Urban passport

10 May 2009

It is for writing ourselves

It is for writing,
for writing ourselves out of our-selves,
for writing our-selves into what
(never)
was and may
(never)
be.
It is
is it for love?

Della Pollock

21 March 2009

Oriental concerto in New Cross

The space around College is quite empty, while cafes are packed with young faces anxious to enjoy the continuing rays of the sun. Corridors in Goldsmiths College are a vacuum of presence, but they lead to the only cash machine in New Cross. And today is a particular day, as we enter the main building and details of the scene reveal its nature. An eastern melody I cannot discern properly with a dance-beat in the background - people sitting in the main hall as if attending a mass - the word anniversary behind the stage - and yes, here it is: the small black typing on an A4-page designating the real nature of the gathering "Afghan new year".
It takes a trip for some 20 odd quid to experience such surprising ceremonies.. We turn the corner and peeking back into the hall we spot the DJ-set with the man in action in front of what seems to be a gathering of around 5 families. What? I think I must have heard myself say. Earlier today someone wrote "there is nothing new in London anymore, just more of the same" (a strange phenomenon when a strong intuition tends to occupy the pre-packaged box of your facebook status); I personally think every-day I'm proved the contrary.
Those people seemed to be enjoying themselves and it didn't seem to be related to College actions whatsoever. The beat goes on and a couple of children come out in our path (and I collected my 20 quid), I spot the happy face of a grey-haired father who nods his appreciation along with the rhythm at the Mixer on stage.
Our education is never on a break here, and yet it was such a simple afternoon, and a new year's gathering which resembled the kind of birthday parties kids only have in American movies. This concerto of images is made out of little sounds and colours, but its force is so disruptive... Generally only silence will upon it, this typically London sigh that could occur in a brief exchange of looks in the central line. This look that seems to say "you are here, I sit here". The force of my own common mistake - until very recently I never bothered about distinguishing 'here' and 'there', which was only something strange the English primary school teacher tried to make us understand. We came out in this same, unfinished mode of reflection, chatting away in French.