on the uk riots

First of all: I am fine. Everyone I know is fine. The area I live in is fine, and so is the area in which I work. None of that is likely to change, because I am living and working in middle-upper class areas. Everything does seem to be calming down now, too, though we'll see how long that lasts. I don't imagine the peace will keep forever if some big changes aren't made, but for now, don't worry about me. I'm safe. I'm alternately sad and furious, but safe and unharmed.

People have been in touch with me asking about the riots going on in the UK. Unsurprisingly, information about the context and background seems to have been thin on the ground, and pushed aside in favour of the many striking photos of London (and now Manchester, Birmingham, Liverpool, and other places) burning.

And is has been burning. None of what I have to say is meant to belittle the state that the affected areas have been left in. Many are completely gutted. People have been left homeless, without livelihood, injured, and dead. But everyone seems to be forgetting that something like mass rioting doesn't happen for no reason, no matter how badly it devolves. I don't claim to be an expert, and this post is meant only to inform those people back home who've been asking about what's going on. I'll link to some good, informative articles at the bottom, too.

Begin at the beginning. That's a hard one. Real life isn't a story, not some neat linear narrative.

The "beginning" that most people are looking for, in this case, is this: where the riots started, when, and why. Again, not as easy as you might think to answer.

Here are some variants on that answer:

1. The bare-bones facts.

Last Thursday, a man named Mark Duggan was shot and killed by a police bullet. He was black, and from a poor area of London. Officers originally claimed that he fired first - later forensic investigation has shown that he never fired any weapon, and that the shot claimed to have been made by him was from a police weapon.

On Saturday, there was a peaceful protest outside Tottenham police station - park vigil for Duggan, part call for justice over his death. Despite starting off harmless enough, something got triggered in that crowd (unconfirmed reports cite a confrontation between a teenager and a police officer), and the violence and vandalism started. It began with the torching of two patrol cars. Riot police and officers on horseback were sent out to deal with the crowd, which responded with further violence. Eventually, the vandalism started to spread throughout Tottenham. Rioters began setting buildings and vehicles - including a double decker bus - alight, throwing petrol bombs, and looting shops. This continued throughout Sunday, with most of the violence staying local to North-East London, in Tottenham and Enfield.

Monday is when things start to spread throughout London, and the looting and vandalism becomes completely impossible for the police to deal with. Croydon, Clapham, Brixton, Ealing, Peckham, Lewisham, and Hackney are all sites of vandalism, fires, looting, and/or confrontations with the police. There are a few minor issues reported in other areas, but these are the hot spots. It is also the first night that any sign of the troubles spreading beyond the capital is given, with few minor incidents in Nottingham reported. Something to note, here, for those people who don't know London well: every single area majorly affected is primarily working class, with a long history of being both poor and racially mixed; many, like Brixton, also have a history of racial and class tensions erupting. Eventually, though, the unrest does move into better off areas near to the flash points - Islington, for example.

Tuesday day sees a massive cleanup effort by local residents of affected areas, and Tuesday night is much calmer in London, probably due at least partly to an unprecedented level of police presence (16000) in the streets, and threats of harsh punishments. People throughout the city are sent home early whether they work in affected area or not, and businesses are closed and boarded up. There are groups of primarily young men gathered in different areas to "protect their communities," and the motives behind them seem varied - chillingly, there is at least one group of white vigilantes on the prowl, chasing Asian youth and shouting various slurs. Late into the night, unrest seems to erupt again in the previous areas though to a lesser extent than on Monday. Tuesday is also the night that riots really kick off throughout the country - Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool, and other cities all report vandalism and looting throughout their cities, with at least one police station set on fire.

Today, people in London seem a lot calmer during the day, though we've yet to see how the night will go. PM David Cameron has okayed the use of baton rounds by police if necessary, as well as water cannons. Accused rioters have been appearing in court all day - the number of people arrested in London alone is now over 800, and 251 so far have been charged. Courts are staying open all night to process the sheer amount.

2. The background

The fact of the matter is, anyone who's genuinely surprised by these riots is either an idiot, or willingly blind. I've been living in London since September, and there's been blatant unrest here since then - protest upon protest, including the one I took part in in March. Some of these escalated into violence and vandalism, and thus caught the attention of the media. Others went almost completely unremarked upon. All of them have had absolutely no effect on the government. There's only so long people who are angry and disenfranchised will let themselves be ignored until they just explode. London's been a classic pressure cooker situation.

NBC reports, via Laurie Penny:

"A young man in Tottenham was asked if rioting really achieved anything:

“Yes,” said the young man. “You wouldn’t be talking to me now if we didn’t riot, would you?”

“Two months ago we marched to Scotland Yard, more than 2,000 of us, all blacks, and it was peaceful and calm and you know what? Not a word in the press. Last night a bit of rioting and looting and look around you.”

Eavesdropping from among the onlookers, I looked around. A dozen TV crews and newspaper reporters interviewing the young men everywhere.’’

The gap between the rich and the poor in Britain has been growing for several decades now, starting, arguably, with the Thatcher years. The Labour government was just as bad for the poor, invested as it became in big business and neo-liberalism. And its not getting any better. In an attempt to fix the national deficit, the Conservative government is cutting spending left, right, and centre, making life even harder for those who already found it hard. The people baring the brunt of it are young, poor, and many are people of colour - in short, people already written off by society. People who have grown up not only having nothing, but being consistently told that this means that they are nothing.

