Home, London. That deep grain hometown feeling in this amorphous human expanse. People don’t know the vast galaxies we made in the corners, central supermassive black holes that could pull us the world outside in a moment, translate out our activities everywhere in a neutron flash. Finding your strange style, and ours, in fashion on the west coast of Mexico, before I knew about the patterns life throws up, yes, but still I tend to think that one was our celestial fashion vomit. And the deep vein connection / anonymous comfortability. Our legs sweat against each other, bus seat thighs. Shades of skin and expression. Cosy down into this, shouty silent safety in the shadow of the city suited thieves and their machinations, illumination symbols twisting around the lot. A twilight Thames embankment walk with my work boss teaching me all kinds of meanings to this imagery I grew up with, always surrounding us. Brixton, Dalston, Brick Lane bustle and swirl, a jumble pot of lives, dreams and hurry… bright orange lights and glowing shop fronts at the top of late 80s Crystal Palace Hill, with its tall metal tower characters and Victorian monsters hiding in green trees. Feet out on grassy parks in warm summertime, humbum, people and people for centuries and miles and miles, views out of windows, from hilltops, endless endless habitations, vibrations, perception points. The mysteries made at playtime, breaking out our moves for shifty molecular twists, vibrating resonance in our threads and stories. Oh, dreams, customs, food, festivals, telly soaps, potions, gods, candles, a same but different choose your own adventure yearning, playing, building, oh joyous sore confusion in the gritty caged playspace, digging for an Otherworld in the dry dirt under a lump of concrete, beneath the holly tree.
Brighton is that sort of place that makes you want to throw off all responsibilities and declare everything a holiday forever. The beach is always there, whispering all Siren. Bright sun through the window. The promise of fluttering sparks of energy, dancing with your gaggle of tremendous oddities. The spinning rides in motion on the end of the pier, tangential lines and angles.
The sun is out, the beach is full. People have plenty to do, but sometimes the call of the beach is greater. Everyone feels a bit guilty about it for a moment, then laughs it off. If you escape the guilt you feel the tingle of a kind of immense freedom. The streets are full of shopping mothers, folk on lunch breaks, weaving hippies, mod stance, fluttering gulls and pigeons. The sunshine/chatter/open/flit through the crowds in a sea of possibility. This is the only place in the country where most people vote Green. And you can feel it.
And still violence happens. Gaybash tourism to St James’ St, drunk football louts shouting trans* slurs, almost no one realising how insidiously racist the stupid little things that fall out of their conditioned minds and mouths often are… all of the above is true, but also this is England. This is life. This is not so different, and the streets are full of dickheads and people who have no idea they could stop griping at each other. Cops. And people who are unable to get a roof over their heads.
I remembered recently a primary root of the floatsome weight that seems so often to be inside of me, the heartache at the core of my being, all hoofy and impossible. I remembered why there is a seriousness, and why I have responsibilities to it. Plus I also have to eat, pay rent. It would be great to get out of debt. Fun doesn’t pay for itself either… and wouldn’t it be nice to buy some records again one day.
But look at Brighton, although you can’t see it the sun shines through the window all shimmers and you know it’s out there, holiday town, mini windmills, put on those imagined or actual cowboy boots, a featherbow-a, little shorts and a spangling attitude. Mince down that promenade like you know you were made to! Howl at the folk trying to get on with their regular lives. Fall over laughing. We’re glitter trash queer party otherworld motherfuckers from the future. We’d better make it right now!
And later in the soft moonlight, crash hush waves, repeat, repeat, and the two moons hang gentle power in the sky. Close companions suddenly on why we are no more to blame for this mess than the moths and butterflies, leaves on the trees gentle rattle, yet sit in shared responsibility still, as with so many things. Remember the stillness, the wide open brilliance of sitting on this rock in space and staring out to sea, out to the universe.
Absurdist patterns that we make together and apart are not merely to shock each other into realisation of political emptiness, no. And that is why those tools cannot be left to reside in the hands of those who do not at all seem to perceive these things (and also why those tools may still yet have effects on them that we have not yet seen). It is the profound emptiness of everything that floats our boats and blows wind in our sails, the experience of consciousness that for a moment in time appreciates it, and within it the being of those glorious roots and connections, flutters that function so obviously as this is one, this strange process, us strange process, universe, All.
Animal fats in the new fivers feels utterly rough as far as it goes. It would be much better if they didn’t have that in them. But is it a moment to remember that more or less everything manufactured under this current global capitalism is literally tainted with horrors and the deep suffering of living beings, humans and other animals, now, in the past, in the future? There’s no such thing as cruelty free living within this world as it stands. We can’t escape it by the decisions we make, but we can minimise it, and to me that seems vastly worthwhile. We may do so feeling every ache of it intimately. We can sometimes do so whilst being sanctimonious at others who haven’t made the same choices we have in an impossible circumstance, where there are no absolute winners while we live, here. Or we can do so lightly and with an open heart. We can take stands, whatever ones are right for us, that say that we’d rather live differently and will where we can and where seems right in our own process.
The shadow, so enormous.
You know how so, as big as the light, as…
It skitters and cuts at every vessel in you.
It tugs at your heart and spits acid in your stomach.
You know it.
The tactile and tacit pleasure
it seems is found
by those ones
in the stamping on, sidelining, eliminating
of the paths of “others”..
weaker others. Our complicity.
The rot at the heart of capitalism,
at the heart of these motions in nothing we
You’re no good, what’s the use?
We pull out corners, we seethe..
We, those who find ourselves here,
we watch and move and still
we breathe and watch
and watch and breathe
and aim to let it go, we
cover our heads in wing like blankets
and sing “kill the rich! kill the rich!”
We tentacle up our faces with our
hands, we hide in the shadows,
we take refuge in the everynothing,
we yearn and weep and howl,
and the individual stories,
are always so much bigger
or the same, the same
and billions of atoms,
billions of stars…
I want to say “Here we are kids,
this is it.” I want to say
“Chin up, it just happened”
But No, or maybe a bit
I see you, leaving, I see you,
growing, I retch, I spit. I hear
Party til you’re dead lads,
it’s only just begun.
But a puff of smoke,
A parody of itself.. I..
don’t know how to fight,
I don’t know how to play my part in the
bursting vessels, flowing vessels,
this pipes pipes pipes,
This outwards, inwards deep deep hum,
This arena of such unbridled joy
and such hot hot empty desire,
Violence. I don’t know
See how we get on with that.
I love you.