depressions should occur less frequently during summer. am i to blame the shitty wheather, then? finding myself plunging deeper into some kind of an abyss. i'm hot and cold, writign cliches at Bloomsbury. my limbs are slow, my spirit weak. i dreamt about the Wailing Wall last night.
maybe some illicit doing can lift me up, but i feel like nothing.
and yeah. is it all about old complexes, resurfacing? T. is in town, passing briefly for a few hours. as usual, her mere presence is enough to cause anxiety. not that there's any reason: T. is my girl's best friend, that's it. it's the range of inferiorities i feel when they're together. why, i wonder, doesn't it mount up to a simple dislike. it would have been much easier. but it doesn't.

last Saturday. I've just come back to London two days before. today we have to open a new house.
there is a plan on the kitchen wall: Saturday night - change padlock. Sunday - move in and start cleaning the place.
there are no names on the plan.
i say to sam: i'd like to go. but who else. everybody's working, everybody's busy. Gary's wrist is hurting. who can do the padlock? and where is P., who put the plan up on the wall in the first place.
Me and S. have sex. the first time since my return. we are interrupted by Sam. what's going on, she murmurs on the other side of the door. i don't know what's going on and i'm getting pissed off.
the hours go by. I call Gary he'll do it, we'll do it: Gary, S and Me. I tell sam she can go to sleep. I go to my room to rest a bit before Ga comes back - around midnight, he says. I'm dozing off. i fall into a rattle sleep. I'm thinking: he came home a bit pissed. it's all put off.

Racing through Commercial Road, I realized how happy I was to be back. How surprising, who would have thought. And Commercial Road, dirty, dire and dreary, of all places: with its Mecca Bingo on the right and McDonalds drive-thu on the left, that never-ending cycle to anywhere and from anywhere. But I was happy, blissfuly happy: I screamed and smiled and lauged and sung. London! Back in London! But why was I so happy? Was it the contrast between the ugly winter that still ruled here when I left, 6 weeks ago, and the spring – yes, a grey spring, drizzly spring, for sure, but the poplar trees are all covered with leaves, and there’s light until 9pm, and it’s not freezing, I can walk barefoot in my room – is it just that? Or is there something in London, about London, which I love?
I was talking about it with Jen just now – “it’s always like this” she said, “we all know what we hate about london, we know it so well, but when we love it, it’s so much more difficult to point to the things we like, to put your finger on it. But it’s there”.
I said I came to the conclusion it was me I liked in London: the London me. Yes, I said, it is a distracting, overwhelming place, but still; when I was in Jerusalem just now it was much more difficult to tell who I was, anymore, what do I believe in, what kind of life do I have. Jen agreed: it’s the same for her, she said, when she goes home to Sweden she’s much harder with herself, much more critical. Here we have it so easy: such freedom, released from any need to confront ourselves, we can do whatever we want, she said. And it’s dangerous, as well, it can be a real trap, this freedom.
She sighed: I’m so sorry to leave this place; I wish we could stay here for summer. I don’t care about Poplar [everyone has been slagging off the neighbourhood the last month], I love my room so much. Yes I love going into a new space and decorating it with myself, making it my own, but I’ve done it four times the last year, I’m tired.

Yesterday I was sitting with S + G in the communal, we were talking about skipping, about kissing, about sex: the usual, so unusualtalk, about kissing boys and girls. Whose best, and what is it about sex and relationships that we want. Ga told me about the house near the Elephant which they tried to open last week: we were on the roof, he said, everything so quiet, everything so slow, so rythmically slow: releasing the screws of the skylight, gently, in continious motion, but so very slowly. As if time stopped, we took the skylight out, then lowered D inside, inch by inch. The noise was deep, muted, as if some big fan started working, he said, it took me long seconds to realise what it was – D cried out – Alarm! And then suddenly it was all action, all quick, the speed of it, getting him out of there as soon as possible; movements and hands and shouts, getting away from there as soon as possible.
There’s something about opening houses which always makes me think of Time, I told him: how time can slow and quicken, stop and start; and how five minutes – in which you could be doing anything – can be so important for your next six months.
I hope it goes better the next time. That’s soon: we should be out of here by end of next week.

