Diary

+It would only take about three years for the Dutch to get kicked out of Boswijck by the British after buying it from the Canarsie Native Americans in 1661. Boswijck, roughly translating to ‘refuge in the woods,’ was also known colloquially by the Dutch settlers as‘ The Village’ for its calm nature in contrast to the hustling-bustling New Amsterdam.

By the end of the decade, the British had taken over, renaming it ‘Bushwick. ‘ Thus came the domination of the English language over the Dutch, the secession of the Dutch Reformed Church with its rules on attendance, abstinence, and abstemiousness, and the beginning of the English system of land tenure, where land could now be freely bought, sold, or inherited, ending the patroon system.

By the 18th and 19th centuries, Bushwick had become a German-Austrian powerhouse of breweries and beer halls.
By the 30s and 40s, it was an enclave for Sicilian factory workers.
By the 60s, it had become a slum.
And gangs ruled the streets populated by needles, and prostitutes.
Many of the Romanesque Revival tenements had been abandoned, Italianate mansions burned, and the Queen Annes turned into junkie halls.
Things got even worse with the Blackout, a city-wide power cut in 1977 that resulted in a night of carnage, looting, and arson.
In the wake of the fire, Puerto Rican and Dominican families migrated, starting colleges, restaurants, and bodegas from the ashes.
By the mid-2000s, drawn by cheap rents and opportunity, the artists moved in.

‘May the odds ever be in your flavor.’ reads an A-frame,
Skid. Smack. A BMW just slammed into a guy on Irving and Troutman.
I’m drinking a coffee on the sidewalk, and someone cracks open a fresh neon Penguin Press on my right and lights a joint. They smoke it for a bit, then nod off, jerking their body each time they lean over too far.

Right now, Americans are the wealthiest youth population in the world, and their spending surpasses that of the next closest nation by multiples. In Bushwick, the average rent for a one-bedroom apartment hit $2,846, while the average New Yorker's salary is $78,000.

The old Bushwick artists who once viewed the area as a new haven now face the harsh reality of rent increases.
Those lucky to have put deposits down early enjoy the brownstones overlooking Maria Hernandez.
Sitting on the stoop, waiting for their Amazon Prime delivery, they think it could have all gone differently.
Thankfully, it didn’t.

Walk 10 blocks between Knickerbocker and Jefferson, and you’re transported between Domenico town, Italian eateries, German factories, and Puerto Rican tarot shops. You can feel the difference in energy here. People walk slower, the pavements are empty on weekdays, and for New York, it’s quiet.

The nodding reader finally puts the book over their head and reclines, placing both hands on their stomach. Though you can see the Manhattan skyline from here, it’s a world away—only four miles from the large concrete and glass high-rises.
But at this moment, if you zoomed in, it’d be hard to tell.+

+Night Owl, Early Bird, Mothman +

+Doing a bad thing is never good +

+Like a moth to a flame. +

+I walked from Maria Hernandez to Tompkins. It's incredible what 2 hours of walking can do. I feel like I just solved every problem I have. Now, I've just gotta walk back to Maria Hernandez. +

+It’s 22 degrees in NYC. We’re landing over golf courses and baseball stadiums and the orange lollipop trees look redder in the evening sun. Past the horizon, the skyline is sharp and succinct. It’s so smoky, the mythological machine. Like fingers touching the clouds. One day, if I’m lucky, I’ll touch it.
For now, I’m just stopping by.+

+Mistake no. 1: Divorcing yourself from history. Mistake no. 2: Not killing your enemy totally. Mistake no. 3: Being retarded.+

+ Can you see any of the fireworks?
I can’t see it but I can hear it. +

+They’re painting the hallways in the apartment building.The postmen have all commented on it. It’s been 3 weeks since it was finished but I still am woozy walking up the stairs. They taped up all the floors like Patrick Bateman’s apartment. I tried to build rapport with the painters. A little tea, a little hello, but really, things got sour after I described American Psycho. +

