"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>photo blog #1: london

>it’s that time again. every september.


july 5-10

big ben hovers and threatens.

tower bridge, overexposed.

walk underneath the arches of the bridge, forget where you are.

big ben and the houses of parliament from the seat of a velveeta bus tour.

fool for love, the sam shepard play i saw at the apollo theatre, starring juliette lewis and martin henderson.

the tower of london. lady jane, anne boleyn, elizabeth.
POWs (prisoners, our women).

oh billy the conqueror. do you know your bricks still stand? 1000 years means nothing.

in the Beauchamp Tower, where Lady Jane and the Dudleys were held before their executions, many engravings, 500 years etched, still remain in the walls. in several spots, i found this – IANE . . . jane. jane . . . was that guilford?

the scaffolding, where everyone, including anne boleyn, lost their heads. notice the plaque. notice how it’s mostly women executed.

not much has changed.

the 6 ravens, which king charles I insisted on keeping around the tower to stave off the fall of the monarchy, were ironically looming around the scaffold. hungry for fresh meat.

as i snapped this photo, i remember thinking, “you lost your heads, but here i am.”

inside the tower, placed almost invisibly on the floor near ancient cannons, sat this gilt plaque. what a place to die.

st. paul’s cathedral. please do not note the famous dome.

piccadilly circus at dusk. i hopped in a taxi, and the driver said, “where to, love?”

piccadilly circus at dawn. like times square or dundas square.

temple church. and the effigies of the knights templar. and tom hanks. you’ve all seen the da vinci code. ya’ll know what i’m talking about.

they’re going to place my effigy right next to that knight. they’ll lay me down like this, smiling, with my belly down so the world can kiss my ass.

the faces surrounding the effigies. they’re all frightened.

they’re horrified.

they’re screaming.

the effigies are quiet and still at noon.

the church resists prayer.

smiling in church. that’s a first.

(excuse the sweatiness, it was boiling that day)

the courtyard of westminster abbey, where the monks and friars once sat in quiet contemplation. i took this shot as the abbey was closing for the day, so while this area was usually bustling with japanese tour groups, i managed to steal a shot with nothing but the echoes as my guide.

look through the iron gates of the courtyard, see the abbey, see the sky.

see through to universe.

all hail mel gibson.

this is me listening with a short fuse at speaker’s corner, where people get up on their soap boxes, and tell us we’re all going to hell for having abortions and showing our collarbones.
(photo by aisha!)

this woman on the right called me a “mongrel” for being canadian. you don’t say that to a muthafuckin’ estima unless you want a shit-kicking.

(photo by aisha!)

he’s right, you know.


this is mike from manchester. a chef who loves pete doherty and football. every night at the hostel, we sat in the common room down in the basement and watched crappy tv. he called me “the one that got away.”

the night italy won the world cup, jan, the owner of the notting hill hostel i stayed at, took me out for a drink. we walked back together, yapping like monkies in jamun trees. scandinavian, a month younger than me, former football player, wearing a pink shirt.

good times.

i should just have “douchebag” written across my fricken face.

awww, shucks.

on the eurostar train, through the chunnel, from london to brussels, blurring the trees, dotting the lines, chasing the horizon. my eyes are alive.

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