i'm not sure what is it about computers, and the way they twist your mind; it's long after i wanted to go to bed, and i keep moving in aimless circles across the sites i usually frequent. nothing interesting there: books i will not buy, articles i will not read. yet i go there.
it's easier in Michael's flat: he has heating, nice ambience lights, a DIY hi-techy desk, a laptop and broadband. A guess: this is the only squat in London with broadband. well, maybe in East London, and maybe not even this. you see, he's not paying for it, so why assume he's the only one? no scam, just one of these offers from these slimey octapus-like net companies that lurk in the plumbing of this thing on which we find ourselves inscribed.
i promised S to wake up early. i better turn the un-invited irish folk music that appeared suddenly in the background, and go

i think i have temprature. oh god. things don't work out today and had to abandon all illicit plans. until next week. bummer.
already on the way to the library i noticed that something was strange. cycling along the canal, i could see many ducks going about their buisness, and a cormorant was hasitly pacing, almost running. but none of them were in the water. they were making alarming sounds.
later i saw a squirrel. almost run over it. wait a minute i thought, aren't you supposed to be hybernating, or semi-hibernating? is it the last rounds to collect food before sleep? it's december mate.
then i saw many more of them.
the book i'm reading at the moment tells me that in the middle ages squirrels symbolised the male member, and there's a tale about a girl seeing a dick for the first time, she's told it's a squirrel so naturally she fondles it.
what does it say about me.
i'm really almost delirous and have to find all these books now so i get something done over the weekend. so ips ips

yes. the last time was more than a month ago. which raises the question, am i serious in this relationship. oh well. i wanto, really wanto,
but you know.

I took Gary to the wholesale fruit and veg market today. He's writing an essay about skipping for college, and came with me to see the best place to skip in London, but much more than that: the place where you understand what Globalisation is about, oh doesn't this sound all too didactic, but hey: New Covent Garden Market: it's the world as you don't know it, it's the present future, the future present, it's radicalizing, empowering, bringing you down to earth, showing you the cogs deep inside the machine, opening the hidden closet, undressing the truth and hanging it to dry, sobering you up and making your fingers stink a bit, it's all those cliches and more, and much more.
and it's where i get my food from, occasionaly. Now that i live in the East End I don't go there very often.

amm, it seems to be a South-London-Squatting word, it's not known to brits outside this small and cozy community. as UK residents know a skip is where you dump stuff you can do without, ie dumpster. and as with similar verbs, to peel is to take the peel off, to joint is to separte the joints and to skip is to take things out of the skip, or more generally, out of the trash. simple.

we didn't find much today. it was slow, and there was some nasty energy in the air. didn't find much is two panniers full with
huge bag of yellow peppers
parsley, fresh mint,
pineapples
bannans,
swedes
beetroots
salad, roket,
red onions
melons
probably forgot something.

I was going to write something about the superiority of middle eastern mint, that is, na'na as it's known in Arabic/Hebrew and the whole complex issue for me that is skipping veggies from israel, ("problematised homesickness: the smell of Israeli mint in a London skip" i can see an academic paper here). yes, the whole thing, familiar smells from home, unwanted produce, unwanted people, immigrant Thai workers working for a kibbutz on the eve of economic bankrupcy, the whole boycot issue on "illegal israel"). but let's leave that for the moment.

I have this idea, filming a documentary in the market: no explanations, just quotes from Marx, with emphasis on the fluid, ever-flowing and changing natuer of capital. "all that is solid will turn to compost". #

and after that, well, not much. gales on Waterloo bridge. almost blew me away into the Thames they did

-- DEJAVU --
a strange city and a colder October, but here i am, again, in a university computer lab, the quiet murmur of the keyboards creeps through my ears, a russian red-hair guy playing chess on the net, and overheated lumpiness rests in the air; the occasional unexplained blip. here it went again behind me: blip.
how personal is this blog going to be, i wonder. issues: like me and S, and parents, and sex life, and friends? probably not.
but we'll see.

a few false starts, but no breakthrough; better leave it like that. some other time. Happy Winter: it has arrived