empty dreams

Shit London. Of course. But there's also an exhibition of pre-historic artefacts on at the British Museum and some work by M. Mori which looks interesting. Also, no doubt, there will be a retrospective of Oscar Niemeyer's work. The city, not unlike the university, attempts this amazing delicate balancing act, drawing on the past and pushing open the future. The weight of the world dissipated in a few fragmentary images, sideways glances, mumbled words.

On the central line you could put together all the snatches of conversation you overhear into a book... "I love you"..."It's totally fucked"...."And he said, yeah..."

On the northern line, you suspect, there would be more gruff, austere tales to tell. The district, you hazard to guess, would have the greatest variety, ranging from Punjabi to Bengali as you head west; then Somali comes to predominate. At Tower Hill there's Italian and Japanese from the tourists, and this holds until Victoria. Beyond that we're talking Arab country; only when you press on, south and west, do you hear some English words again, and this time its a degree or two posher than when you started..." And he said, of course..."..."We're totally fucked"..."I love you".

Words are said over and again. The 'when' and the 'where' change all the time. And who says what to who and under what circumstances, means it's never quite the same. The stuttering, the dream on its own, means nothing. It only makes sense within the larger scheme of things, the whole story of which only a small part passes you by. The dream within the dream is sometimes more acute, intense, than anything else...