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there have been only three days without rain all summer. today wasn’t one of them.
today i was tested for tuberculosis in the hospital where george orwell died from tuberculosis, by a cockney nurse who assured me i would die instead from cycling around the city. he had served in berlin as a soldier, partying in the years before the wall came down, and found it topical to offer his proposal for london’s olympic legacy: a complete demolition of stratford.
i go to iain sinclair talks although i cannot read his stories. tonight he was paired with simon faithfull, english-born berlin-based artist, who traces his own personal geography using unassuming digital sketches, now made into an iphone app called limbo, soon to be updated to be interactive personal space mapped onto a subjective atlas of the world. not googlemaps. my inner sinic saw the word ‘whimsy’ floating in pencil-sketched letters, but he spoke so well about the space between the map and daily experience.
we map it in order to make it less absurd
said iain sinclair; scratched and unscratched layers, local east london intricacies, grand plans and non-complying realities, with endless synchronicity and parallel. one day i will read his new book.
i rode home with my helmet dangling from handlebars because i’d dripped some of my dinner in it. the day would have been terribly circular if i had died as the nurse had predicted, and due to the sauce of an east end kebab.

One Comment

  1. gen wrote:

    I love you little one, I hope you do not have TB.
    And remember: ‘Sauce in the Hair is better than Brain on the Bitumen’ (aka: wear your helmet)

    Tuesday, July 19, 2011 at 4:17 pm | Permalink

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