SPACE v1
X marks the spot
It’s the X that draws you to the space. 10 inches by 10 inches, perfectly symmetrical, firm in its ownership of the metal surround. It’s been painted in that official shade of yellow that’s intended to command our attention and obedience. However, what message it is meant to convey is unclear in this instance, and it’s as if someone realised this as there’s been an attempt at erasure, leaving a dirty smudgy grey effect to the surface; the yellow fighting through in places, determined to do its job and issue its instruction.
The metal surround is less pleasing to the eye: one of those herring bone designs seen in both real and fake metal flooring. Without my glasses on the patterns are out of focus and appear to move around in a giddy jig, unsettling and slightly nauseating. The floor space denoted by the metal has a boundary of about 5 foot by 3 foot – large enough to lie down in if the dizziness overcomes me.
Whilst the foreground surface is richly decorated with chewing gum and the detritus of London life, at the far edge unblemished metal is bounded by a relatively clean white line and an assertive stripe of yellow. No doubt someone somewhere can translate this coded message intended for those who walk this path.
The space is occupied.
I stand here owning my 15 square foot of floor space and - backed up by the forceful voice of the cadmium yellow - no one comes near.
SPACE v2
Waste of Space
This space is a waste of space… it has no use.
In inclement weather you couldn’t shelter there. When the sun is out you couldn’t bask in its rays in this space. You couldn’t sit and read a book or contemplate the views there.
Business people don’t bustle through juggling briefcases, mobiles and Starbucks. Kids don’t play there of hang out in menacing gangs comparing the size of their weapons. Dogs don’t shit there. Tourists don’t sit there. Even the man with the over-engineered sweeping machine doesn’t clean there.
IT HAS NO USE!
Apart from, of course, should the unlikely incident occur that the young man up above – possibly slightly hungover from a night spent partying at a club to drown his sorrows because his girlfriend left him for his best mate a week ago – starts to feel dizzy and steps backwards, reaching for the building to steady himself. In doing so he misjudges his footing and kicks a bucket, which rolls towards the edge, causing him to leap forward to catch it, transferring his weight too quickly and, setting off a chain of reactions culminating in the window washing scaffolding cascading down to earth in an almighty crash.
Then, this space below where we cannot go, would have served its purpose.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Walk
Walk 1
Shuffling across the tarmac, my arm around her shoulder to steady her; she’s less sure of her footing now since the fall. Her eyes flit vacantly from my face to the gardens not settling anywhere, recognising nothing.
When did she become so short? She fits uncomfortably under my arm which aches from the burden of supporting her. Our slow progress across the ten yard stretch reminds me of ‘pigeon steps’, the game we played at school – but this is no game now, this is my life.
I enter the security code and, as the door opens, we’re greeted by the warm fug and the overpowering smell of bleach, urine and institutional food. She’s back to the place we now refer to as her home. And the weight immediately lifts from my shoulders.
Walk 2
Concentrate.
Start by standing upright.
Whoa – steady girl!
Okay, this isn’t working. Let’s be less ambitious.
A Neanderthal crouch will have to do….
Straighten up slowly…
O wow, this is high.
The view’s completely different from up here.
Wobble. Woops – this is scary! So close to a serious fall.
How do people do this for a living?
Keep calm and don’t rush things.
One foot in front of the other, that’s all it takes.
Don’t even think about going for a confident, blasé look - you know you can’t pull it off.
Just don’t cling on to things – that’s a dead give away you’ve not done this before.
Okay. The plan is 3 steps forward, pause, take a look, turn around and retreat to safety.
Come on. Be brave. You can do it. It’s not that far.
Deep breath.
One step…Oh er, my legs are shaking.
I’m going to twist my bloody ankle if I don’t watch what I’m doing and it’s a long fall from up here.
Slowly. Carefully. One step for mankind and all that.
Oh you know what? I think I’ve almost got the hang of this. (Pride before a fall?)
Maybe I could even raise my head and take a look?
Hmm – not quite what I’d imagined.
Nothing like it looks in the pictures in the magazines, but then it never is – reality.
Right. That’s enough.
Three steps back to terra firma.
But at least you can say you had the experience if only for 5 minutes.
Shuffling across the tarmac, my arm around her shoulder to steady her; she’s less sure of her footing now since the fall. Her eyes flit vacantly from my face to the gardens not settling anywhere, recognising nothing.
When did she become so short? She fits uncomfortably under my arm which aches from the burden of supporting her. Our slow progress across the ten yard stretch reminds me of ‘pigeon steps’, the game we played at school – but this is no game now, this is my life.
I enter the security code and, as the door opens, we’re greeted by the warm fug and the overpowering smell of bleach, urine and institutional food. She’s back to the place we now refer to as her home. And the weight immediately lifts from my shoulders.
Walk 2
Concentrate.
Start by standing upright.
Whoa – steady girl!
Okay, this isn’t working. Let’s be less ambitious.
A Neanderthal crouch will have to do….
Straighten up slowly…
O wow, this is high.
The view’s completely different from up here.
Wobble. Woops – this is scary! So close to a serious fall.
How do people do this for a living?
Keep calm and don’t rush things.
One foot in front of the other, that’s all it takes.
Don’t even think about going for a confident, blasé look - you know you can’t pull it off.
Just don’t cling on to things – that’s a dead give away you’ve not done this before.
Okay. The plan is 3 steps forward, pause, take a look, turn around and retreat to safety.
Come on. Be brave. You can do it. It’s not that far.
Deep breath.
One step…Oh er, my legs are shaking.
I’m going to twist my bloody ankle if I don’t watch what I’m doing and it’s a long fall from up here.
Slowly. Carefully. One step for mankind and all that.
Oh you know what? I think I’ve almost got the hang of this. (Pride before a fall?)
Maybe I could even raise my head and take a look?
Hmm – not quite what I’d imagined.
Nothing like it looks in the pictures in the magazines, but then it never is – reality.
Right. That’s enough.
Three steps back to terra firma.
