an autumn an a half
divided into thousands of foootsteps
a hundred and seven photographs
they say this isn’t a place for the weak
I say “To Hell with that gibberish and let’s make the most of it”
I kept walking
from Shepherd’s Bush
to Notting Hill Gate
through the Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, explicably jealous of anyone and everyone who ever lived there
to Camden Town
to Brunswick Gardens
to Rotherhithe
to myself, a little late – they’ve been expecting me since five o’clock
as I kept coming back to the streets I’d measured in thousands of footsteps
and hundreds of photographs taken
before and after immigrant tales
before and after a smoke
before and after the rain
I thought I was lost
from Westmister Bridge
to an old inn on Warwick Avenue
from the left-hand side of Oxford Street on a sunny afternoon
to the first-floor window seat of a 207 via Hayes By-pass stopping in Central Acton
from Shoreditch, referred to by many as hipsters’ paradise where I never had the courage to tell him
that we wouldn’t last over our first american dinner,
to Hammersmith, on the west side of our short affair
by the time I got to Chiswick House Park where I sat on one of those “In loving memory of…” engraved wooden benches
to feed the coots
it was already over between us
it felt strange and confusing at first
but it couldn’ve last
they say this isn’t a place for the unadapted
I say “Oh, but you haven’t met me”
then a sad poem came along, a love poem
followed by a short, but intense epiphany about faith, patience
and smog
then moods changed from left to right
from light blue to pink to purple, not only as a reflexion of my surroundings
but also as a late reaction to his attitude
– I guess you had to be there to understand –
then winter came and both of us kept walking a thousand footsteps more
in opposite directions
dividing coffeshops
bridges
photographs
into sides of town
mine, lonely, crowded and familiar –
– from Richmond
to Hyde Park, depicted as a possible exponent of socio-cultural behaviorist patterns in young people
to Regent’s Park flora, fauna, artists
from the horizontal lines of the Millennium Bridge to the vertical lines of a wet sidewalk in Shepherd’s Bush Market
again, all the way from Oxford Circus where there’s a desperate need for guardian angels more than anything else
to Harrods
– and his.
They say this place only belongs to those who believe in themselves
and thirty seven photographs later, walking through the middle of the street from Hyde Park Corner to Victoria Station, I realized
that I could own this city – in all it’s depths and heights and middle of streets
memories, photographs, footsteps, compliments, complications extend from St. Katharine’s Docks to Ensor Mews
from Central line to Circle, District and the Overground
if I had everything…beginnings, anxiety and depression
lebanese cuisine, fusion and Smörgåsbords
great love, autumn love, transition love, monogamous love, platonic love, illusory love, uncomplicated love,
addictions to routine, bad coffee, good sex, cigarettes
modernism and contemporary art at Saatchi
solitude, growth, vitamins, fruits that come in bunches
would I still have nothing at all
but a predictable ending to my story
abstract reds
purple
pink
inspiring
any sudden form of artistic expression
for dreamers with no talent
no purpose
no expectations
to contemplate on
from Ladbroke Grove to Angel
to noisy, sexless, politicaly correct downtown parades
to the nearness of a wonderful, complicated man who lives in Little Venice
the passing of a delayed DLR train over the Limehouse Docks bridge in November
the memory of how Wormholt Park looked like at the beginning of March.
the change of perspective
the bad habits.
the birds.
the feed-back.
they say this isn’t a place for relationships, the city where everyone is simply waiting for someone better to arrive…
I say “This city will either tear us appart or save us, so let’s sit here together and wait.
Look! it’s such a beautiful day…”
So we sat on the Westmister Pier and waited for something to happen.
Thirty-eight photographs later, I was alone again
alone in Canary Wharf and Poplar and even in the train to Ealing Broaway
in between floors, in between stations,
in between decisions.
I moved from Stratford to North Acton.
I walked from Pimlico to Fitzrovia.
I sat quiet and high on the canal where boats were mooring
and birds were resting. In Ealing Common they had the most beautiful sky.
They say “This city will eat you alive.”
I say “I need a drink” and let the city slowly take over me…
from Westferry to Emirates Greenwich Peninsula
from Surrey Docks, Canada Water
to my favourite place – the Tower Bridge Pier.
They say “Leave now”
I say “Not yet, I’m one of the photographers.”
Besides, my best friends are here
telephone boots
window panes
pomeranians
telephone boots again, the Sunday Market
that horse’s head in Marble Arch and the empty american diner with the wormest lightning
select neighborhoods
the hights
the “get what you see” versus “the see what you get” situations
they say “You’re late. They’ve been expecting you since five o’clock”
I say “I’ve been walking. There are thousands of footsteps of mine all over town, I took hundreds of photographs.
I fell in love and lost.
I’m ready to leave now. Gentlemen, shall we?”
