We landed in London two weeks ago, and I'm still trying to pick up the rhythm here. There are the usual things that vex an American: aggressive power outlets, nearly getting killed when I cross the street, and everything being more expensive than it seems.
Our flat is next to the Kilburn High Road Station, where four different trains rumble around the clock. One is light and faint like a sigh; the loudest is all judder and screech. At night, C. falls asleep encased in a head-tomb of earplugs and noise-canceling headphones held fast with a scarf. But I enjoy the clatter and vibrations. There's something soothing about drowsing next to a train station in an unfamiliar country, knowing that people are traveling at all hours to god only knows.
The noise worms its way into my dreams. One night I dreamt I lived in a mechanical hotel that slowly dragged itself down the street. We could not leave, and we would never reach our destination. The hotel loved us too much to let us go. Every so often, new people appeared in the hallways, and they were frightened when I approached because I was a ghost, haunting them. Then I drank a bottle of perfume and had a minor role in a detective show in which none of us could remember the name of the president between Nixon and Carter.
A dream is defined as "a series of images and sensations that occur involuntarily during sleep." Some definitions substitute visions for images, which may be a critical distinction between those who take their dreams seriously and those who do not.
I've always been skeptical of people who decipher their dreams or believe they are messages from some hidden realm, for they conjure the tacky aesthetics of the faith dealer or the droning dinner guest who talks about being present for the moment. My prejudice might be a knee-jerk reaction to the word involuntary—if something in my head cannot be controlled, does it belong to me? But like the trains, I'm learning to accept my dreams as a fine form of entertainment, perhaps a signal worthy of more attention, regardless of its source.
The clouds are low in England, and we have not seen the sun for several days. The effect is like living in a low-ceilinged room, always the urge to stick your head out the window for some space and light.
There might be no sun here, but the snacks are incredible: tarts, pastries, biscuits, cookies, cakes, and puddings with storybook names. Treacle tarts and fondant fancies. Jammie dodgers, millionaire shortbread, and chocolate tiffin.
I'm getting pale and fat in London. So I went for a run and got stupendously lost while hauling myself down a loopy road that I thought led to a park. The grey afternoon downshifted into night, and it began to rain. I jogged alongside a lone red bus, sucking exhaust and praying for death. A small boy was pressed against the upper deck window, like a tiny Hopper painting. He began to wave frantically.
Russia continues to attack Ukraine as I write this. Through the fog of airstrikes and agitprop, battered people call for help while nations dither about sanctions. Because everything is understood through money. The wars that capture our attention. The ones that do not. Maybe America prefers to show up in countries uninvited. Our president tells us not to worry about the price of gas, our pain at the pumps, and he looks like an avatar for the American mood: exhausted, feeble. Meanwhile, many of us have learned that Ukraine's national flower is the sunflower because there's footage of women telling Russian soldiers to put sunflower seeds in their pockets so at least something good will grow where they die.
It took me a moment to realize that little boy was waving at me. I responded with a little wave, and he raised his arms in a big cheer, happy and accomplished. We repeated this routine a few more times until the bus pulled away, leaving me alone in the street, smiling and gasping.
John Berger said, "Much of what happens to us in life is nameless because our vocabulary is too poor." More and more of my emotions feel nameless these days, drifting somewhere between gratitude and dread. Berger goes on to describe the power among strangers, the intimacies "contained in the exchange of a glance, a nod of the head, a shrug of the shoulder. An agreement about life. An agreement without clauses."
Something limbic drives us to reach out to one another: the hardwired urge to smile or wave, driven by the murky impulses and signals that feel as if they belong to a dream.
Enjoyed watching Giri/Haji, an improbable series about a Japanese detective tangling with the Yakuza in London that melds the police procedural with bleak humor, animation, and surreal cinematography. By the time the characters slip into interpretative dance on a rooftop, it feels like a natural development.
Francis Bacon believed in "an area of the nervous system to which the texture of paint communicates more violently than anything else." Some notes here.
I've been in a Black Dog mood with their recent Brutal Minimalism and Music for Photographers releases. And in the early morning and late evenings: the Brutal Five to One Mix. Also rediscovering the wobbly delights of Aphex Twin's Cheetah extended-player. And I enjoyed a quiet afternoon walking along the Thames in the rare London sunshine, listening to the new Tangerine Dream album and trying my best to feel a little cosmic.
Also moved to London recently. I must say - so far, at least - the place is growing on me like kudzu. I expect I'll become a brick alleyway here eventually.
That dance scene in Giri/Haji is one of my favourite TV moments. I feel like it shouldn’t have worked, but maybe that’s only because so little TV drama tries to do anything that’s not naturalistic. Welcome, belatedly, to the UK.