September 8th, 2003


She warbles as she flies

Something that estate agents don't make too much mention of is whether a given street is a popular dumping ground. This one is. I'm not especially bothered about it, but every once in a while there are some particularly extreme examples and I am starting to suspect, or allow myself to imagine, that there might be some kind of new artform coming to fruition in this part of NE London.
There are two main schools. The first of these is more concerned with the liquid nature of refuse - half-opened binliners of organic material. To the unsuspecting eye, this may look like regular refuse, but the identifiable contents are always too fantastic to be believable - does anyone subsist on a diet of old dolls, fish bones, bitumen and mangos? The bags exude a thick, dark oil that will one day be found to solve a number of outstanding conundrums in organic chemistry. It's a frightening material, especially if you fall over in it. Looks a bit like that dark oil in the X-Files that would crawl into people eyes.
Drunk as I was last night, I managed to stay upright through it.
The other style is more convincing as a school. There's more discipline for a start. All works have to be contained in one of those large plastic sacks used for builders sand or gravel. The first one I spotted was entirely filled with broken glass and attached to a nearby street lamp by a long strap. The strap was about two metres long and taut, which gave the impression that some enormous kinetic potential was contained in the sack of glass and it might just fly off and smash into your face if it had the chance. The threat of it was quite tangible and I winced everytime I went past it.
Recently a further sack appeared and this one is instead crammed with dark, rusting slabs of machinery and, whilst not quite as intimidating as the other, seems to be making some point about density and mass. Looking at it now out of the window, there is no way that any human hand is going to be able to lift it. Someone is going to have to call for help but they will not be able to lift either. Soon it will start to suck in light, and hence time, or it will be dragged off by a team of shire horses and the entire street will then float away, unattached to the London below.
This hangover is quite severe.
I dream that I am in some pop art detective series and have to solve a number of improbable crimes through the use of brightly coloured plastics. I am telling the director that the idea sucks and it is preventing me from my real purpose in life, which is trying to find this somebody that I am sure was with me at sometime. I don't know who this somebody is but I spend a fair amount of time poking around railway embankments in a see-through NBC suit and wondering where they could possibly could have got to. This feeling of absence is unbearably sad, but it's hard to get anyone to take me seriously in this preposterous outfit.
Awake at dawn, no particular sense of relief. The day already feels washed out.
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