Dear London: Here's My Keys

One of my friend's has a catchphrase. Or she had one, anyway - not sure if she still uses it. You see, she now lives way up in the Northern reaches of Central Australia, in a town that draws it's name from The Father of The Theory of Evolution. This is quite apt, for, from what I can gather, the region and it's folk can be fairly, shall we say, primitive. In the way my mind takes snobbish, snap-judgement to the nth degree, I believe I can state with total conviction, that, as a now permanent resident of Darwin, N.T., she perhaps no longer communicates in words, sentences and the like and perhaps has done away with her catchphrase. But she used to use it alot; virtually every time she was hungry:


"I'm craving something, but I don't know what."


You know the feeling. You wander into the kitchen on a sunny Sunday afternoon. It's well past lunchtime and you've just woken up. The night before, you had been ensconced in the courtyard area out the back of some Melbourne restaurant and consumed a delightfully, irresponsible amount of illicit substances, which quashed any solid, sustenance craving for well over 18 hours. But now, you're free, clear and sober, and g-ddamn (referencing myself now - how self indulgent!!) hungry. Finances are not an issue. There's three supermarkets and four oft expounded cafes within spitting distance of the house. The fridge is surprisingly stocked with numerous items that are non-alcoholic in content. The cupboard probably lacks a wide array of variety, but there ar enough base elements to work with. Options are abound, choices plentiful and selection possible and yet you lean back, hanging off the fridge door and mindlessly gaze.


What to eat?


I'm unsatisfied. I know that. Food will satisfy. I know that. My brain is indicating a request for something in particular. I know that. But I have no fucking idea what exactly. I'm hungry, but do not know what for.


London feels just like this to me sometimes. Or shall I say, Londoners. It's much of a muchness, for a town is just the cumulative expression of its inhabitants. The people here are headstrong - there's no easy pushovers. They're heading in a direction and if you get in their way, they're going to bump straight past you. Literally. Anyone who's used the underground transport system here, can ascribe to this. There's no room for fragility, nor spacial consideration down there. It's lucky I grew up playing such a violent version of the Australian Sporting Pastime, called 'Kick to Kick'. (If you don't know what it is, it's probably not what you’re imagining. It's essentially reminiscent of what Americans call 'Catch', however it involves two groups of people kicking an Aussie Rules football back and forth. Our version at school, had the added element of trying to permanently maim those around you, whilst trying to collect said football.)


However, once one spends a little more time in Merry Old London, you begin to realise that they don't exactly know where they are heading, with such purpose. Now, I know this is generalising and a whole bunch of you are going to internally cry contradiction, but it really is true. Personally, I do know of several folk that I would exclude from this group judgement, but they are very much in the tiny, minority. The rest of the grey faced masses? It's them I speak of.


I'd love to ask them right now, to describe, in singular, precise and concise terms, where they are going, what they want to do and how they believe you're going to get there. I don't reckon they could. Just like the Darwinian (Darwinite?), they know they have somewhere to go; a direction to take; an end to reach, that will satisfy, but they would not be able to define, describe or definitively, divine it. I'm not calling them lost, for they know where they are right now. I'm just saying that it all feels a bit unconscious. All I’m saying is that, to me, it seems like everyone in this here place, is acting like they are craving something, but do not know what. I know there's folk like this all over this dusty globe, but in London it’s different - everyone's on this trip.


I know what you're thinking - that's quite depressing, Mr. Waiter. Not really. For them maybe. Not for me, though. I don't even think it's depressing for them. My friend used to be able to eventually figure what she craved (it was usually something involving warm butter, homemade jam and lemon verbena tea) and there's a chance that a great many of these folk will do too. The good thing is, that at least they are currently moving, so once they realise that it's a rustic, chunky, boysenberry spread that they are pining for, they really just have to adjust their rudder accordingly, without having to raise the sails. So, it's not all bad. It's just that I think this is the emblem, the uniting energy, the vibe of the big Capital City.


I've probably pissed you off. You love London and how dare I tar it with such a dirty brush! How dare I present such a bleak picture of its sweeping parklands, free museums, charming architecture, variety of ethnicities and simply, horrible food. There's so many happy individuals here. So many comfortable worker bees. So many expressing liberty. So much growth and so much progressive, development. So much to get passionate and inspired by. Well, that's the thing, dear. To me, this town's passion is all external. To me, there's no great passion for anything internal. There is passion for a sporting team. Passion for drugs. Passionate concern for how much money the next fellow is making. Passion for acquiring the next, shit, fashion must (UGGs - not gonna reference an old blog this time). Overbearing passion for the smallest details about supposed celebrities. There's plenty of passion abounds. However, passion for one's self? Passion for one's belief? Passion for one's own skills and abilities? Passion for one's need to rise up? Here, they just call that 'arrogance'.


Well, London, I must just be one arrogant motherfucker and I'm off to find me some more arrogant folk.