38: shifting light and space quietly

Towards the end of my time in London I found myself returning to the big collections. The National Gallery, the V&A, the British museum. Walking through the V&A from the Japanese wing through Islamic Art to Europe it was so laughably clear the focus on power, violence, patriarchy, libidinal themes and overwhelming suffering in the West. In the Japan wing I became transfixed by an enamel disc. The Islamic art seemed so ecological, entangled, peaceful motifs, shifting light and space quietly. Europe was all phallic columns and death, suffering men and women posed possessively. Christian sent me in search of a black scrying stone at the British Museum belonging to John Dee and opening up into a strange world of occult science. Or as Christian put it ‘a piece of obsidian through which delusions were interpreted and affected the course of the Elizabethan court.’ That pairing of occult and science perhaps can never be fully separated.

It was a thoughtful and playful response apropos of our conversation on black holes and meaning making. We met again at the Soane, where he brought hermetic stories and I brought a book called Children of Mercury that we exchanged. I had received the book in an Oxfam charity shop from a man who picked it up and gingerly delivered it to me. He said he wouldn’t be alive long enough to read it and we laughed at both of our companions' exasperation with our collecting. To allay his noticeable discomfort, perhaps by feeling possessed to give me this book, I offered that sometimes I feel like I’m acting as a conduit for things I can’t explain but nevertheless feel full of significance. To this he smiled warmly and gave me the book, which I felt compelled to pass along to Christian.

I went on a walk that Gareth organized on Andrea’s birthday through Leigh-on-Sea. It had a dreamlike quality, I remember a Felliniesque scene on a beach in the fog. It was a beautiful group of different ages and preoccupations. We wove a tapestry through the cool air that kept us in warmth and good humor. It’s really these relationships that make the world habitable. London, in its frothing churn, becomes livable when you see your friends' warm faces in soft light. This group makes some wonderful sounds as well. Gareth eyes combed the shores, alert to anyone who might be lost or uncomfortable. The children spoke with Buddha nature about Japandi interiors. 

I went to visit Marx and Lux and couldn’t quite reconcile them. I went to dusty knuckle for a farewell sourdough focaccia sarnie and sat in an open seat next to someone who ordered a similar thing but with meat. We didn’t speak until the end of the meal when I thanked them for letting me join. We had a quick chat where I learned their job was to make content for Palantir. I told them I made a poem with text from another surveillance companies’ blog posts once. They seemed embarrassed and kept repeating that they just needed a job, and they joined after leaving the Peace Corps. We exchanged details and I said I’d like to be in touch to learn more. The person at the register told me the ciabatta was their favorite loaf and that it was made from all the old bread put together and shaped in a circle. I brought one as an ​​ofrenda for Marx and ate half with the magpies. 

We went to see Stephen do a poetry reading in a large brutalist auditorium an hour train journey outside of London. The handsome floors were flecked with deep time, small creatures and their former homes. I remember the reading like a beautiful storm. Stephen perched quietly like an egret in the liminal hours.

These devices can be helpful, though often fail at capturing the spirit, so much is left out.

My very last day I went to drop off some speakers and books for Gareth and Andrea. I sat on the couch while they recorded Gareth doing a commentary for the DVD of a film called El Mar La Mar, about migration through the Sonoran desert. We biked over to Cafe Oto afterwards for a small art fair. Stephen read some Blake outside for Blake’s birthday, while we drank a warm and spicy pumpkin soup in the crisp bright winter air. We made our way to the Barbican for a screening of Patrick Keiller’s London. Gareth was doing the q&a and made sure everyone had a ticket. Our group split up for transit and I biked with Oliver on his electric wheelchair, the two of us giddy like children flying through the streets laughing. The film was beautiful. Smart and funny. Many themes that resonated with this last year. After we went to a pub and it started to snow heavily.