For Carