“To me, poetry and prayer walk hand in hand” Jericho Brown
I ask you: What if I traveled like a poet, seeing by metaphor, noticing what I notice?
Maybe I would notice that, while walking around today, I didn’t “ooh and awe” over buildings, and that it helped when I stopped and looked at what other tourist were pulling into their memory-chamber. Maybe this day it hurt me to seem jaded, or be literally without the “hack” of holding up my hands like a Hollywood director imagining a frame. A maker of documentaries assured me that he actually does that… If I had carried my light-box to London then I might have perceived more. (Or not)
One winter someone said, “You can’t make a snow angel without a child” and perhaps you can’t be a tourist without a child, or an excited companion, or a big journal to write in. Not a tiny two-inch diary, but a sprawling notebook with hearty room to “let her rip!” Write what? I am thinking of some art I saw beside the cloakroom of an art gallery: a picture of a lady out on a grey cement balcony, overlooking grey windowless, featureless buildings, while a single curving tree stands leafless and bark-less, maybe even branch-less. The lady is shouting, “I can’t believe I’m in Paris!” …It would amuse me to try cramming her shout into a wee diary.
In the British Museum are some statues that, millennia ago, had stood far above where anyone would ever climb, touched only by everyone’s eyes. Not only are the fronts three-dimensional, but… so are the backs.
“The expense!” said the city fathers, between gritted teeth. “The gods!” said the sculptor, “They will see.” I thought of that when I sat eating by the window in a pub quietly tucked behind and away from any roads with cars, away from most people. I was looking past plain buildings over at a building that was rose up plain but… it was topped with ochre arches—wow—that not many would see, but that was half the fun.
Earlier I had walked on a sidewalk over a set of mysterious half-moon shaped non-translucent glass, as if a moon monster with strange feet had left tracks next to the building. To illuminate a basement? Yes, but surely for fun.
My fun meal was not “merely” fish and chips: the peas were mashed up like potatoes, the malt vinegar was in a squeezable flask, a round china dish held tartar sauce for the fish, and its twin held curry sauce. Why? Because everything on the plate goes fine with curry. …I leave you to create your own metaphor here.
Life is like radar in a old movie. Not in a modern flic, where Computer Generated Images make the phosphors, for an impatient audience, permanent on the screen, but one where the green line sweeps like a clock hand on its own implacable schedule… while phosphors flare up then fade before the next sweep… If, as I walked today in London sans-camera-sans-journal, I wouldn’t make my feelings flare, and if my mind was flatlined from “I know not what,” then, with nice fuzzy patience, I can at least know that there will be another sweep on another day. Secure in that knowledge, this evening, I imbibe the beer before me with contentment. Creating essays over British beer does me good! Maybe I’ll read some A.E. Houseman.
… …
… …
Sean Crawford
At the Curzon,
In the Bloomsbury district,
Of Central London,
January,
In the year of our Lord 2026
Copious Footnotes:
~Both Woking and Central London have an arts place called The light box.
The word “camera” is Latin for chamber (hence council meetings are “in camera”—not transparent—when they ask visitors to leave)
~I remember when film for my polaroid swinger, the first instant camera, had to be loaded in the closet. Today’s film is fine to load in ambient light.
I still remember the jingle from the television commercial. I was maybe too young to like those new-fangled bikinis, so maybe I just enjoyed the happy song. Note: both the commercial and the camera film were like Kodachrome: “everything looks good in black and white.” Here’s the TV link Oh, and here’s an ad I don’t recall, with more talking link.
~A.E. Houseman is the poet I always read, as an appetizer, as my fish is cooked at the North Sea Restaurant. I have brought Houseman to London for years.
~Jericho Brown, American pulitzer prize winner, surely self-identifies as “Black,” if only because: He said whites give him funny looks when he flys first class in the same compartment as them.
~At the “Design and Disabilities” exhibit at the (Queen) Victoria and Albert museum, a British lady was annoyed that “Disabled” on the commentary sign was capitalized. I took a guess as to why, saying that in America we capitalize Black—but not white—and Indian, too.
She responded with haughty upper-class tones that “…we don’t capitalize either term.”
I thought: Not capitalize Indian? Good thing I didn’t tell her we even capitalize Boy Scout. And kept my peace. Just another day for an Ugly American… from Canada.
Wow, Sean. This is such a poetic piece. I can see you putting a book together ‘Reporting from London.’ This was one of the most interesting posts of yours that I’ve read. Cheers! Cindy
Thank you Cindy, my fellow writer.
Aren’t metaphors grand? From London books I am reading Jeannette Winterson who writes, “… each of us is more than what lies on the surface.”
Say, someone at the old drop-in Poetry Cafe liked the Italian film (“The Postman” in English) where the poet tells the attentive postman that the key is to use metaphors.
Maybe we should all use them so more often.
…It is evening here. I had a nice day.
This morning I meant to post my essay, but I was running late, and running to the British Museum for an “out of hours” tour.
… I spoke to a staff at the top of the stairs where we could see people from Peru wearing yellow vests just like the staff. He said my tour guide, a volunteer, was on her very first day.
…So I went back to talk to her (she had lingered talking to a staff) to be supportive. (The tour was on the China exhibits)
… At the cafe next to the London (Review of) Bookstore a lady next to me asked if I was on holiday and we talked of covid days and conspiracies. (At the store I showed my booklist and they could order one for me)
…At the Starbucks near my hotel a lady named Joy sat down in a way that silently acknowledged my presence, so I said it was good to come in out of the rain, “But there is no rain,” and we talked until my coffee got cold and she bought me another. I informed her about North America and learned she goes to an Internet church. I answered her question, “Are you born again?” with “Yes, I can recite John 3:16.”
…My point is that it is not hard to meet the locals if your heart is open: This after some commenters on the blog of Derek Sivers despaired of meeting anyone while on holiday. I essayed about how-to in November.
… I risked telling Joy that the movie I was waiting for at the Curzon was probably a gay movie, as the poster showed two men but only one motorcycle. “Ick” she responded. I replied “(Yes but) It’s part of my tourist adventure,” which was okay with her. My point is that I correctly risked conversing of such a thing with a near stranger after we had been speaking—it’s a good world.