Again, I'm not condoning vandalism, violence, or looting, but it's hard to say it's not happening for a reason. Many of the people involved may be unsure of the politics behind their actions, but that doesn't make those actions any less political. Without condoning the actions themselves, I can understand the motivation behind them; as Owen Hatherley said on his Twitter:

it's an incoherent, horrible scream from those who are justifiably furious

3. Class War

Let's talk about some success stories in the UK, shall we? In particular, two distinct examples of very big, very current success, which I've chosen both for those reasons, and for me being/having been a fan of them myself, to even out any bias: Mumford & Sons and Benedict Cumberbatch. Both are very talented acts, there's no denying that. Both are also undeniably posh. Why does that matter? Well, if it was just them, it wouldn't. But the fact of the matter is that the overwhelming majority of those who are successful in Britain come from well-to-do or at least middle class backgrounds.

Class is still very important, and very strongly felt in Britain, to an extent that is honestly baffling for someone like myself - Canadian, with a vague awareness of being middle class, but only in that I'm neither poor nor rich, and an implicit understanding that your place on the social scale is changeable, depending on circumstances, effort, and luck.

Social mobility is nearly non-existent in Britain. Mumford & Sons, for all they play roots-influenced music, are privately educated and well-to-do - as are almost all of the musical gang they hang around with (Laura Marling, etc). Actors, comedians, writers, politicians - again, the majority of the most successful come from at least upper-middle class backgrounds and went to good schools (the amount of Oxbridge-educated celebrities is frankly staggering), to the point that those who didn't tend to stand out like a sore thumb. It is not very likely that someone born working class in Britain in the last few decades will ever be anything but working class. They're born without a fighting chance.

And it's not just in the creative professions where this lack of representation exist - probably more importantly, it's just as rampant in politics. The current Prime Minister was educated at Eton and is worth several million. Nick Clegg went to Westminster. Ed Miliband, leader of the opposition, is an Oxford graduate. None of these men know what it's like to grow up always wanting, in an atmosphere of urban degradation, ignorance, and violence.

There's another layer to it, too: watching a Terrence Rattigan documentary hosted by Benedict Cumberbatch the other week, I was struck hard by a scene where Cumberbatch returns to Harrow (a boys school in London, attended by Winston Churchill among others, and matching Eton in its exceeding poshness), where both he and Rattigan were educated. In a voiceover, Cumberbatch comments something to the effect of, "many royals, politicians, and greats have walked these halls - and even the odd commoner, like me." It immediately brought to mind the commentary surrounding the royal wedding, which insisted on classifying Kate Middleton as common - even though she'd grown up a millionaire. There's a powerful suggestion underlying this - if these people are common, the rest of us must be lucky if we're even dirt.

4. The (frankly quite terrifying) reactions.

Here's a neat trick to try: put everyone you know into even the most glancing contact of riots in their city or country, and watch how many lose all pretensions of lefty-liberal beliefs and turn into the ugliest parts of their grandfathers. There's already been a sharp swing to the right in many people's political thinking.

It's horrifying, the reactions I'm seeing, and the popularity of them. At the top: the suggestions and threats that those involved in the riots should/may be evicted from their council tenancies, and have their housing benefits revoked. There's a stunning lack of understanding of poor lives at work in this thought process, not least that making someone homeless and even poorer is a good way to discourage them from rioting again. But also, the strange thought process that seems to think of housing benefits as some kind of bonus; people are refusing to grasp the concept of necessity, of having (next to) nothing.

There's also the call for violent escalation in dealing with the riots, okayed by the PM - baton rounds and water cannons. A lot of people seem to think the army should get involved. Nevermind the fact that upping the force used in dealing with rioters is just as likely to cause them to do the same as it is to stop them; these tactics could quite literally turn the cities of the UK into war zones. And I can't help but think that the last time these tactics were used by British police, it was in Northern Ireland.

There's other, more banal reactions, too. These do just as much, if not more, as the above to expose the class gaps and mindsets of the privileged in Britain. There's the scolding tones, the accusations of parents not raising their kids properly - in neighbourhoods where many parents will be single, and likely working multiple jobs just to feed those children, or where its an accomplishment just to keep your family safe. The racist backlash, not just from the bile-spewing BNP, but gangs of primarily white male vigilantes in the streets of London - both tonight and last night, now. The hysteria on the internet and suspicious looks in the streets regarding where the rioting's going to happen next - focussing, almost without fail, on solidly bourgeois communities like my own Hammersmith, or even Chelsea. All of these reactions reek of a "them" vs "us" mentality. Of "them," with their undereducated, badly treated, cast aside selves coming for "us" in our rightful middle-to-upper class safety and security.

Nina Power: There Is A Context to London's Riots That Can't Be Ignored

Laurie Penny: Panic on the streets of London

BBC: Riots timeline

Leninology: several recent posts, including A Crisis of Ideology and Political Leadership, Tottenham Calling, and Enfield Calling

Tariq Ali: Why Here, Why Now?

dreary, dark, and damp city. and wolves.

I love this weather. I really do. Cold and wet has always been my favourite, even over snow.
I'm tired. I'm a little worried, despite still believing everything will work out. I had a job interview on Saturday, but I don't think I got it. I haven't heard anything. I'm a little disappointed, too: I had hoped to be able to take a course here, starting in the fall, but because you sign up for full years of study at British universities and not terms, the one I had my heart set on is not legally viable. There's a host of other options I can look into, of course, but the thing that made this one so perfect, aside from the actual things I'd've been studying, is that it would have actually have been a first year of uni in credits.

Right now, though, I’ve got my cosy sweater and a quilt. I’ve got tea, and spinach & chickpea soup, and walnut cake for later. I’ve got Dylan Thomas, and Alan Garner if I finish him, and Seth Lakeman. I’m in lazy, cozy, easy, soulfood mode.

