new pack of smokes...

Sometimes we come across someone we once knew intimately, only to realise that now we don't know them at all. That the memory we have carried of them is just that. A memory. Frozen in that period where our lives failed to connect.,went on in different directions, in absence of each other. What makes us aware of this can be the smallest detail. It can be the tiniest thing. And yet still ever so jarring.

I met a woman once, in a bar most likely. I don't remember much about her, or about how we started talking. but I will never forget when she told me that every time she ended an affair, ended a relationship, she would get another tattoo. The reason she did this was to have something of hers, something intimate on her body, that the other lover would never know. I was inspired by this. It has always stayed with me.

And if I think of those three tattoos on my body, the second and third definitely occurred not long after major relationships ended. I have the inclination now to mark myself, to claim myself for myself again. To have a part of me that he will never see. For her she saw it as a way of cutting off he who had come previously, but i always liked to see it in two ways. not just something to be kept from the other, but a new part of yourself to give.

.........

In the first moments of seeing one another again , he asks about my upcoming trip to budapest. asks if i'm going alone. when I say i'm going with someone I am seeing , he actually dares to correct me, says,

You mean you are going with him...

I say no, and say again,

with someone I have started seeing.

And then our friend starts asking me questions about my recent travels, and i'm telling stories, and trying not to slip on the icy pavement, and meanwhile the other is silent. He says nothing until we enter the bar, sit down, raise our glasses, toast the upcoming new year, and the moment the conversation reaches another pause he says

so you broke up with...?

I say yes. he asks what happened. I say it didn't work out. And though that may be some kind of gross understatement, it suddenly feels perfectly accurate. all the back story and back and forth of it, all covered in those four words.

It - didn't - work - out.

The conversation moves on, plans are made for the weekend, we talk about films we've seen, albums we're listening to, mutual friends, future plans. Our friend tells me how much he likes this guy i'm seeing, how happy he is that i'm happy. The other catches his name, repeats it. At every chance is inserting question after question. Where is he from? Does he live here? What is he doing here? How long ago did we meet?

I ask him about his girlfriend. I know her. She and I used to be friends. Maybe we still are. But she seemed distant the last time I saw her. Since they started seeing each other. The dynamic between her and I had changed. After we said goodbye, I walked home, understanding but not understanding. It upset me.

And our friend is unaware of all of this. Misses the eb and flow of the subtext. And towards the end of the night, before we leave , the other asks me for a light. My eyes drift down to his cigarettes. Something not right about the pack. I can't work out what it is. He lights up, and then it clicks. I say

Since when did you smoke these...? He shrugs.

I started liking them. He holds up my pack of Marlboros. Stopped smoking Gaulouise then?

Oh..yeah....I don't know why i stopped smoking them...

Yeah it happens like that sometimes. he says.

I nod, and staring at his pack of cigarettes, I remember...they are her brand.

the writing on his arm...

I'm waiting for a train at Warren street. I see a girl, who looks like a boy. who looks like a girl I used to fancy. I turn my head and notice him. He's bobbing his head to some heavy electro beat, I can hear it through his headphones. he's carrying two massive levi's shopping bags.

When the train pulls in it's rammed. I deliberate over whether to force my way in, only to suddenly go for it. And at the very last minute, just as the doors have been forced open by someone, and are about to close again, He gets in beside me, standing right against the doors. He leans forward to look at something, or get something from, or arrange something in his levi's bag when I see it... his arm.

Adorning that dark muscled skin are words... a few words...no... a sentence?... no? a paragraph.?.. no?... a few paragraphs, in black ink, in a curly cursive as if from an quill pen. I strain to make out any of it, any of it at all. But the print is too small, and he's moving, it's impossible. I start to go a little mad with wondering. What is it? Song lyrics? Scripture? A poem? Something he's written?

I want so badly to ask him. No, I don't want to ask him. I just want to take his arm, calmly, as if its a perfectly ordinary thing to take someone's arm to read on the train, as if it was like picking up a copy of the free city paper. I want to take his arm and read it, as if I have every right to. Maybe I won't even want to discuss the meaning of it after. Maybe I'll just read it, nod in understanding, and give it back. I just want to read it. I can't think about anything else. I'm on the verge of asking him. What would I say? Definitely not...

