Tracking
After a schizophrenic night’s clubbing in the depths of Bristol - where a few staggered steps took you from a skiing lodge bar straight from the alps, to a 70’s neon lit disco ballroom, to a padded French whore’s boudoir - I found myself on the train homewards. Tired and sweating iced cider out of every pore, I didn’t much fancy the 3 hour journey home, not least because it took me through London. I’ve never much liked cities, big, dirty, brash and brazen places where untold masses jostle shoulder to shoulder and yet refuse to acknowledge each other’s existence in their supposedly shared space. Reading, Bristol, Luton. Pestilent places. London. London is as foul as the whole lot rolled up into one huge smouldering pile. Ignoring ticket inspectors, given the chance they are remarkably reluctant to harass anyone with a hooded jacket and vacant eyes, I glared out of the window as the train made its slow progress into the beating heart of the country’s capital city.
Trash that danced in the lank breeze filled the gaps between the tracks and sickly dwarfed bushes struggled to push themselves between soot stained gravel. Odd images flashed by. Strange men in neon jackets and hard hats hung in scaffolding, gesturing at the layered shapes and swirls of decades of graffiti, for all the world seeming like future archaeologists examining some alien artefact from a forgotten time. At the station I was pushed off the train and into the flow of the herding business men and backpacked women heading for the Underground. All the while overhead a harsh disembodied voice warned of the necessity of continual vigilance against thieves and the dangers of luggage exploding if left unattended.
The Underground is a place that truly deserves it’s capitalisation. It’s a part of the City, but disconnected in a strange way. Rhizomically attached to disparate streets above ground, the Underground has its own seperate social rules, and it’s own dangers. Keep to the left. Mind the escalators. Beware pickpockets operating. And whatever you do, MIND THE GAP. At the Tube station I closed my eyes against the wash of filthy air that announced the arrival of a tube train. I tried not to breathe. A person’s worth of dead skin hung in that gush of air, the unnoticed Dead recycled eternally beneath the City. If you blow your nose after the Tube, you can actually see the grey grime that is all the Dead leave behind of themselves in that place, smeared like just so much filth in your tissue. Underground we are all the Dead. On the Tube the stations flashed by, named for places long since buried beneath the housing and high rises of modernity, small pools of light in the darkness beneath the City. Every possible kind of person imaginable, from men from deepest Africa in colourful flowing robes, Muslims with dark beards, veiled women, Eurotrash, pierced and mournful goths, every possible kind of person seemed crammed into that speeding cylinder of metal; as if some advertising freak had enforced a strict policy of ethnic and cultural diversity on each and every tube train. The City, it seems, welcomes everybody of all creeds and colours. It welcomes all with open arms, each welcome to try and find work or starve to death in some forgotten nook of walkway deep Underground. It welcomes, welcomes the suspicion that any person could be a fanatic, a suicidal time bomb waiting to drag you and everyone else around you kicking and screaming to the promised Paradise. Avoid eye contact, for Gods’ sake, don’t meet their eyes!
It was with some relief that I finally made my connection and boarded a train set to speed towards the greenery of the countryside. At least in the backwaters of the country the eccentrics are largely harmless and don’t follow you down the street screaming that you’ve stolen their nick nak, at least the worst you’ll see at closing time is a farmer stumbling around, trying to find his tractor. As the train ghosted from the platform the grey concrete of the City gradually blurred into the greenery of leaves and fields that spoke of my coming Home.
October 12th, 2007 at 3:02 pm
It sounds like you have a really tough life, how does one cope with one’s trials and tribulations? I feel your pain!
October 12th, 2007 at 3:09 pm
I wouldn’t say it’s a tough life, in many ways I think I’m blessed, compared to many other’s I have a great life. I might have a way of looking at the world that may seem pessimistic, but really it’s pretty life affirming.
October 12th, 2007 at 3:41 pm
I get the impression that you are a glass half empty person; which is sad. It takes all sorts to make the world go round, but putting a smile on it makes the world go round in a more positive way. Just think it could always be worse, there is always someone having it rougher than you!
