Different Perspectives on Consuming London

1

When in London, I can’t help but overindulge, especially in Covent Garden. Before my eyes is a feast of colors, culture, and people. Yes, the people! I love the them the most. I’m fully entranced by the street performers putting on magic shows, executing magnificent acrobatic feats, or making music. I am absorbed by the swelling crowds of tourists who swarm around these performers with their camera phones pointed at the action. An ocean of swirling dialects and diverse colors crash around me like waves. Swimming through them, I am eventually channeled out into open space spotted with the more local folks who are on a mission in the city. They walk with purpose, with determination, with confidence. Lining benches and any free steps are groups of visitors from where I can only imagine to be every corner and crevice of the world. Some groups are shaking in the brisk air, unprepared for the chilly weather, while others gather at coffee shops for some liquid gold to warm them. The people provide the tone and their culture, the flavor, against the grey backdrop of London architecture. Brick roads meet stone buildings and blend effortlessly into a matching sky. There is the occasional splotch of color on a building, usually clay reds but sometimes vibrant blues or pinks. Crisp corners and defined outlines shape the structures, breaking form only by the supporting round pillars that reach up into arches. Flowers in crates like garnishes dot the paths and nature can be seen on doors framed with foliage. But another treasure lies in the heart of the square. It is in the apple market where past and present combine. The market seems to beat with intensity and throb with opportunity. The old style of the outdoor market has found its way inside in a space that produces a feeling of openness as well as crowdedness. It is here where all the smells and sounds seem to gather and present themselves like a main course to me. It is here that I smell fresh cookies mixed with Chanel perfumes and the odor of sleep deprived travelers. It is here where the calls of children and hollers of street performers blend over the low rumble of conversation. Every sound takes on vibrant colors that swirl around me, and every sight I can feel move through me. Each sense tingles inside, overwhelmed after being starved for so long. It is here, among these senses and the people that I feel at the heart of London and finally satisfy my cravings.

2

He often wonders, if it’s obvious that he is not from here. His look, his walk, what will give it away today? Hopefully, he believes, that one day the only foreign sign will be the reflected wonder that flickers in his eyes as he looks in awe at the city of London, trying to comprehend its novelty. The same glinted gaze that only he knows about when reading a book on a park bench in Brenton Cross. When quiet hangs in the open like fog, trapped between emerald green grass and the smoggy ash sky. Or the same senses that tingle through him when he finds himself just enjoying his walk down Oxford street. With no destination, no concerns, absorbing every detail, and feasting on everything the city has to offer. Walking through puffs of cigarette smoke, past pubs bursting with the clamor of conversation and clanks of business, and by the brightly lit signs of theaters, he begins to fade into the people. He acknowledges the beauty and bliss in all these moments. As time goes on the mundane actions of his old life like transportation, shopping, studying, working, all become lively and exciting adventures in his new environment. He begins to wander less. He starts to know his way and walk with a more determined step and confident gait past confused tourists and stride for stride with the locals. Finding his way to his usual coffee shop for a steaming cup of tea or his favorite pub for a cold beer and chips becomes routine. He keeps beat with the city. However, it is not above him to occasionally ride the tube to an uncharted destination and get off. Here, he explores with a naïve composition. He gets lost, resorting back to unsure movements, but along the way passes the fresh smells of restaurants undiscovered by him, extraordinary and breath-taking architecture, and he begins to become over-taken by the feeling, the spark and tingling of his senses, as if he is uncovering the city for the first time.

Re-tuned

 