+ Zipping to Oxford on Chiltern Railways, picked up Vile Bodies and Vanity Fair in Marylebone as well as an upset stomach- a bad reaction of the phyllo spinach feta thing I had with the dose I administered myself in the morning for my SAD. I’m looking out the window, at the spray-painted sheep between remaining pages of this book - a challenge to get back on the horse after another extended writing period. I greet my brother in front of the Saïd Business School, the building right by the station with all the faces with scrawled on Hitler moustaches, devil beards and pirate grins. As we leave, he kicks a Magnum.
We stroll around then visit the Ashmolean. There’s a lot of international tourists here with their kids. Cargo shorts, backpacks swung in front, sunglasses cresting on top baseball hats from non-existing sport teams and high schools.
The moms look at the kids with expectation. ‘You must return here’, you can almost hear them say. The kids meanwhile look on, trying to enjoy the Egypt exhibit. The mummies are cool.
A group of lecturers walk past hastily. Population decline. The Internet. Low admission numbers. I trail them as I pick through the neo-Egyptian crypts, a fad left behind by the daughters of Victorian shipping magnates. The smell of roasted coffee wafts through the room.
Over by the couches, a man checks his step count on his watch. It’s good. He raises his hands in success. His son on the aligning sofa, scrolls through spreadsheets searching for something then resigns, running his fingers through his hair.
I’m managing an irresistible urge to touch the ceramics. To run my hand down the silverware. Or place my fingertip on the scabbard laid before me. It’s all too tempting.
Quickly, I whisk myself away to the landscapes. Scenes of Umbria and Puglia, The South of France, Roma. Places I recognise rendered in future time. A couple discuss the utility of the landscape painting then shrug off, to see the Dutch portraits. Painters in studios with their peaches and flowers, dead hens, and skulls. It’s all bread and fish.
By the time I get to the Prometheus, I’m shooed off by the staff. It’s closing. My brother’s still in India finding meaning in the Shivas statue.
We tour Cornmarket Street. He tells me of the church in his town, the new friends, evangelism, and the new essay he’s doing documenting the history of Soundcloud rap. I notice he’s got the same spot in the side of his head where his hair grows from, strands swirling and deadening at his sides. My barber had told me it was not common.
We settle at The Old Tom for some food. All the staff are Thai. I get an Abbot with a Gaeng phed ped yang.
I don’t drink.
He orders a Pla sam rod and a lime tea.
He’s never even tried coffee.
In the bathroom, I catch my face in the mirror. My face is getting longer. The fat is my cheeks are dissipating. My jaw is more pronounced. And I’m getting hair in places, I forgot was possible. I’m becoming a man. +

+ We live in perpetual Halloween. +

+ Two priests across the road, black robes flowing with each kick, pronounced, rehearsed and headstrong. +

+ We went to St Martin’s Church. Great big wooden beams like a ribcage lined the ceiling. The priest was a nice guy. Let us up the clocktower and we got to see the strings of the bells. They’re covered in stripes. Quiet indoors but lots outside like a larynx. He promised I’ll get to ring the bells soon. +

+ It’s a half-term Monday, so all the kids in the estate are out vengefully. They’ve colonised the playground from the kindergarteners and enjoying the rides again. Though this time, the tabac clouds are heavy and glasses of Smirnoff clink, they still enjoy the swings. There will always be time to enjoy the swings. +

+ I love the fantasy. I love the fantasy almost more than what is real. +

+You gotta move to start a movement, said somebody.+

+Gilgamesh+

+ British people love to fucking laugh. But there's nothing funny about Britain.
...Okay, maybe a few things. +

+ The river by my house has run dry. Sitting down by the bank, remembering to breath. Stretching and doing the sun salutations and remembering the time I fell in, trying to cross the tree that sits between it and the other side, my clothes wet and sticky, my diary lost and the year only having just started. Now, it's all just the pebbles scoring the beach, kicking the rocks with my feet and looking at the river now a tiny stream, I feared. Some year that was. +

+ Bought my Dasher in June from a construction worker in Twickenham. About a 2 hour journey all-in-all but couldn't ride it home - bastard had lied to me about its condition. Spent the following months in and out of the shop as I tried to tame the beast - my first proper road bike. "I WANT TO RIDE MY BIKE AS A FREE MAN" I screamed. Rule, if you can't ride it with no hands, the bike ain't yours. Well, the bike wasn't mine until last week, cycling down Judd Street, deep breath then letting go, tucking my hands under my pits and coasting. I feel it, feeel it, feeeeeel it. +

+ Catching my breath at the steps of St Paul's Cathedral.
Feeling the gust course through my fingers, my face electrified and my knees shaking as I implant both feet next to each other. Wondering if the message went through and looking up to catch only one single star in the sky.
I've been laughing to myself the whole way here. Now, splayed out the steps as the guards wave flash beams across my face.
Don't worry, man. I'm OK-I'm just having fun. +

+ Waking from dream,
rained in both worlds
rest will tell
remembering the last warm day? +

+ J'en ai marre d'être triste, c'est ennuyeux. Je suis là pour le sang. +

+ Do you get nervous at parties?
Talking to C at a birthday in Cally Road, topic being: freedom. Thinking back to moments I felt free. The fleetness of these dizzying moments where I was suspended in time, unable to grasp the thoughts zooming past my head at a million miles per hour and then relinquishing - abandoning the attempt and capturing the moment in my brain.
Dancing to Mitsubishi at the Atomizer gig in Ormiside with the pages of Kafka's The Castle, flying in the air from my back pocket and leaving the dancefloor in a mess of stomped on papers
The flight attendants running from aisle to aisle as we experienced turbulence flying over the mountains and myself staring over the Anti-Atlas, knowing if it all went away, perhapss I'd be at peace
Looking at N face by Columbia Road Flower Market, and feeling the pain of love as she opened her lips and then we kissed
Shaving the sides of my head in a barber shop in the Lower East Side, thinking about brokenness, the world of anger and hurt I'd been thrown into and reflecting it with finger guns as I posed as Travis Bickle
Standing at the bottom of Primrose Hill, at the paths tearing up, the two choices before me, walking alone or another month of together lonesomeness
Catching a redeye to Beirut to see F after quitting my job, blasting Habibi funk as the car swerved across sunrise over no-streetlight sinking feeling
My landlord calling me for a rent raise then boxing all my shit in a van the minute after, my spite and glory at my middle finger raised, deposit intact.
One-hand cycling across the Brooklyn Bridge, placing my life in the hands of Crocs turbo-mode M,
Balancing on the ledge of a hotel in Holborn, feeling giddy
Train speeding across Bratislava, wind turbines cutting across ice block formations and chortling to the inner room of a small café in Vienna
Praying at a church in Romania for money, then having a Winston outside, regretting the choice and going back in to pray for peace
The Wall, left undescribed, left uncomprehensible in Stonehenge and the world past it, knowing walking through, life could never be the same
Falling asleep on the train, then waking up in a strange place
Getting The Staten Island Ferry back to the City with T downloading WhatsApp, staring up at Babylon, Wall Street, tecatonic armoured vehicles lined with horses and black trashbags and holding unto the image of the Sun setting over pier and hands reaching out to the skies.
Trying and failing b2b at bars in Dalston then taking the long way home and staying up all night writing, hating myself and writing, dying inside and writing.
Then returnign back to C, Do you feel free?
I try. +

