Walking Between Worlds
I seem to have been spending a fair bit of time on Cleveland Street this week. Its glorious curry houses and MI5 safe houses have given me the chance to catch up with old friends and old contacts. Leaving Ragam late at night, you cannot help but be held under the multicoloured glow coming from the Post Office Tower. Amongst the faded bohemian glamour of Fitzrovia, the tower and its pulsing light appears incredibly alien. It is like a landmark stranded after a dimensional crisis has collapsed down all of the parallels where Wilson's white heat of technology did not fail.
If you shut out the drunken, hormonal noise of the young media things from the BBC and CNN drinking in the George and Dragon, you can glimpse the area's temporal shades. Alan Green, his breath still ragged from winning the inaugural annual race up the stairs to the top of the tower. Tony Benn and Billy Butlin opening the rotating restaurant, the Angry Brigade closing it. William Hartnell battling the self-aware WOTAN long before Skynet was part of Cameron's fever dream.
As I weave home, the semi-dark streets work their magic. Stories fall around me. Prince Monolulu exchanging tips with Crowley at a crossroad corner, Dylan Thomas stumbling from The Wheatsheaf while holding a conversation with characters he would later place in Llareggub. By the time I cross Old Marylebone Road, I am fully walking between worlds. Fact and fiction; past and present; land of the living and land of the dead.
Hitting canalside, I remember there are many ways to celebrate Season. Earlier that night, I had passed some witches who had hired a barge to conduct the theatrics of their religiosity upon the water. Now all that remained of their elaborate rituals were dozens of votive candles, representing the souls of the dead, balanced on the water. I climbed onto the roof the nearest empty boat and watched the polished blackness of the canal broken by floating fire. I sat and waited on the spirits as one by one, the lights failed or drifted beyond sight.
If you shut out the drunken, hormonal noise of the young media things from the BBC and CNN drinking in the George and Dragon, you can glimpse the area's temporal shades. Alan Green, his breath still ragged from winning the inaugural annual race up the stairs to the top of the tower. Tony Benn and Billy Butlin opening the rotating restaurant, the Angry Brigade closing it. William Hartnell battling the self-aware WOTAN long before Skynet was part of Cameron's fever dream.
As I weave home, the semi-dark streets work their magic. Stories fall around me. Prince Monolulu exchanging tips with Crowley at a crossroad corner, Dylan Thomas stumbling from The Wheatsheaf while holding a conversation with characters he would later place in Llareggub. By the time I cross Old Marylebone Road, I am fully walking between worlds. Fact and fiction; past and present; land of the living and land of the dead.
Hitting canalside, I remember there are many ways to celebrate Season. Earlier that night, I had passed some witches who had hired a barge to conduct the theatrics of their religiosity upon the water. Now all that remained of their elaborate rituals were dozens of votive candles, representing the souls of the dead, balanced on the water. I climbed onto the roof the nearest empty boat and watched the polished blackness of the canal broken by floating fire. I sat and waited on the spirits as one by one, the lights failed or drifted beyond sight.
Labels: Cleveland Street, Ragam, Season, Temporal Shades
posted by David at 11:59 PM
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