Chapel Street Monday
Smacked about, most of its glamour beaten down,
still has the gravity of narrative. As soon as you enter it, you have left Penzance, moved into a different story. We walk the line
on the map that leads you off of it, pulls you across boundaries.
This is a ghost corridor, an ectoplasm zone. A place of lost time. Dead time. Reflections are bruised in dirty windows. Its empty shops are wounds bleeding rumour. Walk its length to read a grimoire of possible realities.
Two hours off of the train and in our rooms above it, the mysteries of
Street are already washing into us. Corroding our
ability to deny its currents, to resist its tales. Possessed by place,
possessed by story, when the music begins we offer no resistance.
We take punch, take burning torches. The road becomes a ribbon of fire. A wave of sound rolling down to sea. Stored stories manifest in the ’Obby ’
Penglaz shakes its skull head and bone horse ridden, we dance down Chapel Street into the
Chapel Street Friday
Old men in the
doorway wheezing cigarette phantoms. A distant drunken, operatic sobbing over a
boyfriend. No-Shadow-Ned and Skull-Eye-Keith trade burnt-out futures.
In the explosions of rain I hear the angels of the drowned. The angels of the lost. The angels of the cut rope.
Gutters fill with roaring black streams of dirty water. Chapel Street’s ghosts fall back to the shelter of cracks and stones. Sodden, the psychic skin of the place dissolves like blotting paper used to soak up a spilled bottle of ink.
Noise of the dead as drunken riot. Shades of the past mobbing us, trying to get close enough to tell us their stories. We submit to the interference pattern of the night, knowing our dreams will not be own.