+ Fashion made me too agréable, i forgot i like not being everyone cup of tea. +

+ Hanging up the phone in dream. I'll wake up with unread message. +

+ Waiting around. Walking 35,000 steps. Losing my train of thought promenading from junction to junction. The cursed tree in Primrose Hill. The church in Clissold like a spaceship, the home fans screaming, another goal, trucks blowing big bubbles across the road, tears splashing in the reservoir, paint splashed across the road, the lonely flag, and a friednly waiter then my ehad resting on the cat that stared at me with its tongue out. Good kitty. +

+ Being in this place makes everything die. I'm watching everything die. +

+ White sky. Watching the airplane glide over fertile clouds, then pierce through the blockade, enveloping our windows with the familiar patches of checkered bronze and moss carpet. Staring, thinking of all the people below. Thinking about astronauts floating above the stratosphere. And thinking about myself in this equation. I still feel nostalgia for here - the feeling of promise, this blank canvas that marks it's way through the Thames. The bleakness, the sparseness, the bridges, our loneliness and all the bric-bric that plasters it all together. But with warmth in our hearts and the orange in my shades, I'm sure I'll make it to spring just okay. +

+ I think this fly is trying to get high too. We'd scaled up to Aït Benhaddou and back and I'm sure this was the same fly that swooped in from the supermarket. Isham is joined by his friend, Ishmael who rolls a joint, dissecting a Camel, spilling its guts out on the Zig Zag then stitching it up all together with his lips. It's beautiful, I say. The view? oui, ça aussi. We'd taken the long way, through rouge Mars sand dunes and irresponsibly amazing inclines. By the time we're on our way back to town, I'm crying. I'm crying because I can't capture it. The mountain peaking through the clouds, our bodies hanging on the edge of the car as we wind down the summit, the endless slate of tarmac, dust and danger. Before we flee, I walk atop a knoll to take a piss, over the horizon, everything is melting away and I still feel that same moment of exhilaration where I ask myself how much do I deserve to see signs and wonders. It's a beggardly mentality, but all the same, I'm not used to this, for Isham and Ishmael, this is just Sunday. +

+ Driving through the Sahara listening to Death Grips. We hop over boulders and I look down observing the valleys of broken beer bottles, like uranium glass, twinkling between the bushes under the 3pm Sun. Would you believe it rained here yesterday? That the Sahara is currently flooding? There's a high tide on the bridge across the oasis and my guide, Isham looks out the window, worried. یلا. He had driven at almost 45-degree angles for the past half an hour through dunes and sand plains. But this place is not meant for water. Not a lot at least. A few people died here, only a couple weeks ago. Children on motherback grip to the fabric instinctually, they know now is not the time to be rebellious. I say my Salaams to the imaam outside the mosque. The restaurant across the stream, a popular lunch spot, is now closed indefinitely. The supposed stream looks more like a river. I ask Isham if he knows how to swim. He's on the phone and the lady on the reciever laughs. He smiles holding a pomegranate he's picked,
Inshallah, everything will be okay. +

+ Finished my sun salutations on the terrace after breakfast, 2 boiled eggs, a block of cheese and 3 cups of coffee spiced with cardamom, fennel and something else she wouldn't tell me. Watching the innkeeper's boy enjoy his first meal of the day, mint tea and khobz with cheese spread, broken in small chunks that he dips methodically in his cup. He leaves for a second to get sucre and a redstart has come along and overtaken his plate, pecking away in haste. He returns and shoos at it but it's just as well, he finishes his cuppa and smacks his lips, wiping his mouth and letting out a comical, ahh. He looks over the bread again then walks across to the ledge, placing it an earthen bowl and dutifully, the bird swoops back in and continues its mission. Standing on a chair, the boy sticks his head and half his body out the side to get a better view of the sunrise above the Anti-Atlas. Breakfast has ended. He walks already with a gait, hobbling back to his mother who kisses his cheek then walks him down the stairs.+

+ Perching on a stool, waving my Eagle Crest hat from left to right ear. It's raining. I didn't expect this. The shopkeeper has excused himself to find mint leaves, abandoning me with all his wares. The shop is full of swords and daggers, and one looks like it should have my name on it. I fantasize about swashbuckling. Outside, the call to prayer bellows from a PA system and the flies, are they affected by the vibration?, crawl up my ankles. I hope he will not take offence to me rejecting a bracelet he put on my wrist. All I needed was paperweight and a gift for Home. The purr of a motorbike enters then escapes, leaving only the buzzing to grow louder in my ears. +