On the way home today my umbrella got turned inside out and in the few moments it took me to right it I went from vaguely dry to absolutely soaked. I squelched and shivered (it is cold for July - I had been worried it would be too hot!) myself the rest of the way to a hot shower and an hour with my notebook that turned into two-and-then-some. I've been forcing myself to spend at least six hours every day doing nothing but jobhunting. I've also been trying to force myself to get fuller nights of sleep. It's paid off in at least one way: as Eliot once said, having a limited amount of time in which to write leads to discipline in doing so. You don't faff about as much. I'm writing a lot right now. In the evenings, when I come home. A lot of it in notebooks, a lot of it probably never to be shared, never mind published, a lot of it more about experiments in figuring out my writing, my ideas, and my thoughts around it than actually producing something whole, but there is, too, quite a bit that will work its way into other things. Honestly, even if nothing ever comes of it, it's still what keeps me sane, and most days it's enough of a gift just to have this part of my voice back.

Vaguely relatedly, I'd really like to share something. It's this story:

The Wolves of Brooklyn

The wolves have eaten people. Why be coy about it? Not a lot of people. But it’s happened. As near as anyone can figure, the first one they ate was a Russian girl named Yelena. They surrounded her and she stood very still, so as not to startle them. Finally, she said: “I’m lonely”—it’s weird but you tell the wolves things, sometimes. You can’t help it, all these old wounds come open and suddenly you’re confessing to a wolf who never says anything back. She said: “I’m lonely,” and they ate her in the street. They didn’t leave any blood. They’re fastidious like that. Since then, I know of about four or five others, and well, that’s just not enough to really scare people. Obviously, you’ll be special, they’ll look at you with those huge eyes and you’ll understand something about each other, about the tundra and blood and Brooklyn and winter, and they’ll mark you but pass you by. For most of us that’s just what happens. My friend Daniel got eaten, though. It’s surprising how you can get used to that. I don’t know what he said to them. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know Daniel that well.

This excerpt is amazing and beautiful and just the thing on a cold rainy evening all on its own, and I knew from it that unless the author completely let me down I was going to love the story, and then I clicked through, and…

This story? Is written by Catherynne Valente. Only one of my absolute favourite writers not only working right now but ever. And even though some of her works resonate differently for me, she has never ever let me down (in what I’ve read, which is not all, but I have faith).

This story does more than just not let me down. One of the reasons I fell in love with Valente is that she so often seems to write stories tailor-made for me, for my obsessions. (There was Palimpsest, with its trains and its maps and its dream cities and its bees, for instance.) I feel like I was meant to read this tonight, here, curled up in my grey wool and drinking tea and thinking long and hard about this city.

This is a story by Catherynne Valente about Brooklyn and the huge, uncanny wolves that live there, and a girl that is very much not Little Red Hood. It is about cities and the villages and wildernesses within them, about the way some of us are called to them, and how we don’t belong until we do (or at least we don’t belong anywhere else, either), about fashion and self-presentation and the feeling of being looked at, about tribes, about how we move apart and fall together. (I won’t tell you any more, for fear of ruining it, but please, if you read one story on the internet this month, let it be this one.) It is, on some level, exactly what I needed to read right now.

(And I mean, well, is it any surprise that a story like this would mean a lot to me?)

ca·thar·sis (k-thärss)

n. pl. ca·thar·ses (-sz)

1. A purifying or figurative cleansing of the emotions, especially pity and fear, described by Aristotle as an effect of tragic drama on its audience.

2. A release of emotional tension, as after an overwhelming experience, that restores or refreshes the spirit.

eu·pho·ri·a (y-fôr-, -fr-)

n.

A feeling of great happiness or well-being.

I'm being crushed against the metal barrier in front of me by the several thousand people behind. The girl next to me's hair is in my mouth, and I am sticking uncomfortably to the leather jacket of the man behind me. (In two hours, when we peel apart, my skin will be embedded with zipper and leather wrinkle marks, but he gets a pass on this because he will spend the evening protecting my head.) The arm that's not hanging over the barrier is stuck awkwardly by my side, my feet are going numb, and I would be literally dripping with sweat if I wasn't too crowded for that to be possible. Someone's arm is around my neck, and another is propped on my shoulder; partway through the concert, someone else will snake theirs around my waste, and I will wrap my previously trapped arm around the back of a French girl's head. We are too stuck together to even jump properly to the music, and so instead we all surge as one, back and forth, back and forth. Six feet away, Jarvis Cocker writhes on top of a stack of amps and peers out at us as we all sing along to every song so loudly it's a miracle we can still hear the band.

I know, I really do know, that amazing concert experiences are not just something that happens to me; that music inspires faith like religion, and that lots of people have had similar moments in their life. This isn't about the uniqueness of my experience. But: five years ago, I went to a concert with one my best friends, a small local band playing outdoors. I couldn't even stand at the back of the crowd, it was too much for me, I was going to have a panic attack - I had to go and sit in the bleachers. Now, compare.

What this is about is healing, and how we do it. It's about realizing something about yourself that maybe you should've known a long time ago, but only just figured out. It's about lightning-bolt moments. It's about growth. Don't get me wrong; I'm the last person to take me seriously. But sometimes I'm forced to.

An important part of any concert experience is the crowd, and this one was the best I've ever been a member of. Pulp have been apart a long time, and they've been around for more than twice as long as that. They've meant a lot to a lot of people, and a lot of those people are here tonight. Everyone knows every word of every song intimately. People shout teases and quips at Jarvis like he's an old school friend. This is pure love of pop music.

