Death... and Life
Ventured out with dear friend C.D. on one of our regular photographic treks around town. On these adventures she provides a long-term inhabitant's inside knowledge and takes me to parts of London I would normally not be privy to. I provide a kind of lookout in the event of the necessity of her stepping into the road for a great shot, or into the semi-deserted back courtyard of a shop off the main strip. Observe as we stalk the mean and semi-mean and totally-mean streets of this region, our cameras stealthily stowed in our shoulder bags to circumvent the ingenuity of bicycle-borne snatch-thieves, to be stealthily withdrawn and brought into service to capture the abject glitter-grunge we chance upon.
Today's adventure took us to the always eventful Mile End.
As usual I was struck by the fact that bouncy, cuddly London skies have been wheeled in only metres above one's head: so very different to the Australian troposphere with its million acres of heat, and million-warehouse emptiness.
After some time, we found ourselves, by chance, at the weed-besieged gates of the sprawling, Victorian, Tower Hamlets Cemetery Park, which is ringed by blocks of flats. As we walked along the main path we were soon pitched into the usual cliched Edgar Allan Poe mis en scene: the crows cawing offstage; the serried, rotten ranks of broken, tumbled, mossed-over headstones with their weather-eroded letters hinting at the lives of all the Henrys, Agathas, Beatrices and Alfreds, whose mouldering bones lay beneath our feet, caked in clay, 'Asleep in Jesus' and 'Forever At Rest'. Diphtheria. Tuberculosis. Scarlet Fever. Measles. Mumps.
A man in his mid-thirties walked past us and made his way off the path to a grassy clearing amongst the trees. He proceeded to lie down on the ground with his legs outstretched before him, as if intent on enjoying the sun's questing rays. He may even have been doing just so; but his primary reason for this display soon became apparent, for very soon another man appeared on the pathway. And then another. Each of these men slowed, looked about them, made eye contact, and retreated into the depths of the green forest. We had inadvertently stumbled upon a quite busy gay beat. And what a perfect venue for such an adventure, with a great many hard to negotiate pockets of tumbling greenery and shadowy nooks under ancient groaning trees. How marvellous that the gently crumbling dead below were privy to the life-affirming squirmings, clutchings and groanings of the living, above.
On the way home we passed another, smaller, park and through the railings I saw a book that someone had discarded. I picked it up. It was Evelyn Waugh's 'Decline and Fall', which I have not yet read. I collected it up and took it home for later delectation.
Today's adventure took us to the always eventful Mile End.
As usual I was struck by the fact that bouncy, cuddly London skies have been wheeled in only metres above one's head: so very different to the Australian troposphere with its million acres of heat, and million-warehouse emptiness.
After some time, we found ourselves, by chance, at the weed-besieged gates of the sprawling, Victorian, Tower Hamlets Cemetery Park, which is ringed by blocks of flats. As we walked along the main path we were soon pitched into the usual cliched Edgar Allan Poe mis en scene: the crows cawing offstage; the serried, rotten ranks of broken, tumbled, mossed-over headstones with their weather-eroded letters hinting at the lives of all the Henrys, Agathas, Beatrices and Alfreds, whose mouldering bones lay beneath our feet, caked in clay, 'Asleep in Jesus' and 'Forever At Rest'. Diphtheria. Tuberculosis. Scarlet Fever. Measles. Mumps.
A man in his mid-thirties walked past us and made his way off the path to a grassy clearing amongst the trees. He proceeded to lie down on the ground with his legs outstretched before him, as if intent on enjoying the sun's questing rays. He may even have been doing just so; but his primary reason for this display soon became apparent, for very soon another man appeared on the pathway. And then another. Each of these men slowed, looked about them, made eye contact, and retreated into the depths of the green forest. We had inadvertently stumbled upon a quite busy gay beat. And what a perfect venue for such an adventure, with a great many hard to negotiate pockets of tumbling greenery and shadowy nooks under ancient groaning trees. How marvellous that the gently crumbling dead below were privy to the life-affirming squirmings, clutchings and groanings of the living, above.
On the way home we passed another, smaller, park and through the railings I saw a book that someone had discarded. I picked it up. It was Evelyn Waugh's 'Decline and Fall', which I have not yet read. I collected it up and took it home for later delectation.
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