Thursday, 17 December 2015
Thro' Midnight Streets
I love this city. London is a strange and haunted place. It’s terrifying and glorious. A city of unparalleled power. Once upon a time it was from here that the Earth was ruled. But not just the Earth, also the dreamscapes of those who lived upon the Earth. Perhaps, in ways occulted to us, it still is. For me, London is a city of dreams and nightmares. No matter how deeply its filth and macabre history is prettied by modernity and gentrification, the past still howls beneath it all. Closer to the surface than we think.
To paraphrase the visionary poet William Blake; harlots still curse at forced subsistence, and blood still runs down palace walls. The violence of former atrocities never really washes away, and in certain lights can still be seen. These chartered streets mark sigils, icons and ancient flows of harnessed power. The Highest in the Land, the predator-elites, they think they created this city, and every blackening church of dreams within it. Infurnum est ars. But London is far greater than they are. My city is irreducible; full of secrets, hidden places. And magick. London is magick. It’s an ancient and dangerous city, and I love it with all my heart. My soul is bound with London in various ways.
Like the saltire or X-shaped cross upon which St Andrew was crucified, an icon of which was placed by Christopher Wren above the south transept of St Paul’s Cathedral, London cannot die. Resurgam. I shall rise again.