Tuesday 20 September 2011
Monday 19 September 2011
Arthur
On my lunch break- I went to see Arthur. I found him still blighted by gawping passers-by, in a park no longer as I left it- rich with the onset of Spring. Behind Arthur, amongst the limbs and trunks of trees waterloo bridge extends like another arm, from the thinning slightly discoloured leaves. Along its length a procession of worker ants move. In the months of May and June, unable to sleep beyond 6am I inevitably found myself sitting upon the bench opposite Arthur, whiling away the hour before work, watching people pass.
When Arthur, was not this Arthur but another Arthur, one with legs, a body, not made of bronze and possibly- slightly more lively, lived, I don’t know. What he did, this other Arthur, to warrant the existence of this Arthur, suspended up six-seven, oh twenty feet high in the air on a plinth with at its foot a bedraggled young filly, sparsely clothed from the waist down, back exposed and face buried in the crook of her raised elbow , sorrowing, I don’t know. He might not even have been a Arthur. Anyway, I got to my position most mornings, occasionally another would be in the seat closest to Arthur reading a newspaper, a few feet further to Arthur’s left I would take the next bench and look on, admiring his proud-on some days distaining- front. Arthur appeared to not only not know this girl weeping, but consider her being there very demeaning indeed. If this sculptured addition, belies what the other Arthur who was more than a bust had got up to, then Arthur seemed keen to distance himself from this other Arthur.
Every night, in the shadows of the park at a hour when the thames becomes audible and the neighbouring road almost dead, I pictured Arthur frenziedly attempting to wrench the base of his bust from the plinth and escape, hopping through flower beds and out the gates in search of a plinth worthy of himself. And since, if he were able to do as such, then why not also the sorrowing girl? To her advantage, legs and arms would be at her disposal and thus render Arthur’s attempts at escape futile. Carried underarm like a rugby ball- he would be returned to his summit and the sorrowing woman back to her mourning, before another day, and another deluge of commutes and gawpers
When Arthur, was not this Arthur but another Arthur, one with legs, a body, not made of bronze and possibly- slightly more lively, lived, I don’t know. What he did, this other Arthur, to warrant the existence of this Arthur, suspended up six-seven, oh twenty feet high in the air on a plinth with at its foot a bedraggled young filly, sparsely clothed from the waist down, back exposed and face buried in the crook of her raised elbow , sorrowing, I don’t know. He might not even have been a Arthur. Anyway, I got to my position most mornings, occasionally another would be in the seat closest to Arthur reading a newspaper, a few feet further to Arthur’s left I would take the next bench and look on, admiring his proud-on some days distaining- front. Arthur appeared to not only not know this girl weeping, but consider her being there very demeaning indeed. If this sculptured addition, belies what the other Arthur who was more than a bust had got up to, then Arthur seemed keen to distance himself from this other Arthur.
Every night, in the shadows of the park at a hour when the thames becomes audible and the neighbouring road almost dead, I pictured Arthur frenziedly attempting to wrench the base of his bust from the plinth and escape, hopping through flower beds and out the gates in search of a plinth worthy of himself. And since, if he were able to do as such, then why not also the sorrowing girl? To her advantage, legs and arms would be at her disposal and thus render Arthur’s attempts at escape futile. Carried underarm like a rugby ball- he would be returned to his summit and the sorrowing woman back to her mourning, before another day, and another deluge of commutes and gawpers
Sunday 18 September 2011
Bancroft cemetery.
Amongst silver birches- on the corner of Bancroft road, encircled by tall black fencing, concaved and held together with wire twisted into a noose at one of its four corners- stumps of tombstones jut up from grass and refuse. Two tombstones remain complete, amongst all the horizontal mossy slabs, with names illegible- those buried left neglected for forty years before the fist of a bomb dropped in the blitz flattened them.
Every morning I pass and look in beyond the rungs of the fencing. On one occasion two stripy camping chairs stood arms folded leaning on the inside against the wooden garden fencing lining two sides of the grounds. The day after no camping chair were found beyond the rungs. I imagine myself with the company of one other, sitting inside, under the silver birches at night. Silence,, besides the occasional clatter of a empty beer can landing on a mossy fallen tombstone.
Every morning I pass and look in beyond the rungs of the fencing. On one occasion two stripy camping chairs stood arms folded leaning on the inside against the wooden garden fencing lining two sides of the grounds. The day after no camping chair were found beyond the rungs. I imagine myself with the company of one other, sitting inside, under the silver birches at night. Silence,, besides the occasional clatter of a empty beer can landing on a mossy fallen tombstone.
Tuesday 6 September 2011
Pathetic fortress
-After travelling south upon the northern line to elephant and castle-I got on to a no53 bus. The search for a seat lead me upstairs, to the back of the bus, pass a women who was busy daring anyone to clear the vacate seat beside her of its cake wrapping
and crumpled newspaper. Sitting facing the row of red seats at the back of the bus, I felt the total remoteness of each person to another.