The experience shook me so much that it's taken me ten days to write about it. Even now, I don't think I'm properly expressing how strongly the concert touched me - and not just the bands, but the realizations I had that night. I'm having trouble writing about it evenheadedly, as you can see. The adverbs and adjectives are piling up all over this post, and I'm at risk of sounding like some trippy new-ager when I talk about healing.

But the week before last something snapped inside of me. Leading up to it I was the unhappiest I've been since I moved here, I think. I wasn't talking to people much because I didn't have much to report - I was looking for work. I hadn't found any yet. That was about it. And then suddenly I woke up one morning, and went to the National Gallery, where I spent a long time glaring at Van Gogh's Sunflowers as Japanese tourists and a group of schoolchildren all tried to shove around me. There was no reason for me not to, after all. I was unhappy. I needed to do something to be less unhappy, or I was going to go mad. I figured that much out. The next evening I took myself to a performance of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, and laughed so hard my cheeks hurt, and when I stepped out of the theatre into the warm Piccadilly night I felt lighter than I had since February. The day after that was the Arcade Fire show, and then Friday was Canada Day (though I only paid a brief visit to the celebrations.) Saturday was the Pride Parade, and even more dancing in Trafalgar square, and then Sunday was the night described above. So it was all a slow build of experiences, even though the tipping point was singing along to Disco 2000 with everyone else in Hyde Park that night.

I've somehow grown into the type of girl that dances, and screams, and has emotional breakthroughs rather than breakdowns in a seething crowd of strangers.

where you invest your love, you invest your life

So I don’t have many photos of last night because from the moment Zach Condon opened his mouth to sing until I stumbled up my steps and cracked a beer, I existed in a state of extended rapture.

(Don’t get me wrong - Owen Pallett was amazing (I am pretty sure Owen Pallett is amazing when he’s doing nothing but breathing.), although his performance was a little wrecked for me by the obnoxious dudes a bit behind me who were ‘only there to see The Vaccines’ and were - forgive me if I sound snobbish but it’s true - of a certain breed of (predominantly male, though there’s definitely females too) obnoxious indie-rock fans who think tight jeans, a leather jacket, and a bad attitude are the be-all and end-all of cool, and who probably still think Pete Doherty’s the messiah. I also had a moment of profound culture shock, in that I was literally the only person in my area of the crowd who knew who Owen even was. The Vaccines themselves were fun and danceable but definitely the weakest band on the setlist, and, even though I was a big Jay Jay Pistolet fan, I really think they’re just another in a long line of good but not all that original or memorable London indie bands.)

Beirut, unfortunately, had a moment of almost being wrecked, too: by a group of completely wasted girls who were pushing forward to try to get nearer for Mumford & Sons (and can I just say: I FUCKING HATE THAT. If you are the type of person who rushes the barrier at gigs instead of getting close at the beginning and appreciating the entire line up? We will never be friends. In fact, I will happily punch you in the face. The rest of us like these bands, too, dickhead. That’s why we got here several hours early. This, of course, does not count in instances of moshpits, and moving/dancing crowds. If you are alone I am also slightly more likely to be forgiving.) who started shouting at me and the girls around me for not letting them past. One of them proceeded to pee in a cup, which she then spilt on one of the poor girls near me. They moved off pretty quickly, though, and my bliss at finally, finally seeing Beirut live won out.

It was the next two bands that really rattled me, though. Mumford & Sons are incredible live. They feed off the energy of the crowd like nobody’s business, and the amount of joy they put into every instant of their music is contagious. I screamed and sang myself hoarse, and danced all my troubles away. I spent the entire gig one deep from the barrier, a bit to the right of the stage, and was lucky enough to have really amazing people around me for the most part - the aforementioned girls behind me and to my right who were just as blissed out the entire time as I was, a man and his two young sons who were obviously having the time of their lives to my left, and a three girls and a guy in front of me who threw themselves into the music with so much abandon; they were wonderful to dance with.

And so that was the act that brought me the most joy in the simple sense of the word. But the one that brought me to tears was Arcade Fire. I’m ashamed to say that despite being a fan since Funeral, and a Canadian to boot, this was my first time seeing them live. But as the sun went down, someone released a wishing lantern, and the crowd sang along to their joyous cacophony, it didn’t matter in the slightest.

stark raving sane

Just a very quick note, on something that deserves a very long, rapturous ramble, and will probably get one:

I saw Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead starring Jamie Parker and Samuel Barnett at the Theatre Royal Haymarket tonight. (It has been - and will continue to be - a week of excellence, and of treating myself. I am giddy with excitement over the concert tomorrow! And then I think I will go to the Canada Day celebrations on Friday.) I am probably going to see it again. It was incredible.

My favourite History Boys (Pos & Scripps for those who don’t recognise the actors’ names) in my favourite play by my favourite playwright. The culmination of so much that meant everything to me in my high school days, the development of my literary loves and tastes. And, just, not only was it so good - I have seen Parker on stage before, at the Globe as Prince Hal, so I knew going into it that he’d be amazing, but his Guildenstern is perfect, radiating helpless confusion compounded by his startling intellect. And Barnett’s Rosencrantz is oblivious but also perfectly arch and occasionally withering with scorn, in a way people who know the film probably wouldn’t be expecting, but which works very well indeed. And that’s just the two leads - the Player & his men, Hamlet, the costume designs, the direction, the stage design (oh god, the stage design) - all of it is so good.

