Saturday thoughts

My favorite place in London is the rec center, RV camp, and stables under the overpasses on the way to Oxford. There is a glowing bubble tent that neatly snatches on to the underside of the flying concrete arch, enclosing a basketball court Immediately adjacent is an RV park, part-'on my way out' and part 'I'm here to stay.' It's a strange limbo place; the impermanence of its settlers manifest not only in their dwellings (house on wheels) but site. Their driveway is the highway.
It's a shanty town, grown up. There is even a small house under construction, roof truss and Tyvec stand as monuments to someone who plans on staying a lot longer. In their community of travelers, are they the outcast or the king?

The arena and stables across a small alley is constantly in use. The horses don't seem to mind the roaring traffic 50 feet above their heads. A chestnut, turned out, ambled around and poked his head over the fence. Does this city horse long to run free along the interstate, like the autos whizzing by? Does he see the open stretch of pavement and think "Freedom!"? He is the evolutionary link between horse and car.


back to the noise and the craze of the city after a short stretch in oxford. we barely scratched the surface before the group, eyes flitting towards the door of the cafe, decided they had seen enough. "What more is there?" perhaps they are a different type... perhaps they -did- see enough... perhaps they are contentedly consumed with the city. But I long for country, and open parks without sign of lights or buildings, and a deafening quiet, and space to move. I need solitude, and ancient churches, and an explosion of green things, and fields full of sheep.
I nearly cried on the bus as we pulled away through the streets and back towards London; it's not just that Oxford is so Blake, Oxford is so home.
Even Mike commented that I seemed much more at ease there than London.

It's true.
I'm hooked.

Filtering through pictures, I've decided that I'll be able to fill a scrapbook chronicling all the places I've been to through pictures of moss.
I can't get enough of it; it's so cute, so green, so small and furry. I want some pet moss. The past few days I've been scheming about how to get my hands on some moss, and how to care for it (how i would keep the rock moist, not too sunny, etc). I need to find some moss to nick.

I keep forgetting that "Pants" is a 'bad' word.


I'm reading A Place of My Own, by Micheal Pollan. In the book, he chronicles his personal journey to hand-make a small writing hut in the woods behind his house. He refers to it as his tree house, and writes beautifully about the unique and intensely personal qualities of small, secluded spaces like tree houses and forts under the stairs. The tree house (both of his childhood and in general), he writes, becomes more than just place to hide or play, but a symbol of private childhood ritual... "a temple of one's privacy and independence."

I have a whole theory on how this relates to blogging and Facebook. I'll spare the details.

L