Underground Utterings
My dear audience, whoever you might be, I am terribly sorry. I have been amiss at updating you lately.
This is for several reasons:
1. I’ve gotten a bit burnt out from writing due to the five books and (at least) one paper I have to read and write each week. Needless to say, I shall not be taking five literature classes at the same time ever again.
2. London has become so familiar to me. In fact it has served as more of a home than most places I’ve been. I’ve often found that it’s hard to write about your home unless you’re away from it.
3. Writing about London means having to admit that in a week, I will no longer be here and this is a truly disparaging thought.
That being said, I promise I will update you at some point, or at least attempt to try and summarize my experience. But right now, I’m still going through denial. I’ve never wanted to stay in a place and time more than I do right now.
However, I realize it would be awfully rude to leave you with nothing. So I will supply you with a bit of umm, poetry, bits of information and things I felt necessary to write down in my little red journal whilst riding on the tube. Nothing very good at all (in fact, if you didn’t know me already you will begin to realize that I am a very silly person), just some observances.
I think I’ve spent more time on the tube here than actually above ground (London is a massive city and you’ve got to allot at least an hours time to get anywhere).
So here you go:
Lately
I got stuck in an elevator, gulped some Guinness, trudged through Hampstead, witnessed Harold Pinter, Met my new family, experienced rude customer service, and ate clotted (arterie) cream. Seems I might be in London or something.
Mind the Damn Gap
The announcer is particularly rude at Embankment station. But then, the gap is also particularly wide at Embankment.
Seul
It is not a crime to be alone. One is hardly in the wrong when one is alone. Then why is it that when one is alone, all one can feel is guilt for one’s lonliness?
In a Crisp White Shirt
A Man with tatoos. Her son perhaps. He’s cleaned up quite a bit.
Minding More than the Gap
“Mind the steps, love” the man in the brown cap told me. He touched my arm. I felt tears for his warmth.
Then I saw a woman. She had fallen down the escalator. She sobbed and there was red splashed on the metal.
Northern Line to High Barnet
The stares are menacing here
But the problems are
spoken as if I can’t hear.
Saw the boots with the laces.
They seemed friendly enough.
Not like the blank glares I get
if I glance for too long.
The yellow lilies
sweeten up the train quickly.
The owner, crying.
A Lover’s Quarrel
She quivers with the knowledge
that he is breaking her to crumbles
when she once was the foundation
that held him up.
Breakaway girl, Breakaway.
Mr. Darcy at Holborn
Long-haired and carefree, the first who’s looked at me.
I winced and rejoiced simultaneously.
Next Station: Camden Town
The squeaking and squaking, tumbling
and roaring like some belching
beast filled with strange
complicated creatures.
They are silent but they moan and
creak on the inside, just like
the vessel in which they are riding.
Europelegs
What is it wit dem Europe women
and dem slimmy-slim-legs?
Butter and cheese never go
to their thighs and squeezing
in clothes doesn’t ‘appen.
Damned be dese Europeleg women.
Where does it go—da cream,
da chocolate, and da pint-of-ale
foam?
Dey must have a pocket, a drawer
of some sort, where all of da
junk goes without need of sport.
Oh Europeleg women,
tell me your secret
For your legs I want
but know not how to get.
Model 98
Stop this gliding and sliding
rumbling and moaning.
When I hear you’re on,
my work I’m postponing
You’re so sleek, so chic
Even your rumble rolls its “r’s”
I’ll mount your strong frame
for this day is ours.
I’d take you for a cafe noissette
Stop looking at me like that, you little coquette!
Coffee’d be followed by a Croque Monsieur
You’d watch me eating, looking oh so demure.
Next we’d go by the sea on the winding hills
Marseilles is like Paris but without all the frills.
Then it’d be time to take you home
I’d drop you off soon to be all on your own
But tomorrow I’ll see you,
you chic little thing,
I’ll turn my key in you,
then hear Vespa sing.
