Aerial Light-Pollution Orange #4

Trundle of railways around a figure in dark pursuit.  Night trains carrying absent freight make a hollow sound.
 

To walk in the road is liberating.  Falling down city hills streaming with the overflow from higher ground.

In gutters lakes of zigzags,

wander.
 

Remember that it is night, and the cars ahead.  Blurred orange.  Walk head-long into traffic for greater certainty and grip deep into pockets among discarded scraps of paper.  Wet brightness.  Drizzling rain encumbers even further and mysticality fights the cold air.  Breathing a soft welcoming note into the chill inhabiting and gently against the face.  Breathing an old visibility into misty objects, which makes this all seem somehow special.
  

Broken glass in bike lanes.  If you squat down and really peer closely at the fragments...you will see reflections. 

Aerial Light-Pollution Orange #3

Sinking feeling.  Flight to city woods under cover of fragile darkness.  Sydenham Hill Wood.  Ghost of a hole in an absent blanket, or projected through the ages; protracted, perhaps.  There is a disused railway tunnel there, burrowing under the woods, not causing it any harm.  It is fenced off now, literally caged in.  Uncertainty as to whether the wood is trying to keep out the urbane, imposing blackness or whether it is the emptiness of developers trying to repress the wood.       

All this uncertainty.  But a purer uncertainty caused by an anachronistic foliage.  A warm vagueness.  Healthy and protected here, with glimpses of purer night sky through picturesque leaves; their rustle filtering out the quiet roar from without.  A friendly compromise.  Spend the night in a camp probably made by children.

Antidote to the forgetting of some fundamental issue?       

Inspired by this sustenance, back, onwards, not to turn back, to wreak scrutiny on the urban palace, a day postponed…return now to the entrance of the citadel. 

No ‘passing by’.

Aerial Light-Pollution Orange #2

Now nothing for it but to lie still and invent, but that has become tiresome amidst creaking voices. Future-old.

 

Bunker down in this old doorway; wait for the light-bleed and blur of rushing lights in a photo to fade. The ground is gravelly and damp. Not able to stretch out because they have forgotten how and there are limitations under lunar sky. A dislocated knee causes pain and recalls a sentiment; look to the east instead, to where the traffic has stopped for the night, and only a solitary taxi searches, driven onwards towards a ghost of a fare. The neon windows opposite make no sound. Perhaps all these secure people will go to sleep soon.

Aerial Light-Pollution Orange

Crackle of spectral voices. Pockets of isolated psyches now not even bathed in an orange glow. 

Instead, an eternal white light. 

In the distance an empty black, shrouding a purple memorial. The sound of telephone calls at night, to the night watchman of a disused power station next to the flowing river. He still has news to report if someone will let him. Invisible journeys criss-crossing this city. Imperceptible hands still touching lightly, while walking bashfully in a drunk daze. That is ok. Strolling across bridges, suddenly set free and knowing themselves as a melody that they wish they had the memory to recite. Songs lost in absent spaces the length and breadth, and depth, of this bustling centre. Characters and signs missing in overflowing thoroughfares.

What a load of crip

Had a nice chat with a friend about being self-sufficient in your workaday life. Not in the crusty hippy commune sense, but really just bringing in your own food. I'm pretty good at this, with leftovers and homemade tasty bagels etc five days a week. Much tastier than the crap you get down Sainers, that's for sure. The one weakpoint in this plan for food freedom is my addiction for crips. Especially pickled onion monster munch.

Anyway, came across this recipe for homemade crips:

http://allrecipes.co.uk/recipe/6586/homemade-crisps.aspx

I had visions of carrier bags full of lovely homemade crips of all tastes and shapes that we could then take in with the packed lunch. Kind of worked...using one potato I managed to make a small bowl of admitedly very tasty sea salt and paprika crips. Also managed to destroy a plate...

What's in a blogname...

Serving as an explanation and my first vent. One of my all-time favourite quotes: ‘I would not mind being working this minute on a steamer in the middle of the sea, coiling ropes and doing the hard manual work. I would like to be far away from here.' (Flann O'Brien 'The Third Policeman')

I think this every day from 8.30am - 4.30pm (10am - 6pm on Mondays). Especially with my new desk meaning that my screen is in full view of everybody, and is even the first thing you see when setting foot in the office. Great times!

You feel me?

Confrontations

And so we begin. This'll be, for now, a secret account of my re-familiarisation with some useful and sensible activities. Namely, a version of pursuits that may or may not end up in the void of pipedreams. Less namely, and to begin with, let's just call it the account of my volunteering with CALAT (Croydon Adult Learning and Training), where in a month's time i'll hopefully be supporting actual Esol teachers; with a view to something else entirely...In addition, naturally, I might also have to wax about food, music, books, the crunching frustrations of office life and one or more invisible projects. Let's step outside...