Maida Vale | 7:20 PM
I've decided not so sit around the hotel for the evening. I received a phone call from work not long after returning from the launderette. After 30 minutes or so talking on the phone and answering email, it was starting to feel too much like just another weekday. I need a break.
Kilburn Park Park Underground Station | 7:30 PM
I'm surrounded by people speaking Eastern European languages. Maybe it's Polish. There's a news dispenser outside the tube station for the Polska Gazeta. The promotional sign reads "Polish language only. Don't bother if you can't read Polish." I won't bother. It was nice of the publishers to spare me the trouble. In any case, I have all eight pages of the London Weekend Hotel Edition of the USA Today to help pass the time on the tube. It's supposed to contain the best stuff from USA Today over the past week. I'm impressed they were able to find eight pages. Interestingly, it contains nothing about the upcoming election.
Embankment Underground Station | 7:45 PM
I'm transferring from the Bakerloo Line to the District Line. What kind of name is Bakerloo anyway? The line includes stops at Baker Street (for Sherlock Holmes fans) and Waterloo Station (the UK's largest rail station). It must be a contraction. I shouldn't poke fun. I come from a region that calls its airport Sea-Tac. What would we call it if Tacoma were bigger than Seattle?
At least Bakerloo has a good ring to it. It's fun to say. The same can't be said of the train I'm catching. It's the District Line train to Barking. Fortunately, I'll get off the train before Barking. I feel silly just writing that.
Blackfriars Bridge | 8:10 PM
I'm standing on the south bank of the Thames staring at the empty colonnades of the old Blackfriars bridge. The marble columns are all that remain of the original bridge that opened in 1769. Tonight a series of green lasers shoot across the span of the river, reconstructing a ghostly image of the missing bridge.
Tate Modern Art Museum | 8:20 PM
The walls of the Level 2 Gallery are coated in blue carbon copy paper. Burned tires are scattered about the room. Chemicals splashed against the walls have settled in puddles of color at the base of the walls. They've left behind what look almost like the shadows of people. I'm standing in the middle of the phantom crowd. The room is empty and silent, but I feel like someone should be shouting.
The display is called For Each Stencil a Revolution. It commemorates the protests of 1960s France when radicals used carbon paper to replicate their pamphlets and manifestos.
The adjoining room, where Fantasia is on display, is dressed entirely in white. Clusters of empty flagpoles jet out of the walls toward the center of the room. I'm drawn toward an upturned crate. I want to stand on it, but the flagpole canopy is too low. I feel pressed upon, so I move to one corner of the room where I'm free of the obstructions overhead. Safely on the outside now, there is a strange sensation that I've somehow given up.
Tate Modern Art Museum | 8:50 PM
My eyes are closed. The sound of rain is all about me. I'm leaning against a set of empty bunk-beds--one of many pairs neatly arranged across the floors of the great turbine room. They serve as drying racks for wet and weathered books. A collection of giant outdoor sculptures is pushed to one end of the room. Cables extend downward from the massive 115 foot ceiling in order to support their weight.
I've taken shelter in a darkened corner under a stairway to ponder the world the artist has created. TH.2058 is London 50 years from now. It rains without ceasing. Everything is wet either from the rain or the humidity. People, art and culture all seek protection.
At first overwhelming, the more I listen to the rain the less I hear it. It's the thunder that is clear and deep. Eventually, I hear voices. I can't tell whether they are part of the exhibit or just the sound of other patrons. The voices somehow change everything. The thunder sounds more like hurried wheels rolling across the floor above me. It's as though something is happening somewhere and I'm missing out. The sound of rain is replaced by the sound of garden fountains or waterfalls.
I raise my head from off my arms, but I can't (or perhaps won't) open my eyes. A film is being displayed at the far end of the hall. What light manages to get past my eyelids is piercing and strobe-like. I turn my back to it before opening my eyes. Whatever people I heard are no longer there. No activity. No hurrying. It's just dark. And I can hear the rain.
Millennium Bridge | 9:00 PM
The Tate Modern is to my back as I cross the Millennium Bridge. St. Paul's is before me. It's bells are tolling the time. Nine deep tones float across the river and pass me by only to bounce off the walls behind me and return.
Millennium Bridge | 9:05 PM
An artist has discretely installed speakers on the bridge. They're broadcasting the sounds of a day at the beach: waves crashing, children laughing, seagulls crying as they fly by. The sounds mingle with the natural sounds of the river's own waves and gulls and people.