But at least you can say you had the experience if only for 5 minutes.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Space
White Rose Court is a dead-end alley measuring 20 paces in length and 3 paces in width. Alleys, passageways, nooks and crannies are surprisingly common in this offshoot of Bishopsgate - so near to the Luftwaffe's targets. 20 metres away lie Parliament Court and Artillery Passage - both in demand by film and tv companies as locations for period dramas. But they ignore White Rose Court. Its boundaries are the high walls of three post-war buildings. Entering on the north side is a sandwich bar. On the south side it is a pub. Blind and deaf you could determine the time of day by the smell. White Rose Court, as the name suggests, is a construct demanded by building regulations. It serves only to provide statutory fire exits. A red bricked office block stifles the narrow end and every urban ugliness is condensed into it. A metal grill across a dark doorway, an angry, yellow sign, a security camera and a filthy layer of grime where ground meets wall. There is no time of day that the light shines kindly upon it. At least at night the darkness at the far end provides refuge for what spills out of the pub.
The pub and sandwich bar entrances (together with the new smoking regulations) provide an excuse to linger at the top but there is no reason to go any further. Even the pub's beer cellar is located at the front. To stride purposefully through is to invite a curious glance. Thus surveyors, architects and planners have conspired and succeeded in erecting a powerful but invisible forcefield.
The pub and sandwich bar entrances (together with the new smoking regulations) provide an excuse to linger at the top but there is no reason to go any further. Even the pub's beer cellar is located at the front. To stride purposefully through is to invite a curious glance. Thus surveyors, architects and planners have conspired and succeeded in erecting a powerful but invisible forcefield.
Walkway (A Space)
The most direct route
The straight line from A to B
The desire path
Called THE WALKWAY
Up ramp – upstream – a tributary – flows forcibly on a straight course through the centre of the Windermere and Derwent Estates. Fortified on either side by banks of high walled brick buildings. Forbidding grey tarmac – murky and muddied by its foot-passengers. Wide and clear, a concrete river – calm today – lets us easily stream along – no danger of bumping into each other laden with the cargo of everyday life
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The disembark
The gentle decline
The sloping ramp
Downstream Maplin St
Mercilessly to the A11.
The gentle decline
The sloping ramp
Downstream Maplin St
Mercilessly to the A11.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Anish Kapoor and Richard Serra short interview
if it interests anyone;
http://www.timeout.com/london/art/features/
5938/Anish_Kapoor_and_Richard_Serra-interview.html
http://www.timeout.com/london/art/features/
5938/Anish_Kapoor_and_Richard_Serra-interview.html
Maggie's space remembered
The shiny new bicycle looked slightly incongruous propped against the corrugated fence splashed with yellow. Traffic sounds were muffled here and the coo coo coo of a dove alternated with the sound of a saw. Faded silver graffiti on the riveted green door matched the galvanised iron. Above it, a glimpse of sky though the tangled barbed wire.
A buddleia seedling clung to the cracked concrete, its roots seeking sustenance from an unseen source.
Opposite, were more corrugated walls, this time in blue, with a bright yellow security warning. A pulley, which seemed completely unconnected to any supporting structure, dangled overhead.
Crisp plane leaves danced among the shadows drawn by the bare tree on the tarmac.. A faint sweetish toasted smell mingled with that of oil.
A car door slamming suggested someone coming or going. Then an alarm sounded.
Maggie's space observed
Traffic sounds muffled as if further away. ‘Coo coo coo’ must be a dove as a pigeon’s song has five syllables, doesn’t it?
Sound of sawing from behind the grey corrugated sheet.
A faint burnt toasted smell drifts in the breeze.
Glimpse of blue sky through tangled barbed wire.
Footsteps in the distance – no owner.
How on earth does the buddleia manage to grow in that crevice and will it eventually split the wall? Where do the roots go?
A red and white ‘pedestrians’ arrow points you into the corner – no way through.
Smell of oil.
Plane leaves flickering on the tarmac. From behind the blue corrugated façade the sun casts shadows of the bare branches. Why is every thing corrugated? And why is the CCTV notice in yellow? Did they know the wall would be blue?
An alarm sounds from beyond.
A car engine revs so there must be someone near.
Faded silver graffiti on the green riveted door harmonises with the galvanised iron sheets.
Is that screaming or children playing?
Another car door bangs.
The pulley seems to have detached itself from the bar. Below it, shreds of plastic cling desperately to more barbed wire.
Why would they want to keep people in rather than out?
Monday, October 27, 2008
Walk with a dustcart
Jan Savage
I am walking behind the dustcart that takes our rubbish every Thursday, following this strange, cumbersome beast as it makes its faltering way down our street and the next. It’s a homage of sorts: the dustmen’s gang leader – a humorous, robust-looking man called Dave - died suddenly last week, a few days before he took retirement. I didn’t really know him, but liked his sharp cheerfulness, the way he dared to call me darling, how he turned a blind eye when my rubbish was over the limit, and how he waved from the cab when our paths crossed well beyond these streets. And I took pleasure in the way we both knew that this camaraderie was not entirely unrelated to the matter of a Christmas bonus.
As I walk I listen to the sounds of the dustcart, the disjointed song that was the backdrop to this man’s working life: the clunking of gears, the screeching and sighing of brakes, the jolting and jarring, the bleeping of reverse gear, the scrape of bins being dragged over paving, the sound of harder, then softer objects falling into the mouth of the cart, the men’s single-syllable, undecipherable cries to the driver – Wuerp, Wuerp……..
I watch the mounds of rubbish – the rags, the egg shells, old shoes, juice cartons - churning over inside the cart’s craw in unchosen intimacy. It reminds me of another death – my father’s – and how his body had to share an undertaker’s hatchback with an unknown corpse on their way to the funeral parlour. Perhaps it is the small satisfaction of this memory that makes me relish the slightly sweet, fetid smell that is the wake of the dustcart. Or perhaps it is that, in respect for Dave, I need to step in his footsteps, to smell what he smelt, and inhale the odour of our street’s collective waste, the entwined remnants of what we once craved, what we devoured and what we have chosen, often absent-mindedly, to reject.