“What's that on your arm?”

No.. I would say.

“ Can I read it? Your arm? Please?”

He's getting something from one of his bags, a puffa jacket. He's pulling a black padded sleeve over his arm, covering up all that writing, covering it from me. Now I definitely can't ask him. I'm annoyed with him. I look away.

Two stops later, I turn to the door, just as the train pulls into the station.

“You getting off here?” he says.

“Um... Yeah...” I say.

Hearing our voices out loud, hearing us acknowledging one another, disappoints me for some reason . The doors open, I get off the train. As he attempts to get on again (he had had to disembark, so I could leave). I see that arm , his jacketed arm, thrown up in the air to maintain balance. I watch him get on. I watch the train disappear through the tunnel. I turn to the platform, only to realise I have gotten off at the wrong station. I set all of my shopping bags on the floor, and impatiently wait for the next train....

*My* city?

This is your city.

These are your neighborhoods.

Colour them in.

Colour outside the lines even, if you like.

What colours do you choose?

What do they signify?

Go ahead and do it. It comes naturally to you . Go on, make yourself streamlined. Assimilate. Here your heart beats in sync. Here you can pass through crowds with enviable ease. You're not rushing here, but you like to keep up a pace.

For the days that you are back again, you have a perfect sense of direction. Its instinctive. Its flawless. No one impedes your flow.

Trains arrive as you step onto platforms. Tourists carrying suitcases up stairs, stop, smile, and gesture for you to go by. Doors are held open for you, as you enter and exit busy stores. Maybe you are meant to be here.

But then again don't forget... These streets are now off limits. Take caution when going to these places. This is your modified map.

“You've forgotten how big london is.” she said.

and yes of course, It is a big city, but... it is a city of villages. so many people following the same grooves again and again in circles. Spinning and repeating themselves over and over like scratched records.

In the tube you accept that the speed and length of the journey is out of your hands. You occupy yourself by writing, reading, people watching. You like people watching.You especially like making eye contact.

It's not quite the done thing here. It amuses you how most don't even acknowledge your gaze. A few return it with shyness, blushing maybe, or worse, return aggressive glares. so you give up the game. , and write the following in your notebook.

This morning I noticed a gorgeous young man walking into angel station. He had cheekbones you could cut something on.He wore this eccentric but chic ensemble of tweeds and tartan. something viv westwood about it, striking, set off by his massive afro. I have no idea who he is.But I saw him this morning at angel, and I just saw him an hour again this evening, walking out of marble arch.

It is a large city yes, but it is also just a series of connected parts.

Secret

He was right about one thing...The more you feel it, the harder it is to say...

There had been so many times she had come perilously close. There were times she wanted to say those words so badly, had to, needed to, that she would release them in childish ways. Would murmur them inaudibly into his chest, whisper them to him as he slept.

Each time taking care there was no way he could hear them. These words, and how they related to him, felt precious, fragile, slippery. They were hers but also more than her.

They were never quite in her grasp.

She liked to imagine them, these words, what they would look like. She thought of them as if in a cartoon speech bubble, or on a billboard, or balloon tied to a string she could suddenly release into the heavens or.. or. or maybe more solid, more concrete, heavier, made up of iron letters cast aside from an ancient printing press.

And the more she visualised them, the more tactile they seemed, the more inviting they seemed, the less she was afraid. But still, she was uncertain, unsure if she could ever say them. Of the consequences of saying them. Of whether it was a better idea perhaps, to never say them at all.

Falling

I feel it happening again, and it is the most terrifying thing. this sense of suddenly losing ground, grappling with the air. and the descent, the descent is so swift, it distorts time. I must remind myself: keep breathing. Then comes that fleeting sense of euphoria, of freedom . I can do nothing but let it happen. I might as well replace the fear with joy. Joy is how it began after all. don't be afraid I tell myself. just let it happen.

