ECHO 20/2/06

New journey – The Harp Of Erin, forgotten 1930s pub, decorated like a large pink and white iced cake – McManus and Son (Builders) know the place well, their fathers before them used to dink in there – up to Harnworth Quays, huge corrugated steel edifices, ministries of public opinion, churning out The Daily Mail and the Evening Standard – Neptune Street comes like a wave before Jamaica Road – a young office worker finishes her make-up on the bus, brushes on cheeks, pouting lips at her reflection in the windows – through Druid Street and past Crucifix Lane, the smell of pagan and rotting Christianity – I wonder then if I still have the power and faith to create what is necessary over the next few weeks here in London, rehearsing a new character only half formed on paper, a sketch – a lone red telephone box stands in the midst of a desolated building site – signs proclaim ‘urban serenity’ in Wimpeys Watergardens condominium near the Arbuckles, Pizza Hut complex – nearby the Osprey Estate is degraded to the point of becoming dark matter and imploding, presumably taking all urban serenity with it when it goes - the grey areas of morality near Waterloo in the lee of the Eurostar station – a commuter talking into his hands free overly loud so we all know his business, Phases of Gravity held in the palm of his hand almost religiously, a biblical attempt – any journey into the unknown or along an unfamiliar route is bound to be a process of accruing information, direction, deletion, and reassessment, changes in tack and environment; it requires one constant whatever journey it may be: patience; marry that with an open-minded ability to leave ones preconceptions behind, and you will arrive at a good destination (except, that is, in rush hour in the metropolis) – the bloody arms of Parliament loom silently, unannounced, upon us as we cross Westminster bridge; the breath of heartache and lies still vividly upon it: the bleeding Iraqis, the families of dead service men and women – meanwhile the tourists still come to sample it digitally, take home their little record of history and tradition, the evidence of age without wisdom – and not far away New Scotland Yard has removed all evidence of itself; all the adverts to join the force, all banners and signs, all phone numbers and across every street level window bomb-proof curtains have been drawn – strange coincidences then of meeting old friends and recent acquaintances -