+ Wallet. Passport. Keys. Wallet. Passport. Keys. Wallet. Passport. Keys. Cycled down to King's Cross on the scrambler to catch the plane. Going down see three foxes entertaining three drunken men, all in oxford shirts and shorts, feeding them Walkers crisps. Never seen King's X at night - it's spooky, too many people lying on tables and benches, too many shops closed and too many open too. Bought a Peanut Punch then woke up in Morocco. +

+ Took my French lesson in Hampstead. 'être' & 'avoir', very simple verbs that keep expanding further and further out. Feels funny to revisit something that I should know but I still trip up, maybe because the sun is out and I've got shades on and I'm thinking of other things. It feels almost a curse to be monolingual, I think in one dimension and others, they can dream in multiple tongues and meanings. There's no greater attraction and in turn, jealousy that arises from it for me. Many of my closest friends speak another language or share another culture, it's the right way. +

+ My friend texted me that reading my diary has been like he's been inside my head. I replied gently that I am in his head. +

+ There was a great art show in Haggerston. Late night with a bunch of leather jackets out the front door. I'm in and out like the Skepta quote. Looking at the work of friends of mine seeing them grow and grow, some don't know they're some of my oldest mates already. We cycled back and I thanked the metropolitan gods for delivering us safe and sound, cycling with no lights in East London. Unfortunately too many times, before we arrived in Haggerston, I nearly got in a smack. Maybe if She wasn't with me, I'd be dead. I think about that a lot. +

+ I wish every bot was real. +

+ My name is Alan Silver, and the following is something I have put into words, which I think is very appropriate, and it's called Scumbag Alzheimers'. I personally have to deal with Alzheimer's - it is possible and I hope that my words help to give other people with Alzheimer's sufficient courage to do what I have done, which is as follows:
'Scumbag Alzheimer's,
May you rot in hell,
Hopefully, time will tell
That soon, you will no longer be of this planet
But buried somewhere deep down in granite.'
It's just an attitude, yes? +

+ Alan's three mottos are as follows:
Be prepared like the boy's scouts
Be streetwise like my daughters
Carry a whistle+

+ It was supposed to be warm this morning but it's not. So I'm shivering in the park doing pull-ups and people are looking at me all crazy like it's insane to wear shorts in September. Or maybe it's that I'm in the kid's playground. I'm a big kid. Spent the rest of the afternoon in bed until I remembered I was a human being then a mad dash to Hampstead Heath, in a taxi, that had missed 3 turns, i'm upset, no, i'm not upset, then jumping into the Mixed Bathing ponds and discussing business. Poetry in motion
Drying my shorts out on a tree; pistachio gelato and zooming back on the dasher, my Fuji Sportif, up Princess of Wales Road. Epic win.+

+ I saw a dead pigeon for everytime a car could have struck me on the way to King's X. Three birds.+

+ How am I the close-minded one when I say I don't like bad things? +

+ Alberto, I dreamed about you.+

+ There's a train of people passing me at the co-op. I'm trying to avoid hanging out in odd numbers. We came too late, which was just in time, as we missed some kids setting off fire extinguishers. Someone takes a selfie and the flash goes off, catching us in the eye. I'm not dancing in a circle. Outside is a huge mesh of people weaving in and out, standing around the fire, going room to room.
Everyone I meet is "doing a bit of wandering". A photographer hands me a photo of me. It's really good. He's telling me about his wife from Columbia. No, sorry, ex-wife. They lived in China for 5 years then he moved back to London with 3 cats and divorce papers. 奇怪的老师. He rolls a cigarette then regrets it. The girl from Vienna falls down. Three words come to mind - Crowded, queued, waiting. They have no meaning. She holds her friend's hand. The party is over.
In the taxi, I roll the windows all the way down and fall asleep. +

+ Played tennis in Honor Oak Park. Rewatched Love Seduces Innocence and it made me cry. The taxi ride back was so good - I was hoping he wasn't trying to rob or kidnap me.+

+ Skipping down Highgate Hill. Sorry can’t stop to chat; I’m perfectly fine. +

+ She said she couldn’t stop picturing them having sex. I’m thinking what kinda sex? +

+ Zelda Fitzgerald +

+ They removed the benches by Prince Charles Cinema for bigger anti-terrorism bollards. But we still had Notre Dame de France, stitched next to the comedy club. It's the first cast-iron church in London. It was bombed in The Second World War then rebuilt with murals by Cocteau in the 50s. Inside, it says Cocteau was "...in a real dialogue with the wall of the chapel." It's the only one he completed outside of France. Feeling closer to death, he drew closer to God and did three of these. I witnessed the first one he did, Chapelle Saint-Pierre in Villefranche-sur-Mer. It was marvellous. +

+ We walked along the pedways in The City, after the Barbican. Past Milk Street, Bread Street, Russia Row, Trump Street, hanging around the intersection, trying to hail a black cab. So retro. No hits. We called an Uber instead.+