On boxing day, we drove to a place by the english channel called Beechy Head. When we arrived and got out of the car, the view was insanely picturesque. I thought of it being painted, a backdrop on a film set. Too beautiful to be real.

I walked up as close as I could to the cliff's edge. I looked down. My heart raced. I looked again. I could only stand the view for a few seconds. What is it with me and these kind of heights.? Why is it that poised, looking miles downward, all I can think of Is how easy it would be to fall?

Take one step further, and fall. What would the sensation be like? What would I shout out? Would I make any sound? And the onlookers nearby, what would they do then?. there would be nothing anyone could do to stop it, to help me. Once I fell, all anyone could do is let it happen. The last thing I would feel would be the icy chill of the sea as I hit....

I back up, look away, walk back, until I'm further and further up a hill, ambushed by the stunning landscape, surrounded by beauty, every angle is” gorgeousness, three hundred and sixty degrees of calm. Every way you turn, another postcard. He joins me. Faced by all this loveliness, all we can do is smile and laugh. I say

it's ridiculous isn't it?

He's trying to take a picture on his Itouch. When I say “trying”, I mean he takes a picture, looks at the result, compares it to the view, sighs, shakes his head, and tries again.

I can't capture it.

No. You probably can't. So try remembering...

He ignores me. I look back to the cliff. The hills are also beautiful, but the cliff, the cliff is... breathtaking.| I think again of falling. I feel myself poised to fall, ground disappearing from under me, slipping. The earth spills between my fingers. It is the most terrifying thing. When you start, you can't stop it. and looking all that way down, I have no way of knowing if I will make this descent alone.

everything you ever wanted in a xmas video

stylee sped up shots of the city?
check.
quirky character in pin stripe suit and bowler hat?
check.
strange lo-fi special effects?
check.
choreographed, jump up, drum and bass sequence???
check. check. check. check

by way of apology

Right so it really really annoys me when someone ( say an ex or an old school friend ) comes to a city (london for example) and says

oh my gawd... London is, and London is, and I don't like it
because I find it soooo, I mean its just very, and i could never, its just not
my kind of, its so, you know, i don't know, what i'm trying to say is, its just-

even though, they've been there a total of two, maximum three days. have certainly never lived there. and in their short visit met hung out with, no one who lived there. but...

still happily made a myriad of assumptions just from walking twenty minutes around their west end hotel, maybe might have ventured down a few blocks of brick lane, or around hoxton square for a drink or two, only so they could complain the night life isn't sooo cool, but the tube is kind of straightforward to use, i mean it was sooooo easy for them to get around.

they tell me all this, hurl forth all these rapidly made, ill informed opinions, based on practically nothing, other than ideas they had about the city that they brought with them, the minimal wandering they've done,basically just to back it up. and i listen and listen and get more and more wound up until i'm like

SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!!!!!!! you have NO idea what you're talking about! Cities are not so easily revealed. You MIGHT get an idea if you LIVED here for a few months, but just an idea!!
! and maybe not even then. cities have all kinds of sides. sooooo i recognize that...

actually...

I still haven't seen Paris.

for what it is.

for what it could be.

for what i could like about it.

and i probably can't...

unless i live here, learn the language, meet people, sink in, and and and.

I've probably been looking for the wrong things. i've probably had the wrong barometer for making comparisons. (I mean nightlife i have covered in Berlin, why look for it here?)
i probably shouldn't have been comparing in the first place.

Every city should be seen for its own particular charms, in its own context. Maybe its just that with paris. Paris.. seemingly THE european city, the only city that new york (the most arrogant of all cities) fears. I expect more .

Last night I was surprised. I saw a side of Paris i'd never seen before. Warmer, more relaxed, less glossy. Girls in Doc martens. A barman who actually asked where i was from with a smile, rather than glaring at hearing my accent. (and when i stuttered back L'angleterre, he seemed interested, but maybe he was just chatting me up?)

so hey, maybe its not quite my city. but there is more i'd like to scratch the surface of. i'm can't see myself living here (hmmm also said that about berlin once...) but as far as return trips next year go, i'm definitely not writing it off.