Friday, 17 October 2008
This Wild Love
As I travelled back into London I was bringing the dislocated parts of myself together. Where would I find my Secret Garden in this city?
I arrive to the grand Arch and gateway of Paddington train Station. Made of metal, stone, wood. Fuelled with water and fire filled with sweat, steam and burning coal.
I remember my lost garden where upon plunging my hands into the black earth I was stung by a sleeping bumble bee. The devil had stolen my hands and I longed to feel the earth in my hands. Smell the soil under my nails seeking the crevasses, lines, creases, cracks and sores.
I smile to myself as I wish to find another platform 9 and 3/4. Perhaps if I squeeze myself small. Bound tight forgetting my full woman's body with her feet size 8 and her hands full and hairy [if seen on certain nights if lucky!] I say to myself ~ No that won't work. Never did work. Trying to believe those false words that pushed my skin and bones into a shape convenient. Manageable and tamed. Hair neatly shaved, cut, bleached and trimmed. A wild mad woman me...nah...that wasn't me....
I walk the concrete and stone ground unaware of whose bones lie underneath my feet. The skulls buried that once held life flowing with moment after moment after.
I remember the caresses of my lost love. As his fingers traced my contours that tracked pathways inside this heavy head.
The landscape of London constantly changing. Buildings going replaced with new. But the roads, streets, paths, lanes remain the same. They follow the same map. They keep the same names.
I feel lost. Landmarks holding memories going. A city of ghosts.
Yesterday I walked paths with a new friend - paths thick from shared laughter, tears, arguments, hello's and goodbyes, screams of joy and sorrow, songs sung with gusto from bellies full and strained from throats torn with liquid fire.
We walk over the bridge from the north to south. Deep in conversation. My words building hands lost to the devil.
My words grow to a new rhythm. My words build life. Creeping, running, stamping, tip toeing, jumping, leaping, crawling over the eyes, ears, mouth of London.
As I write this a group of young men/boys and women/girls are screaming, shouting and running, some with bikes, some with hoods up have chosen to bang my dustbin. It is an old style metal dustbin bright shiny and new and makes a wonderful loud sound. Crashing into the night. They have sharpened the sleepy dark night and man lit street. They reclaim this street as their own. The darkness creeping closer.
In their screams I hear a desire and longing to share the excitement of being alive. Bare and naked. No wonder ~ I think ~ they sometimes hide their faces. Theirs is a sound of hope. Singing with tongues that don't lie. The river runs loud in their veins. Some may call this ugly but I call this beauty. This wild love. These are forked tongues that cannot lie.
Now the street is empty and quiet. I understand the desire to walk bare foot in the city.