+ Ami.e.s+

+ Train to Archway.
Twins in front of me. Gray hoodies. Blue stripes. Brown hair.
First French class. Metro Cafe. It's pronounced like ozieu. Good. Bien. Bon. Bonne Mamman fig jam.
Bus to H&I. Overground to Whitechapel. 10 minute walk. Knock on the door, like what up it's me, 100.
Here
Yo
"BEIRUT
We drove from Europe to Asia at a 100 miles per hour,
And on the way, I asked God, to preserve my brothers both,"
...
10 minute walk. Creep by Radiohead on shuffle. Platform. Twins in front of me. Gray hoodies. Blue stripes. Brown hair.
It's strange, no, it's never happened to me before.
Stuck in the tunnel. Let me out now.+

+ Mating season+

+ I was going to write about modelling for this shoot in Haggerston but all I did was show up, stand around and leave. It took me longer to cycle back home.+

+ Writing poems in the rooftop garden above Great Eastern Street+

+ There are two small deaths. One is the living dead, the rotting in bed, and the endless joys scrolling into my hands, all that dopamine, that’d have killed a king a thousand years ago. And the second death, the race of the Sun over the horizon, and the paralysis that comes with it as it covers the city in ash. All I did today was worry and write. I tell her we need to get to the gathering at the hill before the Sun goes down. We didn’t get to the see the light go out, as we were on the east side but it was okay because we listened to The Beach Boys and drank champagne and got bit up by flies and I did my best not to say dumb things to the two people from active warzones.+

+ Woke up covered with bites, it’s karma for the hour I spent during work, when I killed a boat load of flies with an economics book. Bad money.+

+ 20 pull-ups in a row now. We're all gonna make it bros.+

+ Information is power,
All information should be accessible,
… +

+ 32 floors above ground having dinner with my family at The Shard. I want to smash everybody’s phone.+

+ Mister, you just assured me that I could speak. Look, I'm under what? Gentlemen, this is democracy manifest. Have a look at the headlock here, see that chap over there? he- GET YOUR HAND OFF MY PENIS! This is the bloke who got me on the penis, people. Why did you do this to me, for what reason, what is the charge? Eating a meal? A succulent chinese meal? Oh, that's a nice headlock sir, oh, ah yes, I see that you know your judo well. Good one. And you sir, are you waiting to receive my limp penis? How dare - get your hands off me! Tetta, and farewell!+

+ We went up to Dartmouth Hill to see the fog. Couldn’t really see much.+

+ It’s Sunday morning so London looks like a tornado passed through it. I’m in the best part of the 24 on the way to Camden Town. The New Routemaster’s seats on the bottom floor look to a glass facade on the back of the bus. So here, I have a full view of the street as we twist through North London. When we pass by Ferdinand Street, I catch a glimpse of two bikes as they raced across the street, snatched a phone from a lady and zoomed off up the hill. In a sense, it’s so quick and effortless that it’s beautiful, and like a stage-play, she runs helplessly after them.+

+ Shatavari, Burdock, Lions Mane, Mugwort, Lemon Balm+

+ Babylon total collapse.+

+ I’m experimenting with having meals in the morning. It’s a new thing called breakfast.+

+ Peating+

+ Had my first Thai massage. Didn't know they were meant to kneel on your back. Was very surprised. +

+ On the bridge at Loughborough Junction 'IF YOU WANT TO GO FAST, GO ALONE. IF YOU WANT TO GO FAR, GO TOGETHER’
Between two beers, we decided:
TO GO FAST:
1. DON’T LOOK BACK
2. JUST DO IT
3. DON’T THINK
TO GO FAR:
1. REFLECT
2. PARTICIPATE
3. CONSIDER
Now, we just have to figure out when to do what. +

+ Finished compiling Now, Sprawl in her kitchen. Her flatmate had mistaken a bar of chocolate for a bar of chocolate-it was actually shroom chocolate. He's doing okay, though. He had a pizza right before, so it didn't get nuts. He was happy to hear I finished all the compiling. Great hug after I said it too. +

+ A bunch of yellow irises and sunflowers for her gig at Spanners. I'm at the bar doing a quadriceps stretch like a ballerino. There's a lot of different threads weaving around, fun threads, of past lives and new ones, lights and dark,
The smoke machine is working well, so it's like we're all dancing to breakbeats in a cloud. A cloud over Break City. I'm counting down to the next month. 9 is a good number.+

+ School's starting soon so the kids are getting feral, angsty, anxious. He's kicking up a fuss at Tesco Express. There's a party tonight, if you don't let me go to the ball, I'm going to fail my class, I promise.+

+ What was that Skepta quote, not the one about sparkling water.+

+ I fired my agent.+

+ Mini coup d'état on the bus. The 24 driver missed a turn and did a circle of the last 8 stops. It was deathly quiet Then came the spark by a lone ranger ringing the bell multiple times. The next stop was meant to be Robert St. We're back on Hartland Road. I skip through the trailer for Speed, the Keanu Reeves movie, the one where's he's on a bus. A few people are in front now, ringing the bell, trying to negotiate with the driver. It's the first cold night in a while. The doors spring open in Camden High Street and everyone spills out unto the sidewalk. What happened? Not sure, who knows, man. The driver sped away. I call a cab to French House.+

