Where the Wildings @?

May 4, 2019

“May I please I get a return to the end of the high street ”
The line which had become my lucid chorus to the bus drivers each morning.


 

An eventual broken record.



In London, my ‘Oyster’ tells the driver all and nothing.

Through Kendal Avenue and beyond
I am circled by rurality and farmlands
Taylor’s ‘Sad Beautiful Tragic’ in tune
Perfectly paired to complement this actuality .


Fogged by faces of white middle class English folk


Larded by luxury cottage homes, secure within private roads and gated communities.


Perfectly quaint front lawns
Colourful garden porches stretching an average of 30 metres beyond front doors
Filled with curious spells My obsession for mewses rather loud
As my addiction to daffodils in spring bloom.



“Could you make it extra hot, please?”
I besiege for a flat white or skinny latte 


Its the umpteenth time 

I am handed a cup full of lukewarmth
The luxury idea of Eurocentric regular chic cafés
Of coffee and cake breaks reading a Vogue or Tatler magazine.


Of after-work drinks in a series of city bars flirting with male colleagues
Is an overwhelmingly lure of faded pictures.


My infinite frustration wrapped in a town which produces local sausages by the Church’s Butchers
Seemingly now has nothing more enticing than a bowl of boring cream of mushroom soup and a dense roll with hard butter


An absolute tornado of culinary disaster lacking colour or sensation.


Struck by a mundane realization
Reminded of a single flimsy routine which once excited me.


The Office’s Friday Cake Club
One of too many I caved in
I now eat more Welsh cakes
Manage a decreasing average weekly steps of 4k.


And store up more torn bus tickets
Devoid of choice to avoid a drive past the Monday flea market
Of fresh bread loaves, bright coloured scarves, tired traders, fresh flowers and neglected efforts

Middle class Baby Boomers offer awkward stares to the negro girl.
Who clearly stands out like a sore thumb
Like the one I got when I visited Kilmarnock with my ex
Or was it parts of Eastern Europe
Yet 15 miles away lies London suburbs, West of town


I want to stare at you
Whist you lead your horses back to the stables
Maybe I could ride them perfectly to the fields
Get lost in rhythm as I bounce my perky butt on the saddles
My equestrian thoughts drift back to rhetoric wild lines

 



A compulsion to stand at the exit of the station each morning waiting for the 420 or ‪420A‬ that never comes
The crossing of deers more frequent than the arrival of buses.


I watch lovers, parents and children paste kisses on each other’s lips and cheeks


Followed by impulsive goodbyes as they drop off


Signaling that there is generally still love in the world.
A code predominantly visible in stations and airports.



Young blondes, tanned orange as Mr America
Plastered and baked in layers of make up
An anxiety jets inside me
The slightest smile could leave a crack on their faces
They walk past in clumsy heels and cute Essex accents
Flattered by ‘Jolie’ blown up lips
An ode to “Botox gone wrong”
Men in super tight skinny jeans.


The era of fashion headlined to stop circulation in their penises
Enamored with perfectly groomed lives
Gelled down hair
And heavy cologne leaving a residual linger in the air like London’s air pollution.



The still and quiet at the top of Palmers and Stonards hill even on a typical Monday morning scares the fuck out of me
I wonder if my proximity away from London is a metaphor for my mental retirement 


 

The lifelessness of the ‘deux’


 

I challenge my exchange for city pace, the rat race
Pedestrian traffic, regular brisk walks, busy bicycle lanes, perfectly made coffees, crusty hot croissants, impatient city folks navigating through rush hour, lost in the myth of tube delays, the cliche of A12 and M25 traffic and a world wrapped around my creativity.

To what had become my new normal of a slow dying life
A heave of foothills
Mirrored by unremarkable calm
Wet and muddy earth


Of Red Road Warning Signs that read “Beware of Cattle”
And others written with chalk on boards “Local Farm Fresh Eggs for sale”

Landed with momentarily morning dog walks


And a patting ritual of a cute fluffy mutt
Her owner welcoming my encounters for 30 seconds
As I and the mutt are mutually comforted

My structured motivation retires lifeless like the rest of this place.


I am surrounded by dews of loneliness, bare fields, lavender, empty spaces and 1950s bungalows


 

Some filled with boxes of unthinkable history
Furniture preserved or hoarded in derelicts
Lost boxes of quirks
Old rusty vintage candle arbours, broken cheese boards, tangled Christmas tinsels, tucked amongst dead paraphernalia and decades of dust.


Regressive feasts undertaken by human encounter 
Underwhelmed by windows gleaming not of scrawny city foxes on tube station fences.


But of an array of endless trees, the occasional sight of pheasants, sea gulls, squirrels, magpies, rabbits and more black birds


The daily east bound journey on the central line, stretching acres, fields of green off the beaten paths
Landscapes focal.


I am the girl with a seat on the train
Delving from outskirts of the city to views fading into the countryside


A clear facade of what I see London, my city to be

Undesired losses
Channels of Jemais vu
Triangulated to a less familiar place 


Relentless hunger of regrets
Frank nostalgia
Geographical and culture shocks
Unappealing peers 


For growth, was to delve out to go up
.



I walk from Maltings Lane into process and bright horizons
Matted maroon red and vintage green classic Jaguars
‘D’ ‘E’ ‘F’ and classic S types all parked impeccably in the lot
In line 


Under wild berry trees and between wide woods.

 


In picturing a soulless state
Was a euphemism
I moved from diversity, a concept of my magic to diverse
A world clearly made for some
A definite misfit of culture, one devoid of diversity, but clearly and tightly diversely perfect.

 



“Thanks, have a lovely day”, my lucid chorus to the bus drivers, as I approach the front doors of the bus
“You too”, they retort with a nearly forced grin
Aligned with uncharismatic patterns, 
I step out with careful tease not to end up with murky boots
Look left, right
Make a crossing
Into chaotic structures

By all means
Retain your “rural charm”


Unapologetically, I will engrave my soul in city lights, grit, graffiti and grime


West end plays, high street stores, night life

Art fairs, gastro pubs, 24 hour tube lines, slutty and gay bars, chic cafes, African restaurants, indie galleries, penthouse sky bars, picnic in parks, alfresco lunches, cabaret shows, hip hop concerts, 24hr breakfasts bars, city farms, tapas joints, museums, jazz clubs, luxury hotels, heels on London pavements, cream tea parties, readings at poetry cafes, diverse tribes and faces, encountered races, city airports, French restaurants, Dress ups, make up
Run for buses that actually show up
Drink perfectly made flat whites


Because the bloody buzz
Because, fuck rural
Because Of what use is a life of horizontal value
Lacking in essence of time
Of empty spaces
Of necrotic motions
Of diverse vibes
Of all that sustains my creative mind
For breeding contempt
Is a reality of disabling legos building up 


A far fetched tunnel vision of herewith
I, a product borne of cities shall dwell in the houses of Cities forevermore.
And like Meesh would say
“It’s not the suburbs”
“It’s the urbs”
It’s essentially fur coats with no knickers
Friends ask, where is it you work again?
West Essex
Response, “where is that”?...

Oh Hail my tragic tale of a move from cosmopolitan chapters and a city that never sleeps to a linear necrotic village


08228, The Village Forest, 36, A Circus of Uncertainty 

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