Saturday, November 13, 2004

after two years of hanging around south london, today is the first time i took Walworth road from the elephant&Castle all the way to Camberwell Green. how strange, it lingered there on my mind-map as a white spot. there was a border - somewhere around Burgess Park - beyond which I never ventured south. And from Camberwell Green I never took the road going north. I remember house hunting in camberwell - which will always sound Spanish to me, with a rolling r, because of my Spanish housemates with whom i was squatting at the time - and i remember patches of bikerides, through strange streets, estates waiting for demolition - and despair, and cold February wind in my face. sitting in my warm living room now, with the gas fire burning, i shudder, and cross my fingers, touch wood, god save us from winter eviction.

Thursday, November 11, 2004

Cycling to Greenwich, I noticed a shopkeeper hanging two Palestinian flags outside, and a big black flag. So, it’s over, I thought; he’s dead. Strange, to learn about it in Deptford of all places. Palestine/Israel is here, with me, inside me, and on the headlines of the Evening Standard: Arafat Dies.

At Greenwich university I felt some glimpses of England: the majestic Naval building. The Plain trees shedding the leaves. The Thames, so close, visible from the top floor windows. But then; the 18 year old student; the overheated computer room.

When I came back home from the library, Greg was there. He’s passing through London; he spent a few months in Gaza two years ago, as an ISM volunteer. Naturally enough we talked about Arafat’s death. He asked me if I think it changes anything. Maybe not, I said. There’s nothing to stop all parties – Sharon, the Ameircans, the various Palestinian groups – to carry on exactly as before. But if the Palestinians demand elections – I can’t really see Sharon finding a way to refuse it – this has a prospect of improving things.

Sunday, November 07, 2004

Pete: it's over, all over. my life is over.
I say goodnight and go upstairs. He's still there, sitting on the empty-turned-round bath tub, in the garden, near the bonfire, with Gary. it's guy fawkesday. four hours ago it sounded like war. now it's all quiet. they're out of sauce.
Pete: maybe michael still have some vodka, stached in his room. go and look for it gary.
Gary: that's not nice.
Pete: we're not nice, we're artists.
Gary is convinced. he goes upstairs. but searches in vain.
Pete: it's meaningless, Art, it's nothing, it's completely meaningless. It's just nothing. it doesn't exist. it's nothing.
He says, a bucket of shit has more meaning than Art.
we know a thing or two about buckets of shit.
Gary: I don't agree.
Pete sympathises: of course, it's terrible. because this means my life is meaningless.
it's guy fawkes night, the sky misty with smoke, and explosions are dying out.
i go upstairs to write this bit.