11 February 2013
*Blog post = bad language.
But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. (Robert Frost)
Something strange happens in London when it snows, things appear a little different. The forgotten black streets that remain untouched, hold a thin, icy white carpet that invites me to ruin it with my footprints, but nevertheless I tread carefully.
I walk with a lit cigarette dangling from my lips, my hands that are buried in my pockets only come out to flick ash away from my body.
As I move (probably resembling a less apt Billy Elliot), I notice a grumpy man walking my way from across the street. We’ve seen each other in the past, and normally mind our own. But today he looks down at the ground before looking up and giving me a nod and a nervous smile, as if we’re both traversing some treacherous field together, sharing the same misfortune. I nod back, but due to my friends’ insistence that I have a demonic and possessed looking smile...I don’t bare my teeth to my new friend.
As I make way into the less neglected parts of the city, the pavements are clean and bustling. I drop my cigarette and reach for another one, pausing and struggling to make fire. A stranger thrusts a lit lighter in my face. I inhale and look up at my saviour, a suited middle aged man stands before me. His hair has become victim to a very liberal coating of gel, and as the snow falls, it lands on his head forming little beads of water that roll off and onto what I recognize to be a tailored overcoat. I thank him for his kindness to which he replies ‘’Fackin weather...Made me late’’. Before walking off.
I glance at my watch, I’m already half an hour late. I stopped for various pressing reasons during my walk, which included studying an overweight cat try to make a jump over a short wall (he/she didn’t make it) and also to observe two small children attempting to make the smallest but most impressive snowman I have seen, with the minimal amount of snow they were able to gather (mostly from the tops and windows of peoples cars).
I curse myself, I’m often late due to my need to romanticise my surroundings. Romanticise? It’s a strange concept for a lot of people, they think romance and they think of flowers, candlelight dinners and lovers. When I think romance, I think of the need to idealise the situation, the feel, the scent, the taste of a certain moment. I think a lot of artists, writers and musicians know what I mean, we try to see and feel things that aren’t there. It’s as much a gift as it is a curse, you can appreciate the beautiful as much as you can the devastating.
I walk into a popular coffee shop (I lurve my coffee) and park my ass (arse?) on an old wooden chair that was probably made well before I was born. Tom, Maria, Henry and Jana (my acquaintances) are already sat at the table debating whether or not French fries are the same as chips (they’re not of course).
We make convenient conversation trying to fill our heads with the small details of each other’s existence. Like usual, I don’t have much to say unless I’m pressed, but I’m intrigued to find out that Tom has got himself a cat (he hates cats, his girlfriend loves them). ‘’He’s so whipped’’ I whisper to no one in particular.
As everyone becomes engaged in debate about some pseudo intellectual story that someone at the table has told, I slump back in my seat. I close my eyes and run the palms of my hands against the side of my chair, feeling the grain against my hands, full of nicks, scratches, and nail marks where those before me had either become fidgety, agitated or bored.
Henry, a guy who I’ve met only a few times and don’t really care for, throws a napkin at me from across the table, waking me from my daydream. I work carefully to remove a chocolate chip from my uneaten cookie and flick it at him hitting him in the eye. He winces and I punch the air and praise myself.
Maria, a shy and quiet girl I met through Tom, turns to laugh with me, brushing her brown curls against my face. When the shaking table finally recovers it’s legs, Maria tells us how she is on a mission to find some good drama or acting lessons for her eight year old niece who is incredibly shy.
I’m struck by an image of myself at ten years old. People would label me as shy, I never was really. I just wasn’t as vocal and loud as the other kids my age.
Acting lessons? Could they really cure shyness? Maybe, I’ve heard they’re great for social skills. But what if the person is just naturally quiet or introverted? I wonder...
People can take classes to make them a better speaker, fighter, dancer etc, etc. You can gain or widen your skills, but I’ve always thought that the innate characteristics of who we are, always stay the same. I look back at myself ten years ago, a scrawny kid with a bad haircut built like a vileda power mop upside down. I’m still the same kid sat in the back of a classroom as his teacher asks a question he already knows, but declines to answer...But with a little more flesh on his bones, and all the uncertainty.
I glance outside at the wet and steamy air, and wish I was on a train somewhere in some overlooked part of the world eating some strange foreign delicacy and watching the world through a window like a slow never-ending movie. ‘’But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep’’.
Someone’s phone rings, signalling the time for us to return to our questionable adult lives. I look around the table, I’m surrounded by people all different from me, a graphic designer, an accountant, a soon to be teacher, a PhD student. And then there’s me, I’m not really sure what I am, but at this moment...Sitting in this ancient chair, I’ve never felt more alone. It’s a strange feeling, I feel alone but not lonely...Is that possible?
‘’Fuck if I know’’.
Before I Sleep • Opuss № I