Stream of Conciousness - London

Have you ever streamed your conciousness?

OK - so this is how it works - as applied to London - sit down with your lap top and let your mind drift through London - focus on memories and feelings - of nostalgia, sadness, loneliness, fear, togethernesss and celebration - write whatever words come to mind - don't worry about grammar or spelling or even making sense - just write as you feel - a stream of conciousness - see what you come up with and please do not hesitate to post to the bottom of this post....

I feel like i have a new perspective on London; i feel like i know it so well now; i feel like i know north London like the  back of my hand; like Old Street, the action the stylists the artists, those trapped in a kind of self-effacing of the emotions, and instead a channelling of the emotions through a very thing thread, into their designs and expressions, into the superficial, but a rich superficiality, full of feeling, warmth, colour and surprise. a squeezing of the emotions into fabric and texture and touch; into style and vogue, and being and walking and jauntiness; and everything like the sound of one's voice; but never relaxed, and never depressed; and never bathed in the pain of one's emotions, and never vulnerable, and never listless, and never bathing in the relaxing waters of one's own disquiets and worries; and never facing up; and never slowly softly drowning in one's own feelings; but instead expressing, and looking, and viewing, and investing, and designing and creating and admiring and aspiring and producing and hoping; hoping that the thing you make is the thing that people love; that if people cannot love you they can at least love the thing you make; the way you look; your style, if they cannot accept you if they are not bonded to you; that you can at least make something that transiently momentarily attracks their sparkling eye, their eye for sparkle.... that is i have to say what Old street and Kingsland Road and its surrounds is ALL about - it is all that and sun dried tomatoes, chiabbata and Pizza Express, and loverly dresses, and ornate crurves and hips, and hips that need to be purchased, and AMmerican apparel, and amazing arses, and modest breasts, revealed half, white, black, cocoa, cream, and then therefore to the EAST of all this is a different reality, one bathed in the reality of abuse and rape, and past childhood abuses, that is HAckney, of a dismay and despair mixed with artistry, and drug taking, copious amounts of drug taking, escpaism, shared escapsim, so it feels like its together, shared drug taking which feels like a holiday to a far off distant place, and more outrageous clothes and shoes, and a bit gay, and a bit effeminate and a bit over the top and a bit shaggy, and a bit this and a bit that, and forty-five year old women, who have just had children, rolling in money, never need to worry about money, walking through Haggerston Park and Hackney City Farm, and the surrounds, watching and worrying about age, as one's toddler trundles impervious to the dangers of modern life, on their hand made wooden tricycle, as most of the Scottish community resident in HAckney, are fallen fast asleep, still fallen after being felled in the early hours of that very morning, docile, pit bullish, wrinkled, rhinocerous skin, humour, intimidating, personality, strength and depth of voice, pure aggression, happiness, a certain gravity, and now unshaven, and powerful man; mens; but then beyond that we have the outer reaches of my own imagination of London; we have Upton Park and the avenue, that big long boulevard, that avenue of Islamic and Muslim peripatetic foot trundling, moving, overcoats white that flirt with the paving stones, markets with poor people and cheap vegetables, and Islamic shops with Islamic clocks, and scripts and pictures, so keep Islamic, keep bound, keep GOd, Allah and all, Mohammed and everything, everything is Muhammed, and Allah, and junk and things and things and cloths, and books and teachings about how the inner mechanisms of this world that produces and upon which it depends; is a bad heathan infedelic world, amongst whose feet, walk the heathens, one by one, of odd English still remaining, and of hindus, and carribeans, and this and that; and God knows what; there are far too many skin colours, or blending into one for me to know who is who, and who comes from who, and if anyone can remember where they came from anymore, the outer regions of the east then - moving south - god i know nothing of this city movign south - places like charlton and the like which i imagine a mix of white working classes, valley supporters, and asians, who care not for the football and the pubs - and its like this as we head south, south, past London bridge, waterloo, where who lives there kmnow not i, foreigners, newly arrives, not knowing that home in London is anywhere but places like Waterloo and London Bridge. and then on to Chelsea and Kensington to the place where the pmystical people live, the ones' that control the weather and all time and space and can buy a mango from Harrods for twenty pounds because it is big a huge mango the best mango in London ; and who do mystical things that we know not of; expensese and money of an incredible scale, to feed us all, but to feed just them, and houses in Notting HIll where models and expensive guys have mass orgies, penises and vaginas, and smells everywhere, hmm, dreams of the Muslim soldier lived on earth, and despised and envy, and you will have seventy virgins and they do, those rich guys, those Formula 1 bosses, and carribeans who own houses that once were not wanted, but now are gold apparently, and carnivals, and shit, and i dont know what its like living round there, Brixton of course, further further south somewhere, and also beyond Wimbledon, and Croydon, and all these places, on the edges of my understanding and cognisance, but coming back across Wimbledon, where more Asians live, and White people, poor, getting by, a bit unhappy, making do, emotionally connected, at least when compared with the fashionistas'; those childless barron artistes, the hated kids of Shoreditch and surrounds, where furniture was once made; and all i can do is sweep eastwards, from the west along that hated irrascible train line, that overground train line, that competes with snails to make it across to Dalston Kingsland, where i arrive at Hampstead, and St Johns, and Golders Green, and Temple Fortune and then BArnet; this hinterland, this pleasant hinterland, where people go to die; where people stop living and just exist inside four very safe walls, walls which encompass a kind of pleasant space, a size of which is unknown for the rest of the city; and God i want that peace, i wasnt to sleep forever, but mighten i never wake up; and Hampstead and Highgate, where people go to sleep forever in opulence and luxury; and estate agentse; those bastards; oh shit, and Highgate old man's reading room, and then down to Crouch End library, where Saturday's can feel immemorial, can feel like forever, and ever, and where time stops, and where knowledge and knowing, stump pain and feeling; and where one can find Heimat; such great and revered choices, stock great... and i am closing in on my knowledge of htis great city, closing the net, rapping it up, for what have i left, to mention but that hell hole that is Camden, Regents Park, Somers Town... Angel pretty, bla, bla,, Euston Kings Cross, the City and west end i care not, not one shit for; for my spirit whirls around these places, but dies on their border, least thing to say that the most melancholy and rich street that i ever did know was Archway, Holloway ROad, so many nights waiting for the N43, broken dreams, ideas, invested dreams and fantasies, of women waiting for a bus home; and the endless spine of this road, small dusty dirty shops; Irish connections, IRish pubs, history, nostalgia and sadness, shorts, ghosts, rich in spirit, so rich and sad, bury me there, and finally of mention is Finsbury Park where my soul gravitates; the places that draws me in from so many directions, for so many reasons, so much history, my village, my meaning; is all here in this park, and please god kill me there in, stick a dagger in my heart, let me cry out for one last time in Finsbury Park.

What do you reckon?

Worth reading? Evocative?

Or introspective ramblings that would be better kept to myself?