stories from the underground

This piece was part of a project I did for a UCL class on the history of the book. I wanted to explore how much people’s lives impact the texts they annotate — I also annotated a book of poems from the London Underground as the characters I created. Spelling and grammar were according to the Brits. Here are some of my favourite stories from the project:

Story 2: Tim Robbins

Tim hoped the reflection in the Tube doors wasn’t accurate. Was his tie really so crooked? Should he have put on a tie to begin with?

His flat mate, Stan, had told him not to. Said he’d look like a business wanker. ‘But I am a business wanker’, Tim insisted. Stan said he saw no reason to have her learn that on the first date.

Jessa had said the tie was a good move. It made him look ‘So cute!’ she said, though apparently not cute enough for Jessa.

Cologne was probably a bad move as well. Jessa said this girl works in a gallery in Brixton. Do girls who work in Brixton like cologne?

Tim wasn’t sweating but he felt like he was. He felt his tie tightening around his neck as the car filled up at Waterloo. The Banker Wanker, that’s what this girl will call him when she talks to Jessa. Jessa will just laugh and say, ‘He’s so cute, though!’

Tim pulled at his tie. Is cute meant to be an insult nowadays?

He took a drink from his water bottle, and of course it went down the wrong pipe. A stranger with blue hair asked if he was okay. Her voice was a bit soft, kind of like Jessa’s. Tim caught his breath. ‘Yeah, I’m er, I’m fine’, he said, closing his water bottle. He looked down. ‘Hey’, he said, ‘does this tie make me look like a banker wanker?’

The stranger laughed. ‘Maybe a bit, but in an okay way. It’s kind of cute’. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small white leaflet (‘Well of course she’s crazy’, Tim figured) and said ‘Hey, would you mind helping me out with something?’

Continue reading

of thought

I’m really sorry but

I’m not completely with you now

 

Look at that blue! the sky is glowing

More stars gleaming

over my tiny head at night

My train has brightly

S

l

i

d

off the tracks and off the cliff

flipping through the icy air!

falls, rolls down a grassy hill and

bumps along the dirt and rocks,

 

Then whirring! through the ocean and

past the gleaming treasures, shimmering under water

waves hello (hello!) to the lists of lists I tend to jot

then into black abyss it shot…

 

hello?

 

It seems I’ve lost my train.

the girl

5ish o clock in Spoon in Edinburgh, Scotland.

Lights dimmed, wood tables, rose saucers, light jazz, and leather sofas.

3 friends, 4 pots, no pot.

Warmed by the bittersweet blood orange tea, the scotch whiskey tour from before, and the sun through the hills. Adventuring (the way I want) and soaking in (the way I need). Sitting in Spoon and writing like Rowling. Taking off my oversized dad sweater, keeping it nearby.

All the while, knowing there was magic written here. Knowing that right now — right now — is how I want to be.