+ From the tower, the duke of East Row stares at the broken cat lamp. It's vibrating from the people below. It's a sea of faces, sloshing from one mass to the next. Wisps of smoke rise up. And he looks down at the crowd with a lukewarm smile. In return, they give him a lukewarm reception. Soon after, the king arrives. He does a dance. They still cheer. Even after all these years, they still cheer. His son is on the balcony again. And he wonders if he can fill the shoes.+

+ drops bounce - hood to page - couple leave their food in the cafe untouched, wondering what happened - festival - southwark - southwark park - painkiller - steam - detroit - nostrils - earplugs- ok i gotta sit down for this one+

+ Rave in the inner dwellings of Southwark Bridge. Very high expectations going in: a 30-minute bike ride, a climb down some steps, then a ladder, ending with Level 2 beach boulders. A lot of people showed up, including the police. As we danced inside the caves, they swarmed outside with boats and police vans. We stood out on the shore for a moment, watching the tide rock buoys and Blackfriars Bridge shimmy left to right with pulsating lights. But once the music got cut off, we had to slink back to the bike stands where the cops lined up wall to wall, staring us down.
'Don't worry, they won't do anything - they're just looking' The Met Police is doing a bunch of recruiting, so they're all relatively young, maybe some even fresh off these nights themselves, somewhat mortified, somewhat excited to reinforce the cycle, albeit with more power. +

+ I just gotta free myself from desire...I just gotta free myself from desire...I just gotta free myself from desire...+

+ It’s Wednesday night, and I've already heard the first whistle of the week. I found an English-French dictionary and an English-German dictionary, both hard-back, very oppressive and alluring. I'm on my way back to Zone Four because my parents are in town. They’re happy to see me. We’ve had a tough relationship mostly. Only recently, I decided to give up the ghost and start afresh, so there’s always a bit of awkwardness in the air. My dad is watching Michelle Obama’s speech at the DNC, with glasses low, head on the sofa, and spine down on the cushions. In the next room, my mom is watching a video about a lady who was killed by her employees. I grab a bowl of soup and turn the TV on; Hail Ceasar is showing. The sound of the narrator’s retelling of this lady’s death loops back and forth, and I realize my mom's asleep. I turn her phone off and tell her to go to bed. Maybe it’s a sign.+

+James Dyson, I'm not a Luddite but one day you will have to pay.+

+ 'I told her that the omnipresence of all forces and facts was well known to ancient India, and that science had merely brought a small fraction of this fact into general use by devising for it, that is, for sound waves, a receiver and transmitter which were still in their first stages and miserably defective. The principal fact known to that ancient knowledge was, I said, the unreality of time. This science had not yet observed. Finally, it would, of course, make this "discovery," also, and then the inventors would get busy over it. The discovery would be made—and perhaps very soon—that there were floating round us not only the pictures and events of the transient present in the same way that music from Paris or Berlin was now heard in Frankfurt or Zurich, but that all that had ever happened in the past could be registered and brought back likewise. We might well look for the day when, with wires or without, with or without the disturbance of other sounds, we should hear King Solomon speaking, or Walter von der Vogelweide. And all this, I said, just as today was the case with the beginnings of wireless, would be of no more service to man than as an escape from himself and his true aims, and a means of surrounding himself with an ever closer mesh of distractions and useless activities. But instead of embarking on these familiar topics with my customary bitterness and scorn for the times and for science, I made a joke of them; and the aunt smiled, and we sat together for an hour or so and drank our tea with much content.' - Steppenwolfe, Herman Hesse +

+This past weekend, the colour scheme in London rapidly changed because of the Taylor Swift concerts. A lot of denim, a lot of glitter and a lot of pink. Not to be confused with the ABBA thing at Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park-the Swiftie undertones are peachier though the energy is more sinister. It's cheaper to fly to London and stay here for 2 nights, than see her in the States. Any time I see a video of the shows, all I can see is the huge lights swinging about and the flashlights of thousands of people. Fans getting proposed to, people fainting and literally, pissing their pants to not miss a second of the jumbotron. I don't understand it at all, I don't think I can even try to. Unrelated but I love Dancing Queen. +

+You can tell summer is ending by the fruit flies that have come to nest. They've grown fat and sluggish, lazily hovering too close for comfort. I'm wielding a broom and batting them off the ceiling in a frenzy. Some Hindus believe that killing bugs like fruit flies might relieve reincarnated people of their punishment. These fruit flies look happy. It's already getting cold in London. One of these days might be the last of the warm days and we wouldn't even know it. I hope to reborn in a sunnier country.+

+I'm addicted to making conversation with strangers. Happy points going up.+

+Gymnema Svivestre Leaf+

+I’m the clock arbor at the Hackney baths. We’d slept until 2, spent the day wandering, then flew in at the final hour. I’m in the centre of the room, and the DJ is right in my eyeline. At 2 o ‘ clock, a guy, who I thought was Elon Musk, is grinning nervously checking his phone. She’s 5pm and she’s swaying to the soundsystem grooves, 2 other friends bounce by the speakers at 8 o'clock. They dot in and out like arrows and I’m weaving to the back to hide for cover. If you find me, I will dance but now, it’s too loud for me. Maybe, I will go out again, there's only so much time. +