October 12th, 2007 at 3:48 pm
I don’t think of myself as a glass half empty person, just as someone who’s willing to look at all aspects of life, the happy and the sad. If I tend to highlight the strange and weird in life it’s because I find them fascinating, not depressing. Don’t worry, I’m a happy camper really!
October 12th, 2007 at 5:01 pm
A happy “Camper”? Curious. So you are one of those extreme emotions people, really really happy and then really really sad? A dangerous business to be in, so I’m told
October 12th, 2007 at 6:32 pm
Not particularly. I’m pretty contented almost all the time. When something does get me down I’m a fairly philosophical type of person and generally don’t let it bother me for too long. Life is too short to be unhappy and the things that trouble us are just tiny blips in the long run of things.
Enough about me - although it’s always flattering for someone to take an interest - what about you, how do you see yourself emotionally?
October 12th, 2007 at 7:03 pm
I am intrigued by you. What makes you the most content? I am very emotionally stable, my philosophy is “don’t let ‘em see how much they hurt you”. Bottle it up and it’ll go away. Emotion is a weakness exploited by the strong.
October 15th, 2007 at 12:07 pm
What makes me the most content? Well I’d guess it would be knowing that all is well with family and friends and that life is generally on track for the people I care about.
Your philosophy sounds similar to that of someone very close to me, and while I can’t agree with it totally, I can’t really argue with it either.
Random visitor to the Blog, or did you follow a link from somewhere?
October 15th, 2007 at 1:19 pm
I randomly searched on the blog site. I am very interested in how and what people write on these things, I like to examine the way people write about their lives and the reasons for it. Would love to hear your thoughts
October 17th, 2007 at 3:49 pm
I think the way I write about my life is more due to the great writers who influence me, more than anything else. Writer’s like Hunter S. Thompson, Chuck Palahniuk, Ian Banks, Gene Wolfe. They all see the world in a dark, twisted, and interested way; but at the same time bring out genuine humour and something meaningful about what it is to be human from the strangeness of the life they write about. I guess I try to emulate that in some way, some of the time.
October 17th, 2007 at 3:57 pm
Interesting, so what is your greatest influence in life? Do you want to emulate these great writers or establish your own style as a writer, I presume you want to write?
October 17th, 2007 at 4:03 pm
The greatest influence in my life is definitely my family and friends, I’d say they’ve gone a long way in making me the person I am today. I’d love to emulate those authors’ successes, but with a style that is my own. I guess the reason I enjoy them so much is that they see the world in a way I can relate to, so that’s why my writing style is also quite similar to theirs at times. I love to write. Wouldn’t claim to be a writer, but I write.
October 17th, 2007 at 4:22 pm
You only need to write to be classed as a writer I think. Everyone has something they need to say some; choose to paint, some choose to sing and the crazy ones choose to write. Do you see your life in terms of a novel?
October 29th, 2007 at 9:46 pm
Hey Nick! Funny you should say you’re influenced by such amazing writers, I was but to say: I love your style of writing. It’s humerous and deep. I know Nick Anonymous and he is very quiet and content in looks and actions but very deep in words. This is to say he will sit and smile at conversations and say little unless conversations actually calls for those words. I believe he is a people watcher like me. He has lived in some of the worst places in Britain and so you get a darker view of life, can’t be helped. I lived in Luton as he did at the same time and it is a rough place. You walk around at night worried you’ll be mugged or you don’t walk at night at all! Our mate was mugged. Not glass half-empty, just truth. Hugs all round, great to find you again Nick ;o) Cheri x
October 30th, 2007 at 2:49 pm
Cheri I think you may have misjudged my remarks I was merely commenting on what I heard, as I explained I am intrigued by what people say and how they think. I was neither judging nor was I criticising Lone. I am sure he appreciates having someone to “fight his corner”
October 31st, 2007 at 7:26 pm
Cheri!!! Long time no see! Thank you muchily for the kind comments - (will write you an email tomorrow, sure you can understand why tonight I’ll be a little busy, Blessed Samhain to you and Dave)
November 19th, 2007 at 7:02 pm
I’ve tried sending you an email Cheri, on both the addresses I’ve got for you, but I’m not sure it’s got through …