Notes from London
- Nov 15, 9:19 AM—A blistering toe, three suitcases with their guts spilled out, and a hotel room with an Oscar Wilde aesthetic: royal blue door trims, floral print, a British landscape, and of course his portrait.
- Nov 17, 1:34 PM—The first bell I heard at the one-hour mark was a dud, but 1:34 PM was a holy minute. I found myself at the right corner, at the time the sun carved a hole and illuminated the gold trim of the clock tower. There was a bagpipe player, who I could hear but not see, droning a deep note and riffing in some mysterious Celtic scale I couldn’t quite identify. It was crowded, but even a passing ambulance couldn’t and didn’t break the trance.
- Nov 17th, 11:31 AM—Our tour guide could easily make it on Twitter. “Those lions aren’t lions,” and “You’ve been lied to, that Buckingham Palace is not Buckingham Palace, I’ll explain why” (and then walks away, towards it—what we know it as is actually the 3rd extension, and no one lives there). “Here’s Big Ben, but that’s not its name.” Also, “we’re going to meet some spies, I’ve arranged it.” Hook after hook.
- Nov 18th, 7:07 PM—The holy grail of prose is the transfiguration of narration and analysis. It's not in the description of the foggy window, nor in the details of London's climate in November, but in using one for the means of the other.
- Nov 18th, 7:15 PM—Why does Shoreditch remind me of Manhasset? The rain blurs everything—the sidewalk has yellow jagged reflections of neon advertisements —and in passing I hear “it’s pissin’ out.”
- Nov 19th, 3:20 PM—Eleven strangers in an elevator. You know not the language they speak, or the clarity of their mind, or their proximity from death in recent months—but we all know how to occupy the silence of a 30-second ride down to slab where we will immediately disperse and forget each other.
- Nov 21st, 2:21 PM—Cognitive liberty is the ultimate right, and it’s one you have to claim for yourself.