:::renaissance chambara:::

Posts on quality, life, culture, the media, news & tech with a twist & a slice of Limey. I moved my blog to http://renaissancehambara.jp in December 2006, go there for the latest content.

Sunday, July 11, 2004

Nice it up

I received an email from my old partner- in-crime Si Don't know where he got them from but they sound like good Saturday nights in a club feel. Enjoy

To: ged carroll
Date: Sun Jul 11, 2004 03:42:24 PM BST
Subject: couldn't have said it better myself........

Remind Me To Be Nice To Myself

Tower block rises majestically above the picturesque plains,
and ever-so-gentle rolling hills of Stepney and Poplar, Bethnal Green and BOW. Bears silent witness to the daily trials and tribulations of the noble plains-people of these ancient provinces.

By the way, remind me to be nice to myself.

Tower block by night. It has very bright white lights attached to its top surfaces as a security measure, I can't imagine what against. These lights, they are wonderful, they serve to illuminate this monument to pointlessness.

Yes, the night time's the best time:
The wind blows furtively, drives the rain irregularly against the windows.
And all the time the short-wave drones. Beautiful isolation - hermetically sealed surrealism at tow hundred and fifty feet.

By the way, remind me to be nice to myself.

There's a girl lives next door, been to India. She's an American Swedish hippy at a bus station in Northern Holland sort of a person- vaguely opiate-like - Yeah! Sometimes I scream to her, From my nineteenth floor balcony:
"I will not continuously qualify and justify what I say".
I smile benignly - return to my flat, imagine her demurely murmuring: "Don't patronised me". I feel, we're both happy with this arrangement, as it's cordiale enough without threatening our own individual, desperate loneliness with any degree of intimacy.

By the way, remind me to be nice to myself.

Tower block, external symbol of our inner desolation a scenario so bleak, it brings a tear to your eye. A nostalgic, sentimental tear, as if in vague subliminal remembrance of a barren airless landscape of a different planet,
one million years ago. Tower block, Oh ancient timeless representative of all that is meaningful, oh nearer my God to thee.

By the way, remind me to be nice to myself.


And now the buildings change. Now the people change. Everything changing.
Spirit and matter most apparent. Realised there never was anything to worry about, to doubt was insane. The limited, callow individuals living on housing estates in Chingford, Large detached houses in Kew Tower blocks on the Tottenham marshes, Become my gods. I see an accounts clerk from Tooting: I see Zeus. A sanitary inspector from the London Borough of Haringay, And Brahmin stands resplendent before me.

For five minutes I love everybody. There is only love. All action ceases.

The Mile End Road, once a blood-stained battleground of Bacchanalian
excess, becomes the Garden of Gethsemane. A bitter, 72-year old ex-docker becomes the ever-compassionate Buddha. A Cypriot minicab driver becomes St Francis of Assissi. The 22-year-old Glaswegian checkout girl IS the divine mother.

I love everybody. My spirit is free.

I am limitless in space, time and matter, Simultaneously the planet Neptune, part of the structural support to Vauxhall Bridge. I am your left breast, I am Stepney, I am Peru, I am divine and so are you.

I love everybody.

I am nothing except a mere cluster of notes, a road sign in Skelmersdale.
I ran the Roman Empire. I was a lavatory attendant in Hull. I am everybody and everybody is me. Spirit.

Who put the spirit in matter? LOVE

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