17/5/06
South bound journey - ten hours by bus - these things:
- the gossip magazines with 'shocking' headlines of naughty affairs behind lace curtains between policemen and middle-aged housewives, faces 'blurred' out to save identities - they could be anyone really, and in all likelihood are just models posing; still, the grannies find it shocking as they flick from page to page;
- a young man boards the bus at Preston, gnarled face and lank hair, he takes a seat across the aisle from me, his leg shakes constantly for the entire journey, his knee bouncing up and down - only briefly relieved when he gets the opportunity to smoke a quick fag during the occasional stops en route;
- after a few hours I am missing the hills around Derwentwater, they had begun to feel like friends already, each ridge becoming familiar and with its own defined identity - the landscape a deep reflection of self, elements of a psyche;
- 'Sunset Walk' is the name of the card I bought yesterday to say 'goodbye' to Pol, it has a lush image of a duck in silhouette walking an orange beach, glistening in a low tide - because our sunset walks had become such special events in recent days, moments of shared space and silence, intimacy and enjoyment usually ending with us at the river's edge where the Sand Martins have begun to nest, waiting in the lee of overhanging trees on the opposite side of the river, hunkered down there on our haunches waiting, watching, gazing skyward when the birds gathered overhead; then playing on the rope swing, pushing each other and laughing;
- lone faces gazing from windows in Walsall flats surrounded by the many England For The World Cup flags and the satellite dishes - these men are perpetually waiting in there, counting the days to summer - and after its gone, what then?;
- 'Hell Fire' logo T-shirted fat boys gang on the retail park road in the middle of the afternoon, on the outskirts of town, chins covered with post-pubescent bum-fluff, chomping on chips and signaling at cars;
- bricked up lower lever windows on three tower blocks - and each balcony has been smashed off and bricked up with breeze-blocks and bone-like filler to deter squatters - odd, surreal;
- in Digbeth I realize how much of the country I know and have connections to as we pass little Allison Street - cobbled, Victorian, tumbledown - where myself and Pol shared a breakfast exactly a year ago - I have traveled so much in a year - what nomad is this?
- tall 'rasta' climbs aboard bringing with him the sweet smell of skunk weed in the aisle -
In London I notice on the tube that everyone is reading 'religious' matter - is this a snapshot of London's recent preoccupations? Books on monasticism, Ayn Rand, photocopies of the gospels - is this in some response to 7/7? Portable faith on the underground, a collective defence against the inevitable? By the doors a young Muslim watches a trailer for a Quentin Tarantino movie on a portable digital viewing device in his hands, no bigger than a paperback book - there is some blood and guts there on the tiny vid-screen - I wonder if he is aware of the irony - then he scrolls through other images and playbacks of an award ceremony in Hollywood fascinated -
South bound journey - ten hours by bus - these things:
- the gossip magazines with 'shocking' headlines of naughty affairs behind lace curtains between policemen and middle-aged housewives, faces 'blurred' out to save identities - they could be anyone really, and in all likelihood are just models posing; still, the grannies find it shocking as they flick from page to page;
- a young man boards the bus at Preston, gnarled face and lank hair, he takes a seat across the aisle from me, his leg shakes constantly for the entire journey, his knee bouncing up and down - only briefly relieved when he gets the opportunity to smoke a quick fag during the occasional stops en route;
- after a few hours I am missing the hills around Derwentwater, they had begun to feel like friends already, each ridge becoming familiar and with its own defined identity - the landscape a deep reflection of self, elements of a psyche;
- 'Sunset Walk' is the name of the card I bought yesterday to say 'goodbye' to Pol, it has a lush image of a duck in silhouette walking an orange beach, glistening in a low tide - because our sunset walks had become such special events in recent days, moments of shared space and silence, intimacy and enjoyment usually ending with us at the river's edge where the Sand Martins have begun to nest, waiting in the lee of overhanging trees on the opposite side of the river, hunkered down there on our haunches waiting, watching, gazing skyward when the birds gathered overhead; then playing on the rope swing, pushing each other and laughing;
- lone faces gazing from windows in Walsall flats surrounded by the many England For The World Cup flags and the satellite dishes - these men are perpetually waiting in there, counting the days to summer - and after its gone, what then?;
- 'Hell Fire' logo T-shirted fat boys gang on the retail park road in the middle of the afternoon, on the outskirts of town, chins covered with post-pubescent bum-fluff, chomping on chips and signaling at cars;
- bricked up lower lever windows on three tower blocks - and each balcony has been smashed off and bricked up with breeze-blocks and bone-like filler to deter squatters - odd, surreal;
- in Digbeth I realize how much of the country I know and have connections to as we pass little Allison Street - cobbled, Victorian, tumbledown - where myself and Pol shared a breakfast exactly a year ago - I have traveled so much in a year - what nomad is this?
- tall 'rasta' climbs aboard bringing with him the sweet smell of skunk weed in the aisle -
In London I notice on the tube that everyone is reading 'religious' matter - is this a snapshot of London's recent preoccupations? Books on monasticism, Ayn Rand, photocopies of the gospels - is this in some response to 7/7? Portable faith on the underground, a collective defence against the inevitable? By the doors a young Muslim watches a trailer for a Quentin Tarantino movie on a portable digital viewing device in his hands, no bigger than a paperback book - there is some blood and guts there on the tiny vid-screen - I wonder if he is aware of the irony - then he scrolls through other images and playbacks of an award ceremony in Hollywood fascinated -
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