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Rivers
A deliberately overexposed photo of the Embankment taken from Somerset House. The people in the image provide a scale for the setting. Picture was one of a series of overexposed photos.
May, 2/4+5, 2=11
how many crania, damends/hea wonders…how many multiplied echoes of the implosion in each particle of each individual’s kaleidoscopic mind…hears damends/hea. how many steps arrested in the instance of irresoluteness. because no place appeared to be either good or bad to put one’s aching soles on. sole like any other. on alleys of cobblestones sutured by a chime from the nearby belfry. or the one coming from afar. the sound so thin it could go through the crevices inaccessible to a human foot. 
The flash of the shadow struck my heart with vehemence never felt before. What runs with me every day, each minute, every single second of my living days. And nights. It then got totally out of control. The remembrance of the river’s love depths--an overwhelming amount of the red liquid flooded that pump. And it made my body scream through the pleasantly humid air along the river bank. I didn’t know it was also called running. But I run like mad. Melting in the heat of my boiling (--)consciousness/the cacophonic beauty of my grandparents’ quarrel/my parents’ silence/my running scream. I was talking with my 85 year old Grand mother Dolly Rose Noel nee Julier, who grew up on Austin street Shoreditch.
I mentioned that I was surprised to see tram- lines on old maps of Kingsland and Hackney Road."Oh yes" she said," we used to get on them (the trams) for a penny and stay on all day. The conductor would not chuck us off if we good, and we used to turn the seats for around for him, at the end of the journey, so they'd be pointing the other way at the end of the line."
"So where did you go?" Read more »
York Water Gate and the Adelphi from the River by Moonlight (c. 1850) by Henry Pether.
Oil on Canvas.
Museum of London.
Having finished the last sip of supertasty coffee, coupled with sweet tobacco smell, I kept walking by the river. Before my stroll swerved towards the bridge, getting me closer to the Strand, my eyes kissed the blueness of the water again to carry it further, as my feet were “conquering” the mainland.
On one of my walks along the South Bank, a friend drew my attention to the images disappearing from the wall in front of us. Under a sweeping jet it, somehow, symbolized vanishing pictures from any wall...just anywhere. The friend showed me a man who was carrying in his hands a sculpture of a distorted musical instrument, whose name we couldn’t guess (neither the man’s nor that of the instrument). And it looked as if with the images, solid shapes of the objects in the surrounding were leaking out of sight, as well. And we couldn’t guess where.
As the streets that lead from the Strand to the Embankment are very narrow, it is better not to walk down them arm-in-arm. If you persist, lawyers' clerks will have to make flying leaps into the mud; young lady typists will have to fidget behind you. In the streets of London where beauty goes unregarded, eccentricity must pay the penalty, and it is better not to be very tall, to wear a long blue cloak, or to beat the air with your left hand. Read more »