And this is rambly and gushy and emotional and uncritical and probably pretty mushy because I just got home and haven’t had time to think it through and I came into this production with an already strong love of the play and its leads, and I will take the time and effort to write a proper review later. But for now I just wanted a record of the glowy feeling I came out of the theatre into the warm London night with, because I have been very very sad these past few weeks, and I’ve spent this week using art as a healing balm, and I laughed a lot tonight, but I was also touched, and challenged. Because this play (and it has since I was 13), and now this production, means a lot to me.

catch a fire

For some reason, whenever I get homesick, I always get all masochistic and make it even worse by trolling through facebook or watching videos like this, or a hundred other things.

When I tell people here where I’m from, I always just say Vancouver - as opposed to Victoria, or Vancouver Island - because they’re way more likely to know where that is. And even then, so many (especially continental Europeans, it seems, but some Brits too) ask me “why? Why would you leave there to move here?” and I always say “For a change, to try something new; I can always go back.” And I can, and I know this, but on days like this I can’t help but wonder why myself. (Weirdly, whenever I’m homesick for Victoria these days, I find myself homesick for Vancouver, too. The two are far from interchangeable, but for some reason I end up wanting both. Maybe because Vancouver is big and dirty enough to satisfy, on some levels, both my love for London and for Victoria?)

And I know it’ll pass, especially once I’ve found work and meet some more people again, and probably a proper night’s sleep wouldn’t hurt. But all the same, even when it’s not a I-want-to-go-back-right-now desperation, and especially I think now that summer’s in swing, I really miss my home sometimes. I’m from one of the most beautiful, wonderful places in the world as far as I’m concerned. Which is not to say that I don’t love London, too: most of the time, I really, really do. I love my little bedroom in this haunted house, I love Camden and Brick Lane and Portobello, I love dubstep nights and intimate folk gigs, I love the parks and the streets and how huge and all-encompassing the city is, how it feels important, and how you’re only ever bored here when you let yourself be. Which is funny because what I love about Victoria is the exact opposite: the nature, the beaches, the west coast hippy vibe, the friendliness, how intimate a city it - small, but important in that it holds everyone I love. The thing is, I’ve never met Vince Vaccaro (only seen him play), but I recognise everywhere that is in this video. I that, and the beauty of it all, almost as much as I miss my friends and family.

June 30th: Arcade Fire, Mumford & Sons, Beirut, Owen Pallett, & The Vaccines in Hyde Park

I am so excited. I literally cannot stop grinning. My cheeks hurt. Like, actually, a year ago I was in Victoria, panicking about moving to London. I spent most of my time hiding in my room. Opted out of even local gigs with friends at least half the time. And now I`m going to see five of my absolute favourite musical acts, by myself, in Hyde Park. I need festival-appropriate footwear, stat. I also need a job, to finance my music habit. And some friends actually in this city would be nice (stop leaving me, you fuckers!). But, you know, so much happens in a year. And a lot of it has been amazing, and a lot of it has been shit, but aside from the obvious one thing, I wouldn't change a bit of it.

here comes the sun

Things that have happened recently:

I met Thom Yorke on Monday. I went to Brick Lane to get a copy of The Universal Sigh, and who was handing them out but one of my heroes? I didn't have my camera, but a guy took a photo for me and said he'd email it. No sign of it yet, but, fingers crossed. Apparently Phil was also there, but I didn't see him.

G and I finally went to Abbey Road on Tuesday, as you can see above. We went to the pub afterwards.

I still haven't found a job.

I cut my hair, died a piece of it purple, and bought a tube of bright coral lipstick. I am starting to make an effort again. I am purposely bringing colour into my life, and going out and doing things other than looking for work, even when all I feel like is curling up on my bed in my pjs and writing now that the words are starting to come back again. I am scared, so scared, but I am ready to try hard, and to work my butt off. At this trip, as well as at writing.

I am reading lots of memoirs and diaries and poetry lately, thinking lots about words and writing and self-definition. Rilke and Nin and Plath. Letters to a sad & panicked young girlthing who bleeds ink.

(Relatedly, Catherynne Valente and SJ Tucker interviewed each other for the Interstitial Arts Foundation, and it nearly made me cry. "Dream big. Make friends.")

The cherry blossoms are blooming; spring is a season of rebirth.

I leave for Paris on Sunday.

living in the meantime

Every day in London (with the exception of yesterday, when I marched and attended a rally against government cuts with half-a-million other people (and which I wrote about at my new culture & politics blog.) begins the same way: without any set plans.

Maybe I drink my tea downstairs, watching BBC News, or maybe I bring my cereal upstairs to eat while I read Victoria Coren's memoir/yet another Angela Carter book/David Foster Wallace's essays. Maybe I'm tempted to stay like that all day, curled up in my pyjamas behind my locked bedroom door; I've always been rather lazy.

But I get up. I shower and dress. I head out into London. I look for work. I look for way to amuse myself while I'm not working.

On the days that the sadness doesn't stay away, I've found that the easiest way to cheer myself up is to head to a well-known tourist destination, and let the crowd swallow me up in its chatter and flow. Even after six months, there is still a thrill at seeing people take pictures of themself in front of Big Ben or Tower Bridge and being able to think I live here. As the song goes, London, you're a lady, and some days I don't know what I'd do without you.

I don't spend much time in museums and galleries right now. I think it's because they're too still, too enclosed; they're definitely too cut off from the beautiful weather London's been having. Instead I'm drawn to Hyde Park, to Portobello or Camden or Borough Markets, to the South Bank, to outdoor spaces fairly bursting with people as Spring hits the city and everyone rushes out from their homes and offices.