How I got here, I do not know. Maybe somewhere deep down I knew I needed to be here. Among the aging objects, I glide through them like I’ve been here before. Maybe I have in some way. Thick in the air is a scent that feels so familiar, like what I imagine a soul left out to long in the heat would smell like, after it’s been beat by everyone with their matching, opinion-sized bats. An odor of under-appreciation and I can’t help but breathe it in. It’s comforting as I inhale, exhale until I find the source. It’s the old knobs I notice first. The way their faded white has turned to a worn gray from so many years of being subjected to other’s wills. Somehow as a whole it holds its dignity, fighting back awareness of the inevitability that it could always be vulnerable to the touch of others. The scarred wood paneling holds a slight optimistic glow despite being in the know. Two round speakers like imploring eyes prompt me to question. Why do we love to find the lies that social norms and shameful people tell us? More than that, why do we love to abide in them?  We have an ear tuned to the static of negativity in an always broadcasting world of so many beautiful tunes and lively music all beating to the stomp of possibility. We let our own melodies slip away in the black and white flickering anomalies, folds between space, the blank place where we are everything everyone else tells us we are. Here we sit on a table top, left to gather grime and rot based off the discernments of everything outside us. Looked upon by judging eyes, they staple a price tag to our head, and hope anyone but ourselves will consider the cost. How funny it is we still wear that tag. Why is it the small things that remind us how we can sing and hold the notes, like accumulating Os or more like zeros, to define our own number of digits? It’s the cast asides, the forgottens, with their piling dust and growing rust and their perfect brokenness that remind us who we are.

~

This is a poem I wrote after I stumbled upon a fascinating pawn shop in London. I got very lost and happened to find it hidden away in a side alley. Coming through the doors, the smell of dust was strong, and everything looked dim. It was a small shop and everything inside was very old and looked very much antique. But what blew me away was the beauty I saw in every item. Among the faded gray of tossed out things stood a bright yellow Lily sitting in a simple and clear tiny vase upon the counter. An old cube T.V with flimsy looking dials and a big glass hump for a screen sat off in the corner, tucked away on the bottom half of a shelf. But what stood out to me the most was an old radio sitting on a little table all to itself. A cool washed down mint green made up most off it along with medium roasted brown paneling. Two dusty gray speakers sat beside the middle tuner and a few faded white dials spotted the front. It was gorgeous! However, an old flimsy tag with a red scribble hung off the top and it was in that moment I felt the inspiration to write this poem. Unfortunately, I did not get a photo of the place or the radio. Like I said, how I got there was kind of mysterious, which I think made the moment even more special for me. This poem was meant to be a reminder that our value, our worth, and our beauty are as good or bad as we decide, not what others decide. I hope you found the poem fun to read and are encouraged to remember that you are amazing.

Thoughts on the Heart Part 2

 

I like to think of the heart as a fabric collage, delicate and messy when you get into it, but when you take a step back and view it as a whole, it’s perfect and beautiful. Each piece is unique and holds its own value. We share pieces of our heart to others, so they can stitch us in to theirs. We’re hurt when we can’t find ourselves in their work. We accept pieces of other’s hearts and add it to our own project, growing it slowly over time, some people’s material dominating the work of art. The collage is a reminder. Sometimes pleasant, and sometimes of things we want to forget. You rip at the thread and dig your nails into the stitching and leave a gapping hole. You find more material, but it never fits right. Sometimes you lock away your work because your disappointed with how your project has turned out. Disgusted in fact. You wanted it done and complete a long time ago so for now it will sit up on the highest shelf collecting dust. Maybe that’s you right now. An artist scrounging for more material, even if it’s cheap and dirty. Maybe you’ve given up looking. Maybe you’re discouraged because of all the great collages out there. Who knows how long it’ll be before you feel the needle and thread between your fingers again. One day maybe, you build up the courage and pull the collage down. The uneven stitching and faded colors a globe in your hands, but you keep working at it. You see someone else just starting their collage and cut out a big chunk of your material for them. You become more open to sharing what you have and accepting what others offer. You find strong, inspiring cloth in your faith, your family, your friends, the small things. You work day in and day out sharing and growing your collage, and fall in love with the process, not the end product. When you step back and look at your work, the uneven stitching and faded material are still there in the mix of new fabric. This time, however, it warms your heart. You look at the beautiful mess and see everyone that has impacted you, loved you, encouraged you, supported you. You reflect on the things that hurt you and are thankful. You can see where you were and how far you’ve come. Most importantly, you see the endless room for more: More material, more cloth, more fabric, more loss, more growth, more people, more love. You understand there will always be more to give and take. With a new-found courage and excitement, you get back to work on your project.

I like to think of the heart as a fabric collage, perfect and beautiful.