Question;1

And I ask myself the same question all the time, that is, do I have the Will to Effect this Change or is it an oblique and faded strategy that bears no meaning on anything real and achievable.

Good the bread and the facile wine and

That choice at least is made

Oh Sunny Day

Sunny day, a cloudless sky. I amble from street to street. What kind of bliss is this, an end to the time to come and a compression (and then expansion) into the present moment of existence. A stillness that comes with the beating sun that can’t exist in the rain, the damp, the frost, the mildewed broken walls of a crumbling history. I’m crumbling too (I can feel it) and the one thing about Time is that it only moves forward, forever and ever, Amen: May your Lord be your Witness.

And still: and still.

States: 2

If anyone drank that much water they’d die.

America, then.

My cab driver from Lanham to Dulles airport is from Ethiopia and drives on this hot June day with all the windows down at over the speed limit, which feels oddly liberating after the solid week of air con, warm, dry air whipping into my face and hair, this cab scuffed and torn, the transmission going, the brake barely working. “I quit soon,” he says, and I can see that Uber and Lyft have destroyed this idea of making a living. Still the air whistles into the cab and the meter is whirring onwards until the total equates to exactly all the cash I have left in my wallet, a fitting metaphor and then it’s just me with my luggage on the giant on-ramp that is Dulles’ Kiss and Ride Departures drop zone, and there’s nowhere to sit outside (there very rarely is) almost as if people are afraid of merging, liminal zone to liminal zone is over, here, everywhere, unless the market demands it.

States

Here I am, in the USA. I’m sat in the hotel lobby of the Courtyard Marriott, Landover, MA. The lobby doubles as The Bistro, which is the one-location all purpose breakfast lunch and dinner locale. It’s the bar. The Bistro is important. I am sat drinking a pomegranate Izze and waiting overly long for a meal, reading a book on “Change” by the ASTD. This is what was once known as the American Society of Training Directors. The book is full colour. The drink is red. The food is late. The air-con is cranked so high that I have had to put on a scarf. A man is clearing his throat as he eats and he sounds like a goat, a small, old goat. Here I am.

Mattress Watch

So many mattresses on the street. In the middle of the street, on the corners. Dumped, folded, crooked up and sat awkward. Each one a soul, maybe two, and then all change. Why do people obsess about changing the mattress? They’ll use the same sofa, same kitchen, same furniture. But change the mattress! So they go out on the street, the sign of rentiers.  Life.

Poem: “(Not) Out of Date Galaxies”

I wrote a short poem about my out of date Galaxy Cookie Crumble from WHSMITH in Coventry Station. I bought it for one pound, same as it costs IN DATE at Tescos and other leading supermarkets

Here are some pictures:

O Galaxy Cookie Crumble
How I love to eat you when my
Stomach rumbles
On the slowpoke
London Midland train
from Coventry To London Euston.
Rain
Falls now

Through darkening skies
And we cling to each other
Your pink foil and cookie pieces
Your out of date slightly stale structure
Coat my hunger
There is a rupture
From reality!
For a few seconds — then I realise
I am alone and soon I will be dead

East Ham Village Diary: Volume II

Some musings on East Ham.

A change is in the air.  The mood in East Ham is one of flux.  Just off High Street South, the White Horse pub has been brought crashing down; the plot will be re-developed.  I am no great drum-banger for the pub – its St George’s flags draped over all the windows gave the interior a dark, gloomy mien, and the pub itself had a certain reputation.  It was of its time.  But in its place will rise some flats (of course) out of keeping with the Victorian redbrick surrounding it.

WhiteHorse

The flats will be a smaller sibling to the massive Upton Gardens development that has been so lustily plunged into by Barratt and Gallimard.  Money talks: and it is singing loudly in E13, the pace of the works carried out at the breakneck pace that is only undertaken when there’s a pot of gold at the end of the…

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