Brit From Within

to J. Strummer

""

Londonland is full of tourists. In fact, it was quite hard to pinpoint a real brit amongst the crowd. Some forty-yearold pseudopunk lying there just letting all the puny pink freezing tourists take some photos of them is singing the ol’ you can push us… lamely. Corrupted is not the right word, but it is the first that comes to my mind. Even with one eye, that is all my sight can withstand without vomiting next to a red post. I can’t lie. I cried a tear. I reach the Eye. Another transnational marvel. Good it’s not “London’s Eyes”, I couldn’t have afforded it. It’s awesome, amazing, astonishing and some other words starting with “a” that reflect suprise. Right when I’m on top, looking at the wide turn under Waterloo, I wonder… the weather is beautiful, isn’t it? Even the mild rain over the Thames has stopped to allow a shy sun bright some rays over the bland city. Still, it always rains in London… this time the rain comes from within. I don't want to go down 'cause London's drowning and she lives by the river. No matter how much I love you Una, no matter how hard it was for me to leave you back in Normandie, I realize I miss Hanaan. Just by knowing she’s somewhere down there between the houses, the pubs, the kews, the cold faces… just by knowing she’s down there in the city is enough for me to wish I stayed up here. I do not want to go down. I had my revenge, she had hers. I’m eager and terrified of crossing her. We could either kill us or love us… apart.

My iPod is set on Rev Rock. The original. I emphasize 'cause back in Argentina we had its ska-remake by The Brand New Cadillacs. I 'member a girl... I guess I loved her... she always prefered the cover. An irony that hurts my optic nerve-to-be when the slow tune ends... with my good eye on the beat, living on fixation street. S'funny how between she an me, we always believed cadillacs were the cars of madness.

Poetically, Brixton is the last of the blues. However, it’s Guns were nowhere to be seen outside the station, which could be easily mistaken for a convenience store. Irish Ian, or II, chose a nice corner to meet. Brixton is more like me. The building on Coldharbour Lane where I’m waiting at is as beige as my will, as thin as my hopes… wonder if anyone actually lives in there. Just a corner, like a newlyborn moon. He comes from the alley with the fog. I open the backpack and haste the hydroponic drought in wrapper plastic towards him. Even before he whispers his “ye’ ol’ lad” I’m already forgetting The Guns of Brixton and thinking of you. Just before losing it, my baby drove up in a brand new cadillac. She said "balls to you daddy". She ain't never coming back!

Ye were disappointed with my decision, weren’t you lad? Even as I left you outside that damp rainy french clinic I knew you would never see me again. But again, in France it is legal before the third month. I’m aquarius, I take this proximal cause decisions with a cold mind and visceral speed. You’re like B’s obituary: clean, practical, fierce. I still don’t know. That was your decision after all, that of the ultimate cause. Ye said you loved me. And then ye said “how many eyes do you need to lose in order to see we don’t belong together?” It took Odin just one to be enlightened. I paid mine. Ye never asked, lad. I would’ve loved to have your child… even if it was not mine.

""

My old baby. You used to be mad for justice, like some beautiful greek.Then you were just mad. It's really grotesque. No, Love, not grotesque.
--- Amy Freed, ThePsychic Life of Savages

ART: (to JON) Maddy and me have been arguing constantly.
(to tape) Cereal. (to JON) are you OK?
JON: Huh?
ART: You're jumping around like you've got to go to the bathroom
JON: I'm part Indonesian
--- Billy Aronson, TheArt Room