It feels a bit like living in the meantime right now. There are no special events, I'm not going to many shows. It's more of a slow, calm, settling-in for the long haul. It's something I'm okay wit. In a lot of ways, I'm more comfortable with myself than I have been in many years.

So I keep carrying on the day-to-day. I think about finally getting my next tattoo. I decide how I'm going to cut my hair. I paint my nails blue and my lips pink, and I contemplate the pros and cons of investing in a pair of floral Docs as the weather takes a turn for the better. I read books, in bed, in parks, on the Tube. I drink, as ever, too much tea. I write, I write, I write...

"Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,
even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;
I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard. I want
to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings."
-Mary Oliver, "Starlings In Winter"

shine like the sky

Short burst of radio silence, there. I’ve been quite busy this past week, and the time I have been spending on the computer has been mostly devoted to writing. It’s been beautiful out, like Spring has come early (there’s even snowdrops popping up out of the dark empty soil everywhere - I hope that they don’t get killed off in frost), and I find it impossible to stay indoors when the sky’s so bright and blue.

Here are some of the things I’ve been doing (aside from job hunting - & I’ve finally landed an interview, so that’s good.):

Last night I went to an event at a poetry library in celebration of the release of the film Howl later this month. The poem was recited, and then there was discussion about Ginsberg and Howl. It was good fun, the recitation especially, but I must admit that the majority of the people who turned up were not the type I’d expect to be interested in the Beat Generation. Not that that’s a bad thing. I sat beside a lovely middle-aged man in a suit who does some sort of office job, and is passionate about jazz, which is how he got into Ginsberg. “My daughter,” he said, “I think you’d like her, even though she’s not into all this sixties stuff. She’s all about Morrissey and Joy Division, and the Romantic poets.”

On Sunday I headed out determined to enjoy the sunshine. I started on Marylebone High Street, wandering through the densely packed farmer’s market, before crossing over the York Bridge into Regent’s Park. I wandered all through the gardens before sitting to eat my apples and cheese. Watching a group of Aussies play hacky sack, I was delighted to be approached and asked to join in. I said “I’m not very good.” “Everybody says that.” “No, really.” And then I spent an hour proving just how horrible I am at it. “You weren’t exaggerating.” We ate grapes and cashews and one of the boys played The Doors and The Rolling Stones over his iPod. Later, I walked them to Baker Street to find Sherlock Holmes.

Today I went to the British Museum on a whim, since I was already in the area. I wandered into the prints area to find a special exhibit on modern drawing, From Picasso To Julie Mehretu. It was marvellous. There’s something really organic about drawings, that you don’t get from an artist’s paintings or etchings. A plaque next to one of William Kentridge’s pictures had this quote from him: I believe that in the indeterminacy of drawing, the contingent way that images arrive in the work, lies some kind of model of how we live our lives. The activity of drawing is a way of trying to understand who we are or how we operate in the world. It is in the strangeness of the activity itself that can be detected judgement, ethics, and morality.

On Tuesday my roommate and I wandered the Portobello Road, and down through Notting Hill, finding a whole host of little gems - handmade clothes, gelato, antiques, old fashioned bears, and a pizza shop with an orange mini acting as a counter in the window.

Here are some of the things I want to do, soon (aside from the obvious ‘get a job‘):

See Roald Dahl’s Twisted Tales at the Lyric Hammersmith, which is less than five minutes from my house, and which, as a venue, I’ve developed a bit of a fascination with. This show, though, I want to see because a)Roald Dahl, and b)it was adapted by Jeremy Dyson, who is one of the League of Gentlemen, who are fabulous and twisted and funny, and who co-wrote Ghost Stories (which I also want to see).

See Frankenstein, which I will have to wait until the extended run to do, as it’s sold out. Unsurprising, but I can’t afford tickets right now.

Finish the poems and stories I’ve been working on lately and get them sent off before submission deadlines. Relatedly, finish reading Kelly Link’s Magic for Beginners and Nikesh Shukla’s Coconut Unlimited (both of which are absolutely brilliant), and start in on Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go before it has to go back to the library.

See Emma Hunt’s horizon [HORIZONS] at the Hayward Gallery.

And there are so many little things I could and want to tell you about, the feel of city parks on the weekend (lovely), the smell of mint gum and what it reminds me of (my father, and fastball practices), the artist who paints tiny works on old gum stuck to the streets, how I think my house is haunted, and others, but I think I’ll leave them for another entry.

on the lights of london, and other minutiae

There is a perfect moment every evening in London, as the sun begins to set and the city lights up. Things are just a little bit clearer for those few minutes, sharp and glowing like a gem. It is, I suppose, what most people would call twilight. That little sliver of time is my favourite part of most any day. Even though it's right around when people start their commute home (for now; as the days continue to lengthen this won't stay the case.), it's a calm time for me no matter how the day before it's gone. Without fail, night after night, I'm flooded with the overwhelming presence of London, of the knowledge that I live here, in this greatest of all cities (though, I admit, I've yet to visit Cairo or St Petersburg), and the simple fact of the love I have for it.

Light, is something that has fascinated me for a long time. The quality of it, its tones and colours, the way it plays across surfaces. One of my favourite artistic techniques is chiaroscuro. This has a lot to do with my obsession with this time of day, I think. Because London is a dark city, really - all overcast clouds and fog and thin, winding streets shadowed by buildings and time. (Apparently, before the advent of the gaslamp era, London streets were so dark at night that once, a policeman involved in a street ruckus didn't recognize his rescuer as his own brother until he got him directly under a streetlight.). Nowadays, it is almost brighter at night, as though it leeches up the sun's rays rather than basking in them during the day. The colour of the light is also different than what I've experienced before. Back home on the west coast, the light was mostly tinted green and grey. Edinburgh shone gold, even with its deep, deep shadows; I imagine outside of the summer months it fades to brown. Cornwall was also gold, with the green that I think might come from the sea.

