Adventures In Doors

Press the flashing button
Sliding open hissing door
Sitting in the same place
As every time before…

Emerged from underground at midday as the Waterloo & City line train slammed into the portal that is Bank.
Gateway twixt realities. From then to now.

Walk the tunnels. Follow her, she will do. Anticipate the signs. DLR emergent. A quickening of pulse and pace. Expectant. Excited, gripping hands. He noticed they were no longer cold…

Blinking. Endless chattering. A strange exchange.
Filmscape, landscape. Cityscape. Urban interface. Shadwell, Limehouse, Heron Quay. Evidence of Time Travel. The future’s here and suddenly he is Six again. Wide-eyed in wonder. Like the small boy standing just over there, steadied by his dad, his face pressed against the glass ‘driving’ the train. His mother films it all, through Apple’s eye.
Their guide is Guy Debord: light and sound ideas; metal, glass and water. And in between, glimpses, living on the streets – the ghosts of Dogs. See him there, an earlier man, watching as she runs, panting, on a charity run 25 years or more before? Still haunted. Harken the power of architecture, speaking to us as ourselves.
This derivé will create a permanent spectacle as the day unfolds…

“An exercise in combinatory aesthetics”

Island Gardens.
Island – just for a moment.
Gardens – living our lives on the tides of this city.
Moving me to you
Moving you to me

Twin domes across the river. Nearly there. This morning is a lifetime away.

Another door slides, silent glides.
Oak-panelled lift descending. Leave all your concerns at the door. TARDIS simulator. Another tunnel. White light underground. The lamps are numbered N to S. Walking slowly down and gently up. And up.

By now anticipation is replaced with gay abandon and all that is wrong becomes the rightest thing.
They step out, into huge and blue. Tall ships aground in Tarmacadam. Admission charges now apply.
(It would seem that tea still commands elevated prices!)

But how right it feels that there should be no longer
Clouds to spoil the view

She wants to eat. She wants to please. But everything is already more good that she can know.

Without due caution, they could end up East…

There are choices to be made, and times to spend.
The Red Door is held for them by a couple leaving, laughing
And another couple laughing enters in.
Table by the window. Menu – something wrong?
The door again. Thank you, sorry.
Somewhere else?

Roads to cross and gates to find. People to negotiate, and older trees.
London maple. Just like home.
Except it’s not, even at all.

Once I was walking alone with a friend



The Book Of Leaves

My thanks to John Foxx for the wonderful title


I hold my hand out and the grass
Rushes through my fingers –
I look at window silhouettes
And everything is different;

I turn another page
In The Book of Leaves
It crumbles to dust in my hand
Photographs of distant moments
In The Book Of Leaves
The story of another kind of life
That no-one reads

I walk in silence
Stand in darkness
Talking to the trees

My diary of you and me is called
The Book Of Leaves

I am not the man she loves
No-one really knows me
I’m the album on the shelf
That you have never played –

Somehow changed
And nothing is the same

She writes another entry
In The Book Of Leaves
Engraves another memory
That no-one sees

Tries to write a different ending
in the Book Of Leaves
An invisible, dead language
Only I can read