Jan Savage
I am walking behind the dustcart that takes our rubbish every Thursday, following this strange, cumbersome beast as it makes its faltering way down our street and the next. It’s a homage of sorts: the dustmen’s gang leader – a humorous, robust-looking man called Dave - died suddenly last week, a few days before he took retirement. I didn’t really know him, but liked his sharp cheerfulness, the way he dared to call me darling, how he turned a blind eye when my rubbish was over the limit, and how he waved from the cab when our paths crossed well beyond these streets. And I took pleasure in the way we both knew that this camaraderie was not entirely unrelated to the matter of a Christmas bonus.
As I walk I listen to the sounds of the dustcart, the disjointed song that was the backdrop to this man’s working life: the clunking of gears, the screeching and sighing of brakes, the jolting and jarring, the bleeping of reverse gear, the scrape of bins being dragged over paving, the sound of harder, then softer objects falling into the mouth of the cart, the men’s single-syllable, undecipherable cries to the driver – Wuerp, Wuerp……..
I watch the mounds of rubbish – the rags, the egg shells, old shoes, juice cartons - churning over inside the cart’s craw in unchosen intimacy. It reminds me of another death – my father’s – and how his body had to share an undertaker’s hatchback with an unknown corpse on their way to the funeral parlour. Perhaps it is the small satisfaction of this memory that makes me relish the slightly sweet, fetid smell that is the wake of the dustcart. Or perhaps it is that, in respect for Dave, I need to step in his footsteps, to smell what he smelt, and inhale the odour of our street’s collective waste, the entwined remnants of what we once craved, what we devoured and what we have chosen, often absent-mindedly, to reject.
SPACE
The sides aren't parallel.
The sides aren't symmetrical.
The sides aren't closed in.
The ceiling isn't man made.
The people take no notice to the space they're in.
It isn't used as a place to stop or wait or stay in for any more time than you have to.
It isn't closed from natural light.
There aren't more than 2 permanent objects in the space.
You don't have to make an effort to enter it.
There is no door.
There isn't just one-way to enter or exit.
It never shuts.
The sides aren't symmetrical.
The sides aren't closed in.
The ceiling isn't man made.
The people take no notice to the space they're in.
It isn't used as a place to stop or wait or stay in for any more time than you have to.
It isn't closed from natural light.
There aren't more than 2 permanent objects in the space.
You don't have to make an effort to enter it.
There is no door.
There isn't just one-way to enter or exit.
It never shuts.
WALK
4 strongbows and a sense of friends direction lead me back to my room. i stubble over the fcaewash and wonder what made my mouth burst in sensual mint flavour... i lean back in bed and wonder at these things as i wonder how the hell i ot home. a sense of diretiona dn a firned that was drunk. i wonder how this flavour of mint swelled on my mouth and how the flowing feeling of sick and anticipation and reject entered my stomach. i rememeber thinking i hould t do this, i remember wondering why i was. i remember 4 strongbows. i remember a house party. i remember friend.
i rememeber nothing.
sleep fills the left over's of a niht with dawn and dreams and i wake not knowing wst time it is or what i should be getting up for.
A write I text. thogh i cant remembet hwat ive just written on this page.
fuck it.
i rememeber nothing.
sleep fills the left over's of a niht with dawn and dreams and i wake not knowing wst time it is or what i should be getting up for.
A write I text. thogh i cant remembet hwat ive just written on this page.
fuck it.
Friday, October 24, 2008
My Dream Land...my walk
This walk is a true journey which I undertook whilst sleeping around 8am on Friday morning. This was less of a walk I suppose and more of a journey through my thoughts and subconscious; my sleeping mind. Writing these moments I hope will help me remember this strange occurrence and perhaps help me to understand myself on a deeper scale. What is this subconscious mind? How does it come to our awareness so suddenly with no warning after being forgotten for months, perhaps even years?
It all began (as far as I can recall) in a hazy opening in the country, where the trees and green leaves were vibrant and blowing in the dreamlike summer breeze. It seemed like somewhere near home as I felt safe and calm. I came to, staring upwards at the light piercing the bright green leaves. It is funny how happenings in dreams appear to have no relation to each other upon awakening, but in our dreamlike state these places and motions flow together, the pieces of the puzzle vanishing as one awakens. Would these missing links have been more of a help to understanding this subconscious confusion? I wandered in this happy dream world until I came across many situations taking me away from this calm and happy space. I began a job as a bartender, my happy world morphing into a dingy but homely local pub, awash with dark wood floors, dark wood walls covered in pub grime. I pulled pints, and threw around cocktails being taught these new skills. As I worked away earning my keep, slowly familiar old faces began to seep into the building; old school friends, friends from when I was a baby, old teachers, old parents and hundreds of faces from my past. Why are they here? Should I talk to them? Should I have contacted them during the years? Are they angry at me? Their voices kept building and looking and growing in intensity until I knew I had to leave. I was unsure of what I should do, carrying this feeling of unfinished business though all I wanted to do was to move on. I had to get away, it was too much. I had to change my clothes, it was the only solution, to change my appearance and leave as quickly as possible.
I cannot recall what I changed into but at this point I awoke with an odd feeling of guilt and regret. There were two biscuits next to my pillow.
ps. Hello everybody! I finally have an internet connection, amazing!!! Looking foward to reading everyones writings x x x peace!
It all began (as far as I can recall) in a hazy opening in the country, where the trees and green leaves were vibrant and blowing in the dreamlike summer breeze. It seemed like somewhere near home as I felt safe and calm. I came to, staring upwards at the light piercing the bright green leaves. It is funny how happenings in dreams appear to have no relation to each other upon awakening, but in our dreamlike state these places and motions flow together, the pieces of the puzzle vanishing as one awakens. Would these missing links have been more of a help to understanding this subconscious confusion? I wandered in this happy dream world until I came across many situations taking me away from this calm and happy space. I began a job as a bartender, my happy world morphing into a dingy but homely local pub, awash with dark wood floors, dark wood walls covered in pub grime. I pulled pints, and threw around cocktails being taught these new skills. As I worked away earning my keep, slowly familiar old faces began to seep into the building; old school friends, friends from when I was a baby, old teachers, old parents and hundreds of faces from my past. Why are they here? Should I talk to them? Should I have contacted them during the years? Are they angry at me? Their voices kept building and looking and growing in intensity until I knew I had to leave. I was unsure of what I should do, carrying this feeling of unfinished business though all I wanted to do was to move on. I had to get away, it was too much. I had to change my clothes, it was the only solution, to change my appearance and leave as quickly as possible.