I'm standing a few yards beyond the speakers as though I'm just one of many people looking out across the river, but I'm watching people's faces. Some pass through the sounds and take no notice. Most begin to smile and then look confused or startled. If they're walking quickly, you can tell they're not quite sure what just happened. Slower pokes begin to look around or do a double-take at the ground they've covered.
I'm mesmerized by the reactions. It's hard for me to keep a straight face. Some notice me watching them and return an accusing glance as if I had some hand in what just happened. I notice that the illuminated Globe Theatre is the backdrop for my spectacle.
I can tell that I'm still on the official river path because of the signs behind me and the breadcrumb path of blue lights before me. The alleyway is filled with the vented heat from some machinery somewhere. On the left of me a barefoot man is unrolling his sleeping bag on a bed of cardboard. His boots and socks are placed neatly to one side. He takes no notice as I pass. Up ahead on the right another man is arranging his cardboard into a walled nest. The cardboard is clean and new. He still has on his heavy coat and sizable backpack. He says something to me as I approach. I can't make it out through the accent, the industrial humming and my own surprise. Whatever it was, it sounded friendly. I smile, nod and press on.
London Bridge | 9:30 PM
It's a good thing I was prepared for this. Looking over the northwest railing of London Bridge, I can make out the form of an underwater creature coming close to the surface of the river and then disappearing again into the depths. I read about it online, so I know it's just a video projected onto the surface of the river. From above or below, I don't know. It's striking how real it appears. What if it were real? I'm watching what now appears to be a mother and child circling each other in the water. People are passing me. No one else even notices.
Tooley Street | 9:45 PM
St. Olaf, King of Norway, is watching me eat a chicken sandwich. I don't know when he lived or why his statue is on the corner of this building, but he just keeps staring. It kind of creeps me out. I just want to eat my pathetic meal in peace.
Kilburn Park Underground Station | 10:50 PM
Finally, I am off the tube and just a few blocks from my hotel. It took me longer to get here than I wanted. The Jubilee Line, my fast ticket away from London Bridge, was closed. I still have my USA Today. I've managed to choke down five pages. That's all I can take. Now I just need a garbage can (or rubbish bin as they say here) to toss it in. I should have just left it on the floor of the tube like everyone else. There are still very few places to deposit trash in the underground for fear of bombs.
There's classic music playing as I leave the station. That's a nice touch.
I've decided not so sit around the hotel for the evening. I received a phone call from work not long after returning from the launderette. After 30 minutes or so talking on the phone and answering email, it was starting to feel too much like just another weekday. I need a break.
Kilburn Park Park Underground Station | 7:30 PM
I'm surrounded by people speaking Eastern European languages. Maybe it's Polish. There's a news dispenser outside the tube station for the Polska Gazeta. The promotional sign reads "Polish language only. Don't bother if you can't read Polish." I won't bother. It was nice of the publishers to spare me the trouble. In any case, I have all eight pages of the London Weekend Hotel Edition of the USA Today to help pass the time on the tube. It's supposed to contain the best stuff from USA Today over the past week. I'm impressed they were able to find eight pages. Interestingly, it contains nothing about the upcoming election.Embankment Underground Station | 7:45 PM
I'm transferring from the Bakerloo Line to the District Line. What kind of name is Bakerloo anyway? The line includes stops at Baker Street (for Sherlock Holmes fans) and Waterloo Station (the UK's largest rail station). It must be a contraction. I shouldn't poke fun. I come from a region that calls its airport Sea-Tac. What would we call it if Tacoma were bigger than Seattle?
At least Bakerloo has a good ring to it. It's fun to say. The same can't be said of the train I'm catching. It's the District Line train to Barking. Fortunately, I'll get off the train before Barking. I feel silly just writing that.
Blackfriars Bridge | 8:10 PM
I'm standing on the south bank of the Thames staring at the empty colonnades of the old Blackfriars bridge. The marble columns are all that remain of the original bridge that opened in 1769. Tonight a series of green lasers shoot across the span of the river, reconstructing a ghostly image of the missing bridge.Tate Modern Art Museum | 8:20 PM
The walls of the Level 2 Gallery are coated in blue carbon copy paper. Burned tires are scattered about the room. Chemicals splashed against the walls have settled in puddles of color at the base of the walls. They've left behind what look almost like the shadows of people. I'm standing in the middle of the phantom crowd. The room is empty and silent, but I feel like someone should be shouting.
