Ambling and Enabling
A woman asks me which way to Kennington Tube. There must be something about the heart that screams – ASK ME, ASK ME, ASK ME DIRECTIONS! Maybe it’s just that someone carrying their heavy heart surely must know where they’re going? Again – like the man from the first journey – she makes no mention of the heart. I tell her which way and off she wanders.
A bus stop.
Stop.
Sit.
Stay.
Near Elephant and Castle roundabout.
Still not half way!
How has this happened! I am so so tired and I have so much further to walk.
I sit a long time here.
I watch bus after bus rumble past.
I see faces behind glass.
They don’t smile.
They only stare.
Their eyes are glazed over.
Are they coming from work? Are the going to work? I don’t know. But I know that we are nothing to one another. We move past one another in this town and we are nothing to one another. I don’t know the last time someone said hello to me in London for no reason (when I’m heart-less anyway). The people that say hello/that we say hello to, they’re only ever someone who’s serving you or who you are serving. But once we step out onto the streets it’s almost as though we completely forget that we’re all still the same people – that girl could be the waitress who laughed at my stupid joke last week, that man could be the accountant in the suit who thanked me for the tea, really thanked me and genuinely meant it.
We’re just on the street.
And on the street – why is this different? Cause we’re not buying anything from one another here? I don’t know. I need to think about that. But we all do it don’t we? Once we step onto a bus we all just tune out, go somewhere else. Maybe we’re just tired? Maybe communication has become too much of a job for everyone that we don’t want to do it outside our working hours – don’t want to do it unless we’re getting paid?
I am jolted out of my thoughts by a man who sticks his head out of a van and yells something at me and waves. I can’t make out his words but I know that I liked them.
I stand.
Thank you van man.
I stand on the edge of the road and a man on a bike slows and waves me across the road.
Dogs wag their tales and I keep on walking.
I’m close to Lambeth North Station when –
-Do you need some help?
No I’m fine thanks.
-Sure?
Yeah, yeah, don’t worry, I’m fine. Thank you though.
WHAT DID I JUST DO??
WHAT DID I JUST DO??
WHAT DID I JUST DO??!!
Literally 10 seconds pass and then
-Do you want me to carry that for you?
No, no I’m ok, thank you…
-Ok.
Thanks.
AGAIN!?!
I DID IT AGAIN!?!
TWICE IN A ROW?!
What the hell is wrong with me!?
I did this – I did all of this – all these months, all this money, all this paint and plaster and pain and then I say NO??
FUCK!!
I try to rationalise…
They were both walking the wrong way – I didn’t want to put them out…
The first guy looked kind of dodgy.
(These are only excuses, I’m aware, the second guy completely completely did not look dodgy at all.)
ARGH.
IDIOT.
IDIOT.
I turn down Pearson Street because I need some down time.
I put my heart on the ground and see a huge gash in it’s surface. The button of my jeans is the culprit.
I call a friend who lives near by.
He meets me.
I tell him of my ridiculous behaviour and I promise I’ll do better next time.
He laughs.
I know he thinks I’m insane.
I know he thinks I’m ridiculous.
I know he doesn’t know why the hell I do the things I do.
I can understand that.
We sit for a moment more and then I send him away.
I sit alone.
I am insane.
I am ridiculous.
Why the hell do I do the things I do?
I don’t understand.
I continue on and he takes photos in my wake.
The Thames.
It has never seemed wider.
I have to allow my heart to be carried, don’t I?
That’s it, isn’t it. That’s all.
I need to allow this as much as you need to help.
Easier said that done…