I cannot recall what I changed into but at this point I awoke with an odd feeling of guilt and regret. There were two biscuits next to my pillow.
ps. Hello everybody! I finally have an internet connection, amazing!!! Looking foward to reading everyones writings x x x peace!
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Wed 1st October. Joshua Raffell
Dave my partner is off work today, because of Eid a Muslim holiday. He's a teacher at a school with a high percentage of muslim children. We are going to see a new exhibition at the Tate Modern of Rothko "the late series", Dave had been to the previous exhibition at the Tate Britain in 1987 and been a big fan ever since.
I woke up after not feeling well, my face is covered in a rash and feels like sand paper. I have a cold sore from Hell and to top it of, a crick neck. I feel like shit and want to curl up in bed and die. Despite feeling sorry for myself, I do get up and we make it to the exhibition. We walk into the first room , I look around see some small sketch book paintings and feel unimpressed, Partly due to not feeling well and partly due to not connecting with the work. There is a panel with writing on, which I do try and read, but quickly become aware that nothing has sunk in, each word I read has no meaning because I cannot remember anything that I have read before. This is a common scenario that I link to being dyslexic. I feel frustrated and fed up. I stop noticing the paintings until I come to a room that has a crowd of people to my left. I cannot even get a glimpse at what they are looking at, so give up there is a painting to my right that has a few people looking at it, I then notice a grey arrow on the wall, To the right of the painting the wall with the arrow on is set back from the wall with the painting on. There seems to be an opening , so you can go behind the painting. At that moment a lady walks from behind .
There is a panel cut out of the wall which has a glass viewing window, so you can see the back of the picture, where the canvass has been stretched on to the wooden frame, there is a baton going vertical down the centre of the painting, with three batons going horizontal, this is obviously to give the frame support. There is a signature ' Mark Rothko' .
I wonder what Rothko himself would have thought of the way the back was exposed. Would he has approved?
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
EID.
By Laura Mcintosh
Head down, Ipod on. I stumbled upon a sea of copper.
Heady with the heat of warm sweaty bodies.
I continually requested. " Excuse me!!". And one by one the copper sea parted in sync, squashing together and letting me through.
At 5'3, if I had known, that I would be engulfed by a crowd of many men, I would have turned running back through the crowd, that was now caressing my clothing.
I'm claustrophobic. Even with a gathering of a few.
The thought of hundreds stealing my air with their chests, had me clutching at my scarf.
'Excuse me please!!".
I proceeded, repeating the single phrase , that I used that cold winter morning.
As I took a deep breath and gathered my faculties.
Smelling smoke I remembered the lit cigarette in my hand.
Remembering to not step on any toes, and stopping myself from burning an hole in their neatly pressed garments, distracted my mind long enough from the suffocating desire to want to run away.
I looked up at all their warm faces and smiled, as they courteously told each other that I was coming through.
This wasn't what I expected.
Weren't they suppose to be ' 'Sexist!?'. 'Violent ??'
....Finally.
Fin.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
An Imaginary Walk
A man, dressed immaculately, navigated the perimeter circular path of the city park with such precision as to make sure his every footstep was equal and measured.
Keeping his eyes fixed steadfastly ahead, he remained directly alongside the elaborately scrolled wrought iron fence as though his life depended upon it.
All around a cacophonous squawking could be heard from the crows feeding in large mob-like hordes. A light westerly breeze bought wafts of pungent air, from the nearby factory, flickering across his face. He didn’t wince at the acrid taste and smell left in his mouth and nostrils.
In the near distance, young families, old couples and friends meandered amiably – criss-crossing the inner paths of the park – chattering in constant competition with the birds.
As the man continued round and round back to where he began - a faint shadow could be seen moving aimlessly around the central circular path in the opposite direction.
Their paths never crossed.
Keeping his eyes fixed steadfastly ahead, he remained directly alongside the elaborately scrolled wrought iron fence as though his life depended upon it.
All around a cacophonous squawking could be heard from the crows feeding in large mob-like hordes. A light westerly breeze bought wafts of pungent air, from the nearby factory, flickering across his face. He didn’t wince at the acrid taste and smell left in his mouth and nostrils.
In the near distance, young families, old couples and friends meandered amiably – criss-crossing the inner paths of the park – chattering in constant competition with the birds.
As the man continued round and round back to where he began - a faint shadow could be seen moving aimlessly around the central circular path in the opposite direction.
Their paths never crossed.
Maggie's walk
Twenty past – that’s five minutes going due west then, so that must be the gate over there. How many layers of paint can there be on it? Solid but elegant, isn’t it? Apparently it was made in the forge that Jim now works in. Did you know that the surname ‘Wright’ come from the same root as ‘wrought’?
Now, bare left along the middle path. Follow the curve and watch out for bicycles on the green track.
Those prickly green chestnut cases are really quite soft when you pick them up. Did you soak them in vinegar? Can’t say I bothered.
If it rains again we can shelter in the bandstand over there. In fact, let’s take a short cut across the grass.
Can you smell the damp leaves?
Did you hear it? What is it? Look – a bright green flash! And another!
Outer circle of trees, fifth one along looking into the sun. Yes, that’s it – faded red ribbon round the trunk. She said she’d loosened it in Spring.
It’s taller than the others and the leaves are so shiny. View over the cricket pitch, that was the idea, they say.