The light in London is mostly blue. Most people would expect grey, or maybe white, due to the buildings and the near-constant cloud cover. But it shines blue, especially in the evenings. It's the shadows that are grey, and black (and the shadows in London are an interesting thing, as they seem to come equally from the absence of light and the presence of history. This might be a personal thing, as before I moved here, my London was one of Victorian literature - Wilde, Doyle, Barrie, Carroll, etc - Jack the Ripper, gaslamps and fog. I had a very old fashioned view in my head. And part of what makes modern, multicoloured, multicultural London so brilliant is that that old version still hovers here, around the edges).

I have always been most comfortable in transitions. I prefer in-between stages, where things are changing, and nothing's for certain yet: fall, spring, the planning stage of a trip, the journey on public transport before you get off at your stop. That might be another part of why I love London's twilight so much, as the city moves away from the light of day and illuminates itself.

And so it's strange that lately I find myself not wanting much change. I recently blogged about how my plan was to leave London in about four months' time, so I can save money to go travelling. And ever since then, I've been thinking 'is it really, though?' My roommate, who is infinitely more organized and prepared than I am, is already looking around to decide where she's going next, and searching out jobs. I am currently unemployed, and looking for work. Every day I get up, do some internet job hunting, and then head out to pound the pavement. Just yesterday I applied for seven different jobs: all of them at heritage sites, all of them in London, and all of them summer positions. Most telling of all, though, is when I was talking to my mother about my difficulty finding a job and she suggested that maybe it was time to move on to somewhere else, I said "but I don't want to."

I didn't expect or want to fall in love with London, but somehow I've managed to do it anyways.

London is dirty, and overcrowded. People here are rude. The Tube often has delays and cancellations. It is incredibly expensive. Fresh air is a myth, and I also have yet to find really good vegetables. The streets, cobbled or concrete, wreak havoc on my footwear and my feet. It can be snooty, and it is often overdressed.

But London also shines blue. Blue like policemen's lights, like sapphires, like my favourite nailpolish, like the Tardis. Blue like a bruise. It is impossible to be bored here. It is a city of intelligence, literature, the arts, but also human frailty, death, resilience. There is so much here that one would need several lifetimes to really know it. And I am enchanted.

I love the way the city pulses and flows around you; I love how easy it is be anonymous, or to break that anonymity if you feel like it. I love the simplest things: the top of the Tate Modern, looking out over St. Paul's; standing on any of the bridges over the Thames, but especially the Millenium and Waterloo; the ravens in the Tower; the courtyards of the V&A and Natural History museums; Marylebone High Street; picnics in Russell Square or or Regent's Park; watching movies or reading books and recognising landmarks and place names; vintage shops in Soho; riding on the upstairs of busses; the delight in realizing I've added more details to my mental map of the city; and this list could go on for so much longer.

So, for the first time in a long time, it's not the transition that I'm focussing on right now. Instead of looking ahead at where I'm going to go, dreaming about where I'll live next, what I want now is to stay here, to sink into this city as much as I possibly can. I spent a very long time being restless, of always wanting something more, something different. I used to walk for hours on end, pacing, planning things, attempting to shake that restlessness. Now I do the same for hours in order to soak up the city. I want to know London, to learn it by walking its streets and reading its stones. I am utterly fascinated with the here and now I have.

All that's not to say that I've given up my grand plans, of course - one doesn't break a habit as easily as that. Just that, for now, my plans are of a different nature. There are so many places I have yet to see here. Walks to go on, landmarks to visit. I've recently become re-obsessed with the theatre, and there are over 200 shows to choose from - over ten currently running that I'd love to see. Live theatre here is wonderful, and if you stay away from musicals, relatively tourist free. Currently I have fourteen different ideas for writing that all need to be worked on. And I've always been something of an autodidact, but I'm working especially hard at it now. Aside from the piles of fiction I always have waiting to be read, this is my current to-read list (recorded here for no other reason than that now I'll have to read them):

Judith Flanders - The Invention of Murder
Sarah Bakewll - How to Live
Peter Ackroyd - London
Ian McGilchrist - The Master and His Emissary
Vyvyen Brendon - Prep School Children
TS Eliot - Collected Letters
Helen Castor - She Wolves
Will Hutton - Them and Us
Rebecca Solnit - Wanderlust


And, to be completely honest, I haven't actually got a clue what my plans are anymore. I don't know how long I'll stay here, I don't know where I'll go next. I don't know where I'll end up getting hired, and I don't know if I really will stay in London for the summer now. Eventually, I imagine even my fondness for this city will be eclipsed by my wanderlust. And if it doesn't before my visa runs out, well, it'll kick in hard when I start travelling. And until then I'm content to let the rest play out as it will, for now.

hyde park in november

I spent my day off today in Hyde Park. I'd originally planned on going to one of the museums, but once I got to South Kensington, I found myself not very interested in doing that any more. So I spent awhile reading on a bench, letting the city flow around me (one of my favourite things to do here in London), and actually ended up being photographed by a charming French street photographer.

