Not All Of What Follows Is True

A recurring journal of mixed veracity.

Tuesday, March 09, 2004

NOIR WORLD (By Peat)

By the day the city is normal. As normal as a city like London can get. The endless hum of traffic, the noise of a life too busy to slow down. The passing clouds above like a pixilated sheet sky from 'Quake'. But at least it's normal. When to sun goes down however, the street lights bathe the world in orange, the stone and concrete becomes cold as ice and the halogen lights hum just as incessently as the cars around.

Where do I live? Well, if I had to give it a name, I would call it 'Noir world'. Every corner a mixture of shadow and light. Everyone's face partly hidden. Chiraschuro gets out two paint pots of light at dark and makes a world of stark contrasts.

I look up at the sky by the stars are drowned out by the haze. I gaze into the void, sometimes there is a moon, gazing back at me like a huge blind eye. Leering over the city. Sometimes it seems to me that its not so improbable that the city is hanging upside down over a bottomless pit. As if our skyscrapers plunge into the depth's of that pit searching for light. But finding only darkness. Then when we die our souls fall up into the sky and are swallowed by whatever mouth goes with that white eye.

But it's not just the lighting, the hidden agendas, the femme fatales or the despair that make Noir World what it is. It's that sinking feeling, the question I ask my self over and over again. Why is this happening to me? Then the answer comes as always; for no reason. For no reason at all.

Saturday, March 06, 2004

Green Lanes Blues
Stephen O'Brien

I’d been here for several weeks now, living entirely on coffee and cheese sandwiches. Outside my window a van pulls up, deploys a satellite antenna, prepares to relay data on the death of Turks. It stands defiantly outside the green-yellow Dostlar Lokali, decaying since that whole shooting business back in March. The Dishevelled Man goes past – I recognise him by his ever-present dark blue baseball cap, shabby clothes, battered off-white trainers of unknown brand, permanent three-day stubble. I think he lives on Duckett – once passed him painting a wall up there. God knows what he’s up to, but he roams Green Lanes all day. Scratch that – God may not know what’s going on here, but that guy probably does. Because of the roaming.

I also roam. During the day I stalk the Piccadilly and Victoria lines, trying to avoid the woman begging with her baby. I wander the waste of High Holborn. My hair is too long and forms a mass of strange angles to the side of my head. My nails are also long, collecting dirt. My coat is threadbare and frayed at the cuffs, while my trousers have developed holes, which, though not visible to the casual observer, disturb me, nonetheless. I am changing, physically, shifting in image to become what society has apparently consigned me to be.

By night I drink coffee, eat sandwiches, read a biography of Wilhelm II – all this until I fall asleep. Each morning I am woken by the thunk-thunk-thunk of a blade slamming into meat.

So this is how I live. Until, one morning, about 10 o’clock, I get The Call.