Blustery wind & rain overnight, thumping on the windows, then strong sunshine scouring the housefronts along the curve of the river, transforming gable ends into blocks & triangles of light, investing an aluminium cowl, a sagging phone cable, the yellow registration plate of a passing Audi. A couple of crows parapent happily over the recreation ground, doing airpocket work, loosening up, breathing into their stalls & sideslips. Mornings like these are the only times Hammersmith can be said to have fresh air. Wind shakes the stationary water-drops on everything: a visual cue for being somewhere else, the best thing you can hope for in London. A morning like this the air seems transparent–-go on, laugh. At the same time you’re walking through a frictionless gel, in which mystery nanoplasmas have somehow slowed down the light. It’s cold on your skin. A morning like this you dream of waking up in Cornwall or Pembroke listening to the updrafts banging & bashing about the headland & knowing the next thing you’ll do is abseil to the wave-washed platform at Sennen or slither down the greasy polished limestone uterus that will eject you in one piece into the salt dazzle & sharp rocks beneath St Govan’s Head. Then the real day can start. Anticipation is a supersubstance. It’s the quantum froth under everything. It’s the only advantage of being conscious, when you come to think of it. Meanwhile, framed by a sash window across the street, I can see a single arm. It is ironing. It belongs to someone’s cleaner. The upper arm is parallel to the ironing board; the forearm and fist move the iron towards the body and away again in brusque smooth powerful strokes pivoted at the elbow.
–reblogged from Uncle Zip’s Window, February 28, 2007