My new house has a hole underneath. It’s a coal cellar storage space thing. You can’t stand up in there. It was fun to go in, late at night, with a bike light aimed into all the Blair Witch corners, and fill those corners with boxed up reminders of my past, things I should have thrown out but didn’t want to. I felt quite at home down in the coal cellar, with all my old stuff. I knew I’d probably forget it when I moved out and it would be left there for others to find, like in my old house in Clapton that had (and still, maybe, has) a whole attic full of stuff from people who used to live there. The things you think about, in the coal cellar.
There was this man lived in Dalston, or more like De Beauvoir town, which is London N1, who dug tunnels under his house and all under the street too. we used to go and look at the house, which was on a corner of two streets, and looked amazing. Best viewed from the top deck of a 76 bus. The Guardian wrote a silly story about it, but the dude was pretty serious by all accounts. When I was grubbing around in the coal cellar, I thought about him, and about how it might be fun to go tunnelling, and how you might start to look into such an idea when you see the beauty of what’s under a house, and how they’re just held up with bits of wood and brick.
Then I got flu. Probably caught it down there, thinking about stuff, under the house.
BK (from Melek Taus III) sent me this flyer for my gig later this month, saying it looks gothy. He seemed disgruntled. I think it looks great. Very Southern Lord. It’s the same night as Ellen Allien playes Fabric, but you can always do both, if you’re eclectically minded.
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by Frances May Morgan on Tuesday, February 1st, 2005
(1 Comment)