No chestnuts yet; maybe next year.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
My Stationary Walk
I am standing at my designated spot outside the railway station wearing my sash and holding my ‘tin’ (plastic cylindrical box) and roll of stickers. Today is my six monthly hour long stint of Cancer Research collection. It is 8.00 am and I have placed myself strategically so that I can be seen at a distance and have to be passed by all those who are going to the station. I am obliged to stand still in my position which is a rarity for me as I am always on the move. I cannot wave or shake the box nor should I approach or talk to people unless they speak to me. These are the rules. At the same time I want people to see me and feel kindly towards me and the cause, so I stand feeling rather pious but with a benign open expression and a smile at the ready.It is an interesting experience as I am at liberty to watch people in a way that, had I not had this ‘honourable’ task, would be considered odd or make myself and others uncomfortable. It’s a great excuse to people watch! My thoughts run to how I am being approached but ignored by these people. Though I cannot move it is they who are being put on the spot. I can see them glance at me, avoid my eyes and hurry by. Until anyone offers me anything I start to feel annoyed by my empty tin and their meanness. Will anyone stop at all? on you bastards, I think, you’ve all got jobs, you might need this money one day! Everyone should take a turn at this charity collecting – then they would know how it feels and be more generous! I put some money in from my own purse.I observe that the commuters are generally aged between 20 and 40, smartly groomed in preparation for their day of work and most often travelling alone, though sometimes in pairs. There are occasional schoolchildren singly or in groups. There is a pattern of people’s volume and speed of movement depending on the train times. Trains arrive every 15 minutes. Everyone streams by and naturally, when one is due, people who have cut it too fine are in a greater and greater hurry until that train has gone and the next early birds start to trickle past at a relaxed pace once more. I feel increasingly cold and wish I had worn gloves.Someone catches my eye and then walks right up to me, digging about in his trouser pockets for change and puts the money in the tin. I am genuinely so grateful and am all smiles! Then someone else does the same, a woman this time, fishing about awkwardly in her handbag for her purse. I realise they must be in a hurry and am so appreciative: Thank you so much! Would you like a sticker? No? Sometime this happens, no one gives and then there’s almost a queue! I have plenty of time to think so I contemplate this phenomenon and also try to calculate such things as the ratio of male to female givers, how much I estimate is in the box and how many givers to non givers: I have money weighing my container down I feel much more warmly towards my fellow man. Occasionally someone feels moved to speak about why the charity has a special relevance for them and we have a short but meaningful exchange. Sometimes people I don’t expect to stop do so, like a couple of young schoolgirls and I feel very heartened by this. I am never concerned about how much people give, it is the fact that they have bothered to stop that seems to matter.I notice that the time which, at first seemed to drag has seemed to speed up and my shift is finished. It is time to hand over my tin, sash and stickers to the safeguard of the next collector, Linda. I feel quite relieved. I become a normal commuter myself, buy my ticket, get on the train and slip into anonymity.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Walking With Andreas
Lulu
We pick along the curved, balding footpath, the loaded concrete sky already spitting
at us.
You sit next to me on a bench, hood up, humming a song.
The wind rushes and shushes at us, and you tell me about resonant frequencies.
We stand up against the gusts, two blustery umbrellas, and totter toward the trees,
“Excuse-me”-ing through day-glo-spadex-clad joggers,
And the wind-parted beard covering the land.
Crispy sea weed grass gradually turns into boney-white ground, clung to by tree roots
like elderly, arthritic hands.
I look down at my own hands and wonder where we’re going.
You march along, to anything that looks interesting. I lag back, writing.
“Darling” comes your call from the side of a pond.
The wind tears around me again, scraps and shreds of leaves chipping past me over
the chalky dirt, as I bumble after you through the undergrowth.
A mammoth tree has fallen over, ripping open the sky as it went and I blink in the
sudden stony light.
You’re standing atop its roots, grinning, “Do you know, this can stand up again” you
inform me, leaping down.
“Watch out for the holly” I caution inanely. “Holly?” you follow my pointing finger.
You kiss my head and stomp off.
I lumber after.
I’m shouldering Ted and Sylvia as we pick across the landscape.
The ground is raw and stubbly ’round another pond we’ve found- a horrible, bubbly,
oozing thing, all oily black and violently green.
I crouch on its puny jetty, the wind scratching my eyes as I peer at my notes.
You pull me up by my wrist.
“Dick Turpin had a hideout around here” I tell you lamely, but you don’t know who
that is.
My hair is blown to pieces, and your five pound plimsolls have failed you.
“Can we go down into the forest again?” you want to know.
But it is time for us to go.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Morning light
A quiet, tree lined side street in North London. Crisp early morning air and bright sun. Long terraces of Victorian houses, three storeys high occupy both sides. Most look well maintained family homes with neat, small front gardens. The characteristic, almost monotone period features stand out in the low morning sunlight. Stark black and white tiled footpaths lead up to front doors that are painted dark colours.
Garden railings cast sharp shadows on the pavement; black and white lines like piano keys, now being gently tinkled by the more hazy shadows of moving leaves from the trees, seemingly dancing through the gaps. I can almost hear it but I think there may be a wind chime in someone’s garden. The air is fresh and smells green somehow.
Not many people are around despite it being post school run. Just a couple of women jogging, chatting as they go. An old lady pottering in her garden returns to her door with a cheery “hello” to the cat. She’d been attending to a border of tall sunflowers, still in golden bloom, basking in the last rays of early autumn sun. They are the only colours in the street, rising out against the strongly contrasting light.
At the end of the road is an old church. It’s in the process of being converted into flats. The outside wall is intact and has been renovated, but looking through the glass-free arched windows, you can see that this wall is all that remains of the original building. The inside is now a criss cross of red steel girders and rafters. Strong sun rays fall through the open roof at angles, making the inside glow.
A quiet, tree lined side street in North London. Crisp early morning air and bright sun. Long terraces of Victorian houses, three storeys high occupy both sides. Most look well maintained family homes with neat, small front gardens. The characteristic, almost monotone period features stand out in the low morning sunlight. Stark black and white tiled footpaths lead up to front doors that are painted dark colours.
Garden railings cast sharp shadows on the pavement; black and white lines like piano keys, now being gently tinkled by the more hazy shadows of moving leaves from the trees, seemingly dancing through the gaps. I can almost hear it but I think there may be a wind chime in someone’s garden. The air is fresh and smells green somehow.
Not many people are around despite it being post school run. Just a couple of women jogging, chatting as they go. An old lady pottering in her garden returns to her door with a cheery “hello” to the cat. She’d been attending to a border of tall sunflowers, still in golden bloom, basking in the last rays of early autumn sun. They are the only colours in the street, rising out against the strongly contrasting light.