The display is called For Each Stencil a Revolution. It commemorates the protests of 1960s France when radicals used carbon paper to replicate their pamphlets and manifestos.The adjoining room, where Fantasia is on display, is dressed entirely in white. Clusters of empty flagpoles jet out of the walls toward the center of the room. I'm drawn toward an upturned crate. I want to stand on it, but the flagpole canopy is too low. I feel pressed upon, so I move to one corner of the room where I'm free of the obstructions overhead. Safely on the outside now, there is a strange sensation that I've somehow given up.
Tate Modern Art Museum | 8:50 PM
My eyes are closed. The sound of rain is all about me. I'm leaning against a set of empty bunk-beds--one of many pairs neatly arranged across the floors of the great turbine room. They serve as drying racks for wet and weathered books. A collection of giant outdoor sculptures is pushed to one end of the room. Cables extend downward from the massive 115 foot ceiling in order to support their weight.
I've taken shelter in a darkened corner under a stairway to ponder the world the artist has created. TH.2058 is London 50 years from now. It rains without ceasing. Everything is wet either from the rain or the humidity. People, art and culture all seek protection.
At first overwhelming, the more I listen to the rain the less I hear it. It's the thunder that is clear and deep. Eventually, I hear voices. I can't tell whether they are part of the exhibit or just the sound of other patrons. The voices somehow change everything. The thunder sounds more like hurried wheels rolling across the floor above me. It's as though something is happening somewhere and I'm missing out. The sound of rain is replaced by the sound of garden fountains or waterfalls.
I raise my head from off my arms, but I can't (or perhaps won't) open my eyes. A film is being displayed at the far end of the hall. What light manages to get past my eyelids is piercing and strobe-like. I turn my back to it before opening my eyes. Whatever people I heard are no longer there. No activity. No hurrying. It's just dark. And I can hear the rain.
Millennium Bridge | 9:00 PM
The Tate Modern is to my back as I cross the Millennium Bridge. St. Paul's is before me. It's bells are tolling the time. Nine deep tones float across the river and pass me by only to bounce off the walls behind me and return.Millennium Bridge | 9:05 PM
An artist has discretely installed speakers on the bridge. They're broadcasting the sounds of a day at the beach: waves crashing, children laughing, seagulls crying as they fly by. The sounds mingle with the natural sounds of the river's own waves and gulls and people.
I'm standing a few yards beyond the speakers as though I'm just one of many people looking out across the river, but I'm watching people's faces. Some pass through the sounds and take no notice. Most begin to smile and then look confused or startled. If they're walking quickly, you can tell they're not quite sure what just happened. Slower pokes begin to look around or do a double-take at the ground they've covered.
I'm mesmerized by the reactions. It's hard for me to keep a straight face. Some notice me watching them and return an accusing glance as if I had some hand in what just happened. I notice that the illuminated Globe Theatre is the backdrop for my spectacle.
All the world's a stage,An alleyway under the train tracks | 9:20 PM
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
(As You Like It, Act 2, scene 7, 139–143)
I can tell that I'm still on the official river path because of the signs behind me and the breadcrumb path of blue lights before me. The alleyway is filled with the vented heat from some machinery somewhere. On the left of me a barefoot man is unrolling his sleeping bag on a bed of cardboard. His boots and socks are placed neatly to one side. He takes no notice as I pass. Up ahead on the right another man is arranging his cardboard into a walled nest. The cardboard is clean and new. He still has on his heavy coat and sizable backpack. He says something to me as I approach. I can't make it out through the accent, the industrial humming and my own surprise. Whatever it was, it sounded friendly. I smile, nod and press on.
London Bridge | 9:30 PM
It's a good thing I was prepared for this. Looking over the northwest railing of London Bridge, I can make out the form of an underwater creature coming close to the surface of the river and then disappearing again into the depths. I read about it online, so I know it's just a video projected onto the surface of the river. From above or below, I don't know. It's striking how real it appears. What if it were real? I'm watching what now appears to be a mother and child circling each other in the water. People are passing me. No one else even notices.Tooley Street | 9:45 PM
St. Olaf, King of Norway, is watching me eat a chicken sandwich. I don't know when he lived or why his statue is on the corner of this building, but he just keeps staring. It kind of creeps me out. I just want to eat my pathetic meal in peace.
Kilburn Park Underground Station | 10:50 PM
Finally, I am off the tube and just a few blocks from my hotel. It took me longer to get here than I wanted. The Jubilee Line, my fast ticket away from London Bridge, was closed. I still have my USA Today. I've managed to choke down five pages. That's all I can take. Now I just need a garbage can (or rubbish bin as they say here) to toss it in. I should have just left it on the floor of the tube like everyone else. There are still very few places to deposit trash in the underground for fear of bombs.
There's classic music playing as I leave the station. That's a nice touch.
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