Where the Wildings @?
“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