At the end of the road is an old church. It’s in the process of being converted into flats. The outside wall is intact and has been renovated, but looking through the glass-free arched windows, you can see that this wall is all that remains of the original building. The inside is now a criss cross of red steel girders and rafters. Strong sun rays fall through the open roof at angles, making the inside glow.
walk
terracotta tiled step
concrete swirled in shades of peaches, browns greys and yellows
left
charcoal poured concrete pavement gray, cracked and fissured littered with chewed gum, strewn with leaves
asphalt interruptions and asphalt repairs - asphalt is now what once was a tree
j gibs and co of london
post office telephones
gray pavement sprinkled with sand
black asphalt tarmac patches
water saturated holed plywood panels
moulded concrete drive demarcation
heavy clumps of dark brown clay
concrete ramp cracked, potholed sinking and depressed
ham baker and co fire hydrant maker of westminster sw
pebbled concrete pavement laden with gum and blemished with paint
around the corner left - foot in size square gray paving stones too littered with gum, drips of paint, fag ends leaves
pink paintcan stain
themes water, telegraph bt
so slightly sloping
head right, legoesque tactile tiles a shade of cadmium red light
look right in thick white heavy industrial road paint
imbedded crimson grit crossing middled and ended with more red tactile tiles
left to rectangular paving slabs of about a 1½ foot by 2 foot dimension
slicked iridescent oil, scattered leaves and squares that are rectangles
cracked, smashed-in, shattered or diagonally cut shades of medium gray
herringbone brick in crimson
asphalt drive, nearly black
back to squares that are rectangles concaved and undulating
red spray paint arrows
thames water thames water thames water thames water thames water
exposed earth
piece meal tarmaced drive to
gray of purple hue herringbone brick with tyre spread paint
metal grating, elastic bands, hair pin, cigarette butts, nails, chicken bones feather
big wide cracks, large puddles of water
dark brown gray gray
concrete shapes with patch work repairs, pressed punchwork texture with shoe prints
circular drain
exposed earth
twigs, deep red to orange mountain ash berries spotting the floor
peter savage ductile 02 08 02
pebbled concrete asphalt tarmac
parallel lines and abstract geometric shapes
gray dark gray, pinks - deep pink, dark pink maroon, greens yellows red
leaves ensnared in puddles
puddle choked with rubbish
peter savage ductile 25 06 02
mountain ash berries, red orange
parallel lines meandering towards and away from one another
pine needles, evergreen fur
look right, cadmium red deep
tactile tiles of caramel yellow sprayed with red and blue paint
drainage gutter in brown gray concrete
asphalt asphalt asphalt and yet more asphalt
concrete swirled in shades of peaches, browns greys and yellows
left
charcoal poured concrete pavement gray, cracked and fissured littered with chewed gum, strewn with leaves
asphalt interruptions and asphalt repairs - asphalt is now what once was a tree
j gibs and co of london
post office telephones
gray pavement sprinkled with sand
black asphalt tarmac patches
water saturated holed plywood panels
moulded concrete drive demarcation
heavy clumps of dark brown clay
concrete ramp cracked, potholed sinking and depressed
ham baker and co fire hydrant maker of westminster sw
pebbled concrete pavement laden with gum and blemished with paint
around the corner left - foot in size square gray paving stones too littered with gum, drips of paint, fag ends leaves
pink paintcan stain
themes water, telegraph bt
so slightly sloping
head right, legoesque tactile tiles a shade of cadmium red light
look right in thick white heavy industrial road paint
imbedded crimson grit crossing middled and ended with more red tactile tiles
left to rectangular paving slabs of about a 1½ foot by 2 foot dimension
slicked iridescent oil, scattered leaves and squares that are rectangles
cracked, smashed-in, shattered or diagonally cut shades of medium gray
herringbone brick in crimson
asphalt drive, nearly black
back to squares that are rectangles concaved and undulating
red spray paint arrows
thames water thames water thames water thames water thames water
exposed earth
piece meal tarmaced drive to
gray of purple hue herringbone brick with tyre spread paint
metal grating, elastic bands, hair pin, cigarette butts, nails, chicken bones feather
big wide cracks, large puddles of water
dark brown gray gray
concrete shapes with patch work repairs, pressed punchwork texture with shoe prints
circular drain
exposed earth
twigs, deep red to orange mountain ash berries spotting the floor
peter savage ductile 02 08 02
pebbled concrete asphalt tarmac
parallel lines and abstract geometric shapes
gray dark gray, pinks - deep pink, dark pink maroon, greens yellows red
leaves ensnared in puddles
puddle choked with rubbish
peter savage ductile 25 06 02
mountain ash berries, red orange
parallel lines meandering towards and away from one another
pine needles, evergreen fur
look right, cadmium red deep
tactile tiles of caramel yellow sprayed with red and blue paint
drainage gutter in brown gray concrete
asphalt asphalt asphalt and yet more asphalt
Srtuctured/ Re-Written Walk
Beep. Heavy wurring. Release. Bump up. Stop. Pull outwards, breathe
C10. Canada Water. Another steady wurr. Eight people
Handrail vibrating. Humming. Corner of my eye while writing
Slightly cramped in seat
Pull back. Release. Giddy, drunken, unsteady. Off
Chatting, no sound. Pavements slurring past
Cigarettes. Bags. Lost. First leaves falling
C10 to Canada Water
Indicate. Bump up. Five seconds later, down. Down off the floor, in the ripped seat for comfort. We slowly sink down. Lady in headscarf slowly attempting her exit, halt
Reflections, passing. Didn’t look
Eebury Bridge. Grunting bus. Working man. Scaffolding
New people
Ssssssss
Vibrating purr
Milbank
Vast, Open River. Fringe. 1, 2,1,2,1, 2, run, run, run, run
Clump to the right, talking, always talking, not looking. Strolling, swagger?
Stop, pull forward, release. Purr
C10 to Canada Water
Green, white, red, white, green. Ha-ha, no way man!