+I’m the third guy at this party.
A commune in Limehouse. An old friend is here, he just came back from a job in France. He said he had a good experience - learnt a lot.
Nobody learns a lot from a good experience. +

+This might not be a scientific fact but Southend-On-Sea is one of the few British seaside towns that’s beautiful. We cycled here from the station and had fish and chips and strawberry milkshakes on the boardwalk. I keep making dad jokes, I can’t help myself. The beach is strewn with seaweed and dashed with tiny rocks. We collect a few, the ones that look like teeth, the ones that look like paintings and the ones that look like they shouldn’t be rocks. Before we go, we take a walk around the amusement park. The lady at the Ferris wheel is dressed like Batgirl and she tells us we’ve got 3 spins. After one spin, we’ve hotboxed the carriage and we’re listening to 3005 by Childish Gambino. We can’t help ourselves. From the top, you can see the neon stretch all the way across to Queenborough. I can smell the salt of the sea. +

+ The foxes are circling us in Telly Hill. They’re addicted to D4100 pizza, and they know we have a box. We’d been listening to Young Thug songs and grime tracks. The Sun had already set so most people had cleared out, leaving us hiding from the Moon by the tennis courts. I say The foxes are encircling us. The shutter goes off and the video hits record. We’re watching it, watch us. Then, it grabs a box, scowls and scurries away to a foxmate down by the trees. There’s a party in Manor House. There’s a party in Vauxhall. I’m going home. +

+ *number one don't fix what ain't broke*
*number two more of a good thing does not always mean more good results*
*number three try to get the most out of the least* +

+Feeling very dangerous, I even turned Autocorrect off. +

+What happens if a woman eats Viagra?+

+I correctly guessed a song was by Oneohtrix Point Never. +

+Whistles catch my ear.
Drums above airplanes;
Airplanes above cable cars;
Cable cars above redeye-
Canary Wharf flickers on,
And a half moon forms over London. +

+Bouncer couldn’t let me in with my beer. We drink in the alley. Inside, I reflected on the guitars. We end the night with tea at the Shisha Garden Grill on Mansford Road. +

+Played British bulldogs at Regent’s Park. +

+Party in Camden, reading the lyrics for Freestyle 4. +

+All my stuff is packed in my backpack; I stash the keys in the lockbox then take a walk across the city. I keep listening to this song on the plane. +

+ 5.48 AM Last hour was between peaches and saucisson. Scratching numbers off. Perpignan is a tiny city that sounds like a place Napoleon roamed through. He spent time around there during the French Revolutionary Wars. It’s near the Spanish border - only 2 hours away from Barcelona. Last countsays there's 121,875 people here. There is a flux in the population two seasons in the year. During summer, locals sparse out because it’s too hot and bothering. Visitors come in because it’s just right. During winter, visitors go home to family. Locals come in because it’s just right. There isn’t a part of the city far from a church. I’m writing next to the Église Saint-Mathieu and the Basilique-Cathédrale Saint-Jean-Baptiste. In the Saint-Jean-Baptiste, an altar is dedicated to the Black Madonna, the divine feminine. The Holy Grail was believed to have come here through the Pyrenees mountains. The Moors stayed here. Then, the Templars. Yesterday, the air was thick. Clouds came in solid and heavy. It’s dark heat. I’m completing the last pages.
5.58 AM I finished.
6 AM The bells of the Basilique-Cathédrale Saint-Jean-Baptiste ring.
6.02 AM The bells of the Église Saint-Mathieu ring. +

+All the tobacco is making my head spin. Où est la- +

+I spent the day writing at a café, and someone there said they’d drive me to the lake. I went on a walk, and they had disappeared. So it’s ten minutes out to the bus station, and I stumbled upon an older gent trying to board the bus. He had a shifty leg and just had a laryngectomy, so he couldn’t walk or speak. We communicated using my phone’s notepad, my French bad, and his fingers shaking as he drew out his name, Patov. Bonjour. saalutt. The bus came, and I carried him to the doors as the driver looked like he would speed off on us. meerci. De rien! The lake makes my jaw drop, and I feel like falling on my knees with my arms out, screaming for God. I walk the entire length euphorically and start on some pull-ups by the bars, where I meet Robin and Louis. Hard bodies. We work out, then they go off running, and I’m right behind, tailing them with a bicycle. The houses in Leucate look like the Spanish colonial houses in California; they’re way too large for bungalows, with gorgeous terracotta roofs and gardens you can escape in. I have a shower, and Louis cooks pasta. He’s part Italian, part French, and speaks Spanish, too. Robin and I watch the Olympics. Not too long after, we’re back on the road in Robin’s car, speeding down the motorway to a beach bar. Everyone here is young and hot, and I’m nervous. I dance. I dance conservatively. I dance wildly. DJ ends the night with a song called Sex on The Beach, and everyone leaves for the next thing, but we stick around because the boys have brought swim trunks. We don’t need them. It’s my first time skinny-dipping. We’ve been walking 10 minutes deep into the sea, but I can still feel the floor. I’m so far from the shore, but I’m sitting and looking up at the stars, and they feel so close. After we towel off, we lam it with the windows open, and the smell of eggs fills the saloon. It’s all the sulphur in the air. +