It hardly seemed appropriate to consider that each occupant of a seat, was aboard the same bus moving slowly along dismal old kent road.
-Suspecting the worse I arrived and took a chair in the corner of the room, not expecting much-I was prepared to make my little table my fortress, but I got into a conversation with a little old lady who laid waste to my pathetic fortress.
-I’ll be glad to been done with this room, this flat and these neighbours. 12 days and the only sound, besides
Intermittent Sirens from outside, I shall hear will be church services and piano recitals, far below the wooded floorboards of the studio. There’s much needed to be done still, my ferrying of books has been sporadic and hampered by the upheavals of proposal writing. The last four or so days have been sunny and rather warm, today and yesterday I’ve whiled away a few hours in the park in Greenwich. I didn’t plan to return, but a certain tree I had for company whilst sitting length ways upon a bench beside a path on a steep incline, beckoned me to draw its impressive stature. I don’t quite know why, but I found myself admiring particularly its base, which I likened to a heavily planted foot of huge elephant. I found a certain solace
In this tree and watched the various families, couples, foolhardy cyclists and short legged dogs with flapping tongues, panting up the path towards me, past this tree that drew my eyes continuously. This tree has been my company this weekend. I generally don’t last more than a few hours doing nothing before a restlessness creeps in and apparently, according to a ex, become like a boat with too numerous holes, sinking. I have little faith that another life beside this, is retrievable in this city. It facilitates all to well my
Haunting. The moving out ‘could’ change this and draw me out. I don’t honest know if I care all that much, enough to hinder what I plan to be a solid block of working. Thoughts and feelings, very typical for me particularly in the warmer, ‘more cheerful’ seasons. I’ve only ever truly held out for the company of one other and it shows no signs of changing, because admittedly I don’t want it to change. I’m content with wanting the impossible, giving my all and confessing everything behind a fence, I fool myself into thinking I’m more honest, more sincere than those apparently without a fence and ramparts.
and crumpled newspaper. Sitting facing the row of red seats at the back of the bus, I felt the total remoteness of each person to another.
It hardly seemed appropriate to consider that each occupant of a seat, was aboard the same bus moving slowly along dismal old kent road.
-Suspecting the worse I arrived and took a chair in the corner of the room, not expecting much-I was prepared to make my little table my fortress, but I got into a conversation with a little old lady who laid waste to my pathetic fortress.
-I’ll be glad to been done with this room, this flat and these neighbours. 12 days and the only sound, besides
Intermittent Sirens from outside, I shall hear will be church services and piano recitals, far below the wooded floorboards of the studio. There’s much needed to be done still, my ferrying of books has been sporadic and hampered by the upheavals of proposal writing. The last four or so days have been sunny and rather warm, today and yesterday I’ve whiled away a few hours in the park in Greenwich. I didn’t plan to return, but a certain tree I had for company whilst sitting length ways upon a bench beside a path on a steep incline, beckoned me to draw its impressive stature. I don’t quite know why, but I found myself admiring particularly its base, which I likened to a heavily planted foot of huge elephant. I found a certain solace
In this tree and watched the various families, couples, foolhardy cyclists and short legged dogs with flapping tongues, panting up the path towards me, past this tree that drew my eyes continuously. This tree has been my company this weekend. I generally don’t last more than a few hours doing nothing before a restlessness creeps in and apparently, according to a ex, become like a boat with too numerous holes, sinking. I have little faith that another life beside this, is retrievable in this city. It facilitates all to well my
Haunting. The moving out ‘could’ change this and draw me out. I don’t honest know if I care all that much, enough to hinder what I plan to be a solid block of working. Thoughts and feelings, very typical for me particularly in the warmer, ‘more cheerful’ seasons. I’ve only ever truly held out for the company of one other and it shows no signs of changing, because admittedly I don’t want it to change. I’m content with wanting the impossible, giving my all and confessing everything behind a fence, I fool myself into thinking I’m more honest, more sincere than those apparently without a fence and ramparts.
Within time..
The constant winds of loneliness sculpts the solitary rock, encircled by infinite miles of sand, into increasingly freakish shapes.
Within time the entirety of it will come to bare down upon a point as fine as a pen nib. Inevitably it will fall and lie prone until gone- turned into more sand.
I dreamt of you… The dream ended-attempting to buy a train ticket in a great
hurry. Behind-a angry mob of a queue had formed, the ticket machine kept rejecting a £5.00 note.
Within time the entirety of it will come to bare down upon a point as fine as a pen nib. Inevitably it will fall and lie prone until gone- turned into more sand.
I dreamt of you… The dream ended-attempting to buy a train ticket in a great
hurry. Behind-a angry mob of a queue had formed, the ticket machine kept rejecting a £5.00 note.
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