Purr...gentle humming. Up
first. Swaggering. Up, down, up, down. Speckled yellow thin line. Vivid blue
Pull back. Forward. Stop. Ride. Hue, yellow, flap round, curve, cut white, passing....passing, round. Round, merges into one
Waow, waow, waow
Rocking past, round. Wurring past. Click, click- bush, bush, bush- beat, time, rhythm and hustle, all things bashing, just from the way you –
Walls of what?
Grasped. Look at the floor. No rush. Don’t worry. No rush.
Flop, trap, flop, trap, waow, thwack
New crap, cough, rubbish, pipe
Thank-you clasped. No sun, no context. Vibrating, vibrating, steady drilling, scraaaatch, wurring deeper. Waow, waow, picking up pace
Halt
Asleep, leaning towards, chewing, sloshing, slopping around
C10 to Canada Water
Yeah, yeah, yeah Dalmatian pavement
Druum, drun druadudududududu
Tap, thinking..
Waow...waow
New language times two?
Looking. Thinking.
C10. Canada Water. Another steady wurr. Eight people
Handrail vibrating. Humming. Corner of my eye while writing
Slightly cramped in seat
Pull back. Release. Giddy, drunken, unsteady. Off
Chatting, no sound. Pavements slurring past
Cigarettes. Bags. Lost. First leaves falling
C10 to Canada Water
Indicate. Bump up. Five seconds later, down. Down off the floor, in the ripped seat for comfort. We slowly sink down. Lady in headscarf slowly attempting her exit, halt
Reflections, passing. Didn’t look
Eebury Bridge. Grunting bus. Working man. Scaffolding
New people
Ssssssss
Vibrating purr
Milbank
Vast, Open River. Fringe. 1, 2,1,2,1, 2, run, run, run, run
Clump to the right, talking, always talking, not looking. Strolling, swagger?
Stop, pull forward, release. Purr
C10 to Canada Water
Green, white, red, white, green. Ha-ha, no way man!
Purr...gentle humming. Up
first. Swaggering. Up, down, up, down. Speckled yellow thin line. Vivid blue
Pull back. Forward. Stop. Ride. Hue, yellow, flap round, curve, cut white, passing....passing, round. Round, merges into one
Waow, waow, waow
Rocking past, round. Wurring past. Click, click- bush, bush, bush- beat, time, rhythm and hustle, all things bashing, just from the way you –
Walls of what?
Grasped. Look at the floor. No rush. Don’t worry. No rush.
Flop, trap, flop, trap, waow, thwack
New crap, cough, rubbish, pipe
Thank-you clasped. No sun, no context. Vibrating, vibrating, steady drilling, scraaaatch, wurring deeper. Waow, waow, picking up pace
Halt
Asleep, leaning towards, chewing, sloshing, slopping around
C10 to Canada Water
Yeah, yeah, yeah Dalmatian pavement
Druum, drun druadudududududu
Tap, thinking..
Waow...waow
New language times two?
Looking. Thinking.
Un-structured walk
Beep. Release. Steady wurring. Grove nor gardens. Victoria. Heavy wurring. Bump up. Stop. Pull outwards, breathe.
C10. Canada Water. Another steady wurr. Eight people.
Starbucks. Pret. Steady walking. Humming. Handrail vibrating. Slightly crampt in seat. Can see van edging forward. Off. Pull back. Release. Giddy, drunken, unsteady. Corner of my eye while writing.
Pavement slurring past. Railings shiny. Suitcases. Chatting, no sound. Walking. Cigarettes, bags. Lost. Holding. Looking confused. First leaves falling.
C10 to Canada Water.
Eebury Bridge. Grunting bus. Working man, bikes, scaffolding. Indicate. New people. Opposite sides of bus. Bags, bridge. Development. Distant drilling. Knocking into brain, slow wurring, purring from bus. Cars, cars, cars, pointing, thinking, discussing. Bump up. Five seconds later down. Cars, cars. Pointing. Which way. Down off the floor. In the ripped seat, supposedly for comfort. We slowly sink down, lady in head-scarf attempts her exit, halt. Reflections, passing, didn’t look.
Sweeping, concentrated. Talking, moving arms. Looking, observing. Newspaper. Man at bus stop. Walking. How many people reading?
Wine, family meal. Kids. Pimlico station.
Sit, lining red, huge lorry. Sssssss
Low hissing, distant language. Lives. Torn, bike. Phone, turn, chat. Ear-rings. Shadow. Hold my hand. Tate Britain. Gardens, intimate. Soup. Unstable. Building. Page, page, cosy. Shadow. Watching. Hum, Vhm.
C10 to Canada Water.
Mess. Chat, headscarf, chat. Cars, shiny untouchable cars. Vibrating purr.
Texting, not looking. Reflection. Doesn’t look.
Fake spotters this way (opposite way).Milbank.
Talking. Always talking. Tight shirt. Not looking. Strolling.
Fringe. Open. Ren. River. So big, vast, glistening. 1 2 1 2 1 2 run, run, run, run. Clump to the right. Stop, pull forward, release. Purr.
C10 to Canada water.
Rivers of the world. What is that language behind me? Green, white, red, white, green.
All merges into one
Hospital. Emotionless. No change given. What’s creeping from behind? Purr
Ad2one. This way, this way. Two languages-3?
Lower marsh. Ha-ha, no way man! Both arms out a little, strolling. Swaggering.
Nothing and nowhere to be.
Poles. Scratch Sssssss . Muffled leeeep. Language school in quirky writing. What if they can’t read it?
Feet first. Up, down, up, down. Vivid blue. Specaldy yellow thin line.
Gnat, grrrrrattllkl, vvvvvuuurrummn. Pull back. Forward. Stop. Ride. Helmet. Hue yellow, flap round curve, cut white, passing....passing, round, round. Wawo wawo urrnonun, wawo wawwaw.
Fine print. Boundaries. Divisions, stops between you and everything. Black smudges, crying down the walls. Walls of what? Another division.
Rocking past, round. Cars to eager. Hypnotising hubcap. Wurring, purring. Building up. Click, click, bush, bush, bush. Beat, time, rhythm, and hustle all things bashing into one, just from the way you walk?
Reflective. Cramming. Too much scaffolding on one thing. Going o collapse. Break.
