May 31, 2012 § Leave a comment
– The question, repeated almost incessantly, of what the fuck he’s doing in London – of why he’s chosen to bed down in a city whose vast innards can offer him nothing in the way of a hiding-place, which are becoming more bound, tightened & petrified by the week; where, underemployed & overpoliced, the ‘hardcore’ get by on their wits, their talk, their grace, their graft, their ‘connections’, their low expectations, a city where he still doesn’t know the first thing about possessing these things; a city that would quicken the blood but he finds nothing moving except the wind
– cut/drift /sunless dream/of dissolving architecture // the sun breaks out & the people come out onto the streets as if not knowing what to do w/ it except makes the most of it the couples hand in sweaty hand shorts & skirts & glued-on ray-bans red-faced arguments & throat-tunnel laughter at the high tables outside the Gate Clock & the knowledge that “a town such as London, where a man may wander for hours together without reaching the beginning of the end, without meeting the slightest hint which could lead to the inference that there might be open country beyond” // if space has been conquered the only medium of exploration must be that of time
– The famous insularity of Londoners, for whom the world stops, if not at the Hudson, then perhaps at Deptford Creek. This carries from their pub conversation to their myths, the palimpsest of histories that they found in that Peter Ackroyd book they read last summer – & isn’t he so full of fun facts. Even within these shrunken territories the maps are drawn by forces incomprehensible to those caught in them: the Bermondsey of the estates is not that of the primped denizens of the Design Museum or the Deli de la Tour w/ its dockside stacked bottles of Moet. This is one of the reasons he loves Sans Soleil: not a question of a city & its micro-jingoistic peculiarities, but of the continuity of cities in the vast space of forgetting & its lining (remembering); actually, not continuity (the spectre of monoculture & liberal relativism) but the collective space of the territories’ dispersal, their arrangement in constellations of lived geographies of struggle – Guinea-Bissau/cut/Okinawa/cut/Iceland. Just thus he might say, as he graffitied on March 26, TUNIS/CAIRO/BENGHAZI/LONDON
– the weasel phrase “he who is tired of London is tired of life”: as if no-one could ever be tired of life
– a tunnel on the Woolwich Dockyard estate: a huge drift of paper that makes him think someone has spilled a bucket of white emulsion; a tricycle; a pair of blue 2010 Reeboks in their box, the lid half-off.
– in the dream he is harried by an editor for copy, but their tone is not harrying; rather one of actually what are you doing with that piece enquiry, I’m just disappointed in you maternal harassment. He wakes sweating.
– “after her who/as an engineer/cut it through the author”