After a while I got too cold to sit still any longer, and so decided to do one of my favourite things anywhere, in one of my favourite places in London - go for a walk in Hyde Park. I love autumn more than any time of year, and I love being outside on an autumn day. The air smelt wonderful, all rotting leaves and woodsmoke, and it was full of people out enjoying their day similarly - families taking their kids out, little old couples out for strolls, people with their dogs. I love this park so much.

That's Kensington Palace you can see between the trees.

Straight on 'till morning.

remember, remember the fifth of november

I always loved that rhyme, and wanted to write something with it. And then I found out that Alan Moore already had.

The sky is on fire tonight.

Things I Love Thursday

The inimitable Gala Darling hosts a weekly exercise in thankfulness called Things I Love Thursday (TiLT), which I have been meaning to start participating in for a while now. So, for my very first TiLT, here's a London-themed list of loveliness!


The Tube. It's not ideal, but it's certainly helpful! © Walking along the Southbank and watching all the buskers. © The abundance of riches when it comes to markets and festivals (two of my absolute favourite things!) here. Camden Markets alone are probably the size of half of Victoria's downtown core. © The amazing people I've met in the hostel, on the streets, and at work. © My awesome job. Getting to work with books all day every day! © BUNAC, the organization that I'm here with. They've provided all kinds of advice and support while I've been here (and helped me out so much when I sprained my ankle.) I'm so glad I decided to do this through them. © The history and culture that surround me every day. My hostel is down the street from a pub that both Shakespeare and Dickens used to frequent and wrote about, and a ten minute walk from the Globe and the Tate Modern. I work right by where Douglas Adams used to live, and the Booker Prize winner came in to sign books the other day. © Whenever I'm able to find a decent cup of coffee! © Conversely, the tea here is amazing. © The Borough Market, which is literally across the street from my hostel and has the most amazing food. © London Walks! This tour company's got over 50 guided walks, led by real experts and/or trained actors. I've only gone on the Jack the Ripper one so far, but I can't wait to do more. © My stepmom coming to visit in less than a month. © Harrods is really really cool. The food halls look like something out of Harry Potter.

the day-to-days

So, I have a job now. I imagine that this is one of those things I should have mentioned in my travel-ish blog when it first happened, but. Y'know.
I work at a bookstore in Islington. Every morning I get to the neighbourhood a little bit early so I can get myself a spearmint-green tea and sit and read or write until it's time to head to work. Then I spend the day shelving or working the till or (best of all) helping people find things they're looking for. Today I spent a long time helping a pre-teen girl find the perfect edition of Oliver Twist to read, and explaining to her why some were in the Children's section and some were in the Classics, and why there were so many different versions (if you're interested: once an author has been dead for 100 years, their works become public domain, and anybody who wants to can publish them.) I also recommended New York novels to a woman who was going to be travelling there (Paul Auster's New York Trilogy and The Brooklyn Follies, Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Joseph O'Neill's Netherland, Colm McCann's Let The Great World Spin, Truman Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's, and Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar.)

Yesterday I helped a woman attempt to hunt down these two books: "I don't remember the title or the author's name, but it's Danish and he was serving in Afghanistan and wrote an expose of what life's like over there and it caused a huge controversy. I don't know if it's been translated into English yet." and "It's Swedish and the original title translates to something like The Hundred Year Old Man Who Stepped Out Of The Window And Disappeared. I can't remember the author's name, but can you tell me if it's been translated into English yet?" Some of my coworkers get annoyed with requests like this, but I have a lot of fun. I love helping people, and helping people find books they're looking for is a bit like a treasure hunt.

I work with a bunch of amazing people. There's boy-Aussie, who was living in a garden shack for free and working as a freelance illustrator and musician before he moved over here; girl-Aussie, who wears rockabilly-style head bandanas and is a qualified architect and designer; the Thespian, who's already becoming quite a good friend of mine, is a full-time uni student as well as taking acting classes and volunteering at her theatre, and is going to show me around London and take me to see Hamlet; the Lifer, who has worked at Waterstones forever, loves books and literature and is as well-read as the most passionate English teacher and is the friendliest man I've ever met, who was heartwarmingly delighted to have the chance to spend the day hosting Howard Jacobson when he came in to sign books the other day; Miss Rose, who dresses in the most beautiful, dainty outfits and looks like a painting of the Petrarchian ideal, and who is incredibly intelligent; and the two Kids section veterans who have been showing me the ropes, who both have the most energy I've ever seen - there's the Lady, with her short bob and collection of jumper-style dresses who rushes around keeping the area clean and organised, and the Lad, who loves to sit and read to the kids, or put on impromptu puppet shows with them.

There are several others that I'm just starting to get to know, too. I can already tell that I'm going to become very attached to all of them.

south bank, london

i love cities. i love their bustle, their vitality, their people. i especially love the way that cities harbour vibrant subcultures, how anyone can find their niche if they work hard enough.

i arrived in london nauseous, exhausted, and sore from a long plain ride, and the panic attack i had before even getting on the plane. even though i was still nervous once the plane landed, i now was able to put it aside, because i had to concentrate on getting myself to my hostel. that's something i've noticed about travel already - when in doubt, force yourself into motion, and you won't be able to concentrate on your nerves anymore.

i spent my time in london walking. i walked and walked, went back to the hostel and bandaged my bruised and blistered feet, and walked some more. wandering the city rather haphazardly, and happily going back to places i'd enjoyed. this means i missed out on a lot of sights - i never made it to camden town, for instance, and both times i tried the globe a play was in progress, but i refused to stress about it, telling myself that i'd come back, i could see it later. it's bigger and denser than any city i'd ever been in before, and i got lost countless times, but it was all part of london's charm, and i found some lovely places i'd otherwise never have noticed.