Vuuur, seeah. Top small, coffee, cigarette. Trying to be proud?
No rush. Don’t worry. No rush. Books clasped. Grasped. Floor, look at floor. What? Like a bloody prison. Hmm.....
Flop, trap, flop, trap, waoow, thwack.
Vibrating. Vibrating, steady drilling, wurring deeper. Halt, scraactch. Vvaruuuwaa, ku clum. Thank you clasped. Dent, crunch there’s too much yellow. Too much.
Notice one thing, leads to another. Princess Street.
Elephant and Castle. New crap. Pipe, rubbish. Cough. Sand. Talking. Police are coming. Waow, waow, waow. Beep, beep. Halt. Stop. Go. City. Chichi, wur. Picking up pace. Blowing. Off
Glasses, sun. No sun. No context. Don’t come near me. Pink. Follow diversion. Pink, red, red.
Look at the floor, up, up. Blurr, humn. Adrenalin.
Halt, pull back, push forward, and stop.
Splodges. Dalmatian pavement.
Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. Scratch
Sunglasses. No sun.
Asleep.Leaning towards me. Sit
Two new, maybe three? Busy, chewing, sloshing, slopping food round. Nasty open chewing gum.
Druum drundruadudududu
New language times two
Vvuuue waawawa. Tap, thinking, impatient
Looking. Thinking?
C10. Canada Water. Another steady wurr. Eight people.
Starbucks. Pret. Steady walking. Humming. Handrail vibrating. Slightly crampt in seat. Can see van edging forward. Off. Pull back. Release. Giddy, drunken, unsteady. Corner of my eye while writing.
Pavement slurring past. Railings shiny. Suitcases. Chatting, no sound. Walking. Cigarettes, bags. Lost. Holding. Looking confused. First leaves falling.
C10 to Canada Water.
Eebury Bridge. Grunting bus. Working man, bikes, scaffolding. Indicate. New people. Opposite sides of bus. Bags, bridge. Development. Distant drilling. Knocking into brain, slow wurring, purring from bus. Cars, cars, cars, pointing, thinking, discussing. Bump up. Five seconds later down. Cars, cars. Pointing. Which way. Down off the floor. In the ripped seat, supposedly for comfort. We slowly sink down, lady in head-scarf attempts her exit, halt. Reflections, passing, didn’t look.
Sweeping, concentrated. Talking, moving arms. Looking, observing. Newspaper. Man at bus stop. Walking. How many people reading?
Wine, family meal. Kids. Pimlico station.
Sit, lining red, huge lorry. Sssssss
Low hissing, distant language. Lives. Torn, bike. Phone, turn, chat. Ear-rings. Shadow. Hold my hand. Tate Britain. Gardens, intimate. Soup. Unstable. Building. Page, page, cosy. Shadow. Watching. Hum, Vhm.
C10 to Canada Water.
Mess. Chat, headscarf, chat. Cars, shiny untouchable cars. Vibrating purr.
Texting, not looking. Reflection. Doesn’t look.
Fake spotters this way (opposite way).Milbank.
Talking. Always talking. Tight shirt. Not looking. Strolling.
Fringe. Open. Ren. River. So big, vast, glistening. 1 2 1 2 1 2 run, run, run, run. Clump to the right. Stop, pull forward, release. Purr.
C10 to Canada water.
Rivers of the world. What is that language behind me? Green, white, red, white, green.
All merges into one
Hospital. Emotionless. No change given. What’s creeping from behind? Purr
Ad2one. This way, this way. Two languages-3?
Lower marsh. Ha-ha, no way man! Both arms out a little, strolling. Swaggering.
Nothing and nowhere to be.
Poles. Scratch Sssssss . Muffled leeeep. Language school in quirky writing. What if they can’t read it?
Feet first. Up, down, up, down. Vivid blue. Specaldy yellow thin line.
Gnat, grrrrrattllkl, vvvvvuuurrummn. Pull back. Forward. Stop. Ride. Helmet. Hue yellow, flap round curve, cut white, passing....passing, round, round. Wawo wawo urrnonun, wawo wawwaw.
Fine print. Boundaries. Divisions, stops between you and everything. Black smudges, crying down the walls. Walls of what? Another division.
Rocking past, round. Cars to eager. Hypnotising hubcap. Wurring, purring. Building up. Click, click, bush, bush, bush. Beat, time, rhythm, and hustle all things bashing into one, just from the way you walk?
Reflective. Cramming. Too much scaffolding on one thing. Going o collapse. Break.
Vuuur, seeah. Top small, coffee, cigarette. Trying to be proud?
No rush. Don’t worry. No rush. Books clasped. Grasped. Floor, look at floor. What? Like a bloody prison. Hmm.....
Flop, trap, flop, trap, waoow, thwack.
Vibrating. Vibrating, steady drilling, wurring deeper. Halt, scraactch. Vvaruuuwaa, ku clum. Thank you clasped. Dent, crunch there’s too much yellow. Too much.
Notice one thing, leads to another. Princess Street.
Elephant and Castle. New crap. Pipe, rubbish. Cough. Sand. Talking. Police are coming. Waow, waow, waow. Beep, beep. Halt. Stop. Go. City. Chichi, wur. Picking up pace. Blowing. Off
Glasses, sun. No sun. No context. Don’t come near me. Pink. Follow diversion. Pink, red, red.
Look at the floor, up, up. Blurr, humn. Adrenalin.
Halt, pull back, push forward, and stop.
Splodges. Dalmatian pavement.
Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. Scratch
Sunglasses. No sun.
Asleep.Leaning towards me. Sit
Two new, maybe three? Busy, chewing, sloshing, slopping food round. Nasty open chewing gum.
Druum drundruadudududu
New language times two
Vvuuue waawawa. Tap, thinking, impatient
Looking. Thinking?
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Monday, October 6, 2008
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Friday, October 3, 2008
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
First errata
The story I mentioned on Tuesday, by Jorge Luis Borges, is called:
Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius
and can be read about here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tlon,_Uqbar,_Orbis_Tertius
And read here:
http://interglacial.com/~sburke/pub/Borges_-_Tlon,_Uqbar,_Orbis_Tertius.html
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