+*drinks kombucha angrily*+

+The women here are beautiful, but many have hard faces peppered with deep pockmarks and cheap eyeshadow. The men, on the other hand, are mostly unassuming with large pot bellies and Hemingway beards, aside from the Algerians, with their glassy hazel eyes, who mostly keep to themselves. It's 34 degrees. Today, I paid 12 euros for an ice cream. I have lunch at a Creole place called BAD GYAL. I made a friend; he’s lived in Perpignan for 11 years. He works in a psychiatric hospital. It’s hard to ignore his worldview. Like any other beautiful coastal town, at night, it transforms from a family getaway spot to a seedy underbelly of scooter gangs, prostitutes, and drugged-out frenzies. My host keeps hanging around the apartment and I haven’t seen him without his large Balmain tortoiseshells. He has three copies of my passport. I roam the streets at night up until 4 am. I don’t know what I’m searching for, but I’m waiting for it to come to me. +

+ I'm rawdogging this Southern European nightclub, not a sip of alcohol, listening to techno with my guide, Gandhi. Not a smoke between my lips. I wonder if this might be my first trip in my adult life where I'm sober. However, I am eyeing this CBD shop - does it count if it's CBD? What are the optics of smoking CBD? +

+ Je suis à Perpignan pour un voyage en solo. Non, je ne suis jamais venu ici auparavant. Où peut-on manger une bonne glace? +

+ It’s windy in Perpignan. I’m here because I saw it in a dream. The turbines stick out from the mountains like toothpicks, and they are spinning furiously.+

+ Random seat allocation, packed flight, an Imperial 205 typewriter weighing 5kg in my Austrian army surplus backpack, already weighing 8kg.
Window seat, first ten rows, I gave the Ryanair lady a smile and she waved me through. Mashallah.+

+ I forgot how beautiful Rotherhithe is.
One pint of Amstel
One double skinny bitch
One pint of house lager
One pint of Brooklyn's
One skinny bitch
The result is me sleeping in the Uber back to hers. She's asking me if I'm okay. I give a thumbs up and wake up with the second only hangover in my entire life. The first time was at a party in university when Lidl did 2 for one bottles of champagne. Naturally, I had both bottles. Googling if you can die from a hangover. Googling if eating pizza is bad for hangovers. Googling if coconut water is good for hangovers. Googling how long should a hangover last for. Googling what is your worst hangover story. Googling how many calories is in a shot of vodka. Googling how many calories is in a shot of tequila. Googling how many calories is in a pint. Googling what are the ebenfits of drinking. Googling what are the benefits of not drinking. I'm not drinking again.+

+
I bring the pain
I bring the pain
I bring the pain
I bring the pain
I bring the pain
I bring the pain
I bring the pain
I bring the pain
+

+
Romans 10:17
So then faith cometh by hearing, and hearing by the word of God.
John 1:1
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
Genesis 1:1
In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
+

+ We were all at this group exhibition in Greatorex St in Whitechapel. It was like Coachella - very warm, very sticky and very busy so naturally, I was hyperventilating. Then, I began muttering to myself, I'm just a vessel bro. Someone asked me what I'm doing and I said I'm just a vessel, bro. +

+ There were a bunch of people dancing to MPB at King's X. Earlier, I had walked to the café at the corner and she wasn't there. It was nice I could see her now and I wanted us to keep dancing. +

+ My only regret when I die will be I didn't dance hard enough. +

+ I started going to an office in Holborn for fun. So, I'm up outside Leather Lane past lunch time sampling some leftovers. It’s full of 4HLers, so much so the falafel place plays that Dolly Parton song on repeat. I can't tell if it's ironic. Everyone in this office is looking at me like I’m fresh meat, and I think they’re all neeks and I want to kill them. +

+ She hangs on the edge of after-work drinks. She got a job in Farringdon but used to work in The City in Bank. Bank is for nerds, Farringdon is cool. Eight months ago, she started drinking again. She didn't say why. At 8.46, she leaves home even though she should have left at 8.32. They're not strict but she's only been there 2 weeks. It's the same coffee stand in H&I - the guy with the moustache, he's good looking but gay - 1 oat flat white, please- The smiles are brief, the conversation is friendly but it never gets more than that. Every day was the same order - 1 oat flat white. She tried Americanos for a while but really she was just pretending. He didn't even notice. It doesn't get better than an oat flat white. +

+ We were at a party at Camden Mews, one of his friends from a festival in Portugal set it up. He's leaving to New York. Everyone is leaving to New York. He makes a drink like one of those spicy ones in Soho House. It's got mezcal instead so he calls it a mezcante. Somebody advices me that I should only drink spring water. We're out on the terrace, not smoking, just talking because the amps overheated and the music's gone out. Inside, the DJ sits down like a buddhavista and he's rearranging the records, inspecting them, cleaning them with a napkin and then setting them away into the sleeves. Outside, it's a half-moon. We're looking at it and suddenly, I think of Stonehenge. The music swells again and the doors slide in and out, so we raise our voices each time to hear ourselves. After, we retire for some more dancing. +