Wednesday, January 22

Wish I Were There

IT WAS A clear, cold day and I was walking to a meeting that I had, last minute, been ordered to by one of the more insane gentlemen I’ve ever worked for; he beat down on me with his hallucinating blue eyes and crooked yellow teeth, but, I supposed positively, that he had delivered me out of the office, and so I carried on my way.
Winter blues.
If you look there you will see, in the building foyer, a tapestry of a religious scene, where light shines from behind people yet their breasts are lit, too. See the colour of day reflecting off of them; when the summer comes that light will be brighter.
And the winter blues will have been carried away—he says.
I walk to Southwark Bridge where there are very few cars. I notice that there are long strips of concrete slabs in the road for the cyclists to go past. It is Monday. The city is in the basin of its bustle. The north of the city plays cat’s cradle with the south, and the bridges are strings upon which names hang.
The clouds are floating peacefully through the sky on blue motorways.
I am lost in sad thought.
A tour boat is arriving underneath me. As I look down, so the sparse tourists look up—and I freeze! They consider me and I them. A few of them raise their cameras.
Though I am in a sad mood, I am in a romantic mood, too. I imagine myself forever imprinted in their landscape of London. I was a hapless wanderer but now, for years to come, those visitors will see me when they close their eyes and think of the city; I, a lone figure, walking across Southwark Bridge, and the thoughts they thought of me if they thought anything at all; rather I am in their heads as a shuffle of movements and a clan of verbs. I should like that very much. They can no longer recall the name of this city without seeing me so fortunately embossed upon it, like a goat on a coat of arms.
After all, that Monday morning, we, both of us, considered the other; their lenses reflected so terrifically the Eastern sun as it rode its bike over the southern hill. And in my death I see the colours I cannot locate in life, though they are hinted to me when I am alone.
So I fought the tourists off of me and told one of them where to buy the best coffee in town and he thanked me profusely. Out in the distance over the river was a whole new dinner-plate of sky.
I was late for the meeting.
I did not care.
The boat came out on the other side of the bridge.

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