tourists from standing in random places there and boggling at the stained glass. It's one thing to be American and boggling at this sight in a thousand-year-old structure. But even native Britishers aren't immune to the effect. It's a fast ticket to experiencing awe, well worth the £7 ticket to get in the door. Westminster Abbey is one of those places that gets into your blood, even if the Church of England and British monarchy mean not a thing to you. It's a place that stays with you, no matter how long you've been gone from it. Few places are that old.
I remember paying close attention to the tiny details you'll never see on camera: the smallest details in the mason work at the Abbey, the Tudor roses wrought into the spiked iron fence. I made a donation, took a candle, lit it, said a prayer. I just wish I could remember what I said that prayer for. Maybe one day that prayer will come to fruition and I'll actually remember what it was. I walked a circle around the chapterhouse. I read inscriptions on centuries-old tombs. I still have my souvenir guide book for the place. I still have the free folded pamphlets they put out, and one in Japanese, just for the hell of it.
I admit every time I've walked past the parliament clock tower as its gong-like toll has rung out over inner London, or walked past the stone lions guarding the British Museum, past Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, Chinatown, Soho, Covent Garden, Camden Town, when I've walked across the Tower Bridge, I've been knock-down, drag-out, desperately in love. How much that high effects how I've seen London, I don't know if I'll ever know. I'm tired of going to London because of love for someone else. Just once, I'd like to go to London for just me.
I accept that that's probably not happening, that London may be, at its core, a vessel in which I can only experience the highest highs and lowest lows, and nothing in between. I feel its pulse more acutely than any other city I've ever been in, even cities I love far more than it, and that's saying a lot. I melt into London's energy, and its energy melts into me. We developed a symbiotic relationship the way dirt in an antique ring holds in precious gems. No, you don't want the dirt, but you don't want to lose those stones, either, do you? Being a witch, I say I don't want light without dark. One can't exist without the other, that's the way it should be, yes? It's some Moulin Rouge shit, my life in London, I mean, the real-life "throw your life away for one happy day." Just one picture with your arm around me on the sill of a leaded window in the Tower of London. Just one hand-hold in the Quire at Westminster Abbey, under the stained glass, just one kiss on the banks of the Thames in sight of all those ethereal blue fairy lights on the trees leading up to the London Eye. What's life if you can't feel alive? But for how long?
I remember paying close attention to the tiny details you'll never see on camera: the smallest details in the mason work at the Abbey, the Tudor roses wrought into the spiked iron fence. I made a donation, took a candle, lit it, said a prayer. I just wish I could remember what I said that prayer for. Maybe one day that prayer will come to fruition and I'll actually remember what it was. I walked a circle around the chapterhouse. I read inscriptions on centuries-old tombs. I still have my souvenir guide book for the place. I still have the free folded pamphlets they put out, and one in Japanese, just for the hell of it.
I admit every time I've walked past the parliament clock tower as its gong-like toll has rung out over inner London, or walked past the stone lions guarding the British Museum, past Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, Chinatown, Soho, Covent Garden, Camden Town, when I've walked across the Tower Bridge, I've been knock-down, drag-out, desperately in love. How much that high effects how I've seen London, I don't know if I'll ever know. I'm tired of going to London because of love for someone else. Just once, I'd like to go to London for just me.
I accept that that's probably not happening, that London may be, at its core, a vessel in which I can only experience the highest highs and lowest lows, and nothing in between. I feel its pulse more acutely than any other city I've ever been in, even cities I love far more than it, and that's saying a lot. I melt into London's energy, and its energy melts into me. We developed a symbiotic relationship the way dirt in an antique ring holds in precious gems. No, you don't want the dirt, but you don't want to lose those stones, either, do you? Being a witch, I say I don't want light without dark. One can't exist without the other, that's the way it should be, yes? It's some Moulin Rouge shit, my life in London, I mean, the real-life "throw your life away for one happy day." Just one picture with your arm around me on the sill of a leaded window in the Tower of London. Just one hand-hold in the Quire at Westminster Abbey, under the stained glass, just one kiss on the banks of the Thames in sight of all those ethereal blue fairy lights on the trees leading up to the London Eye. What's life if you can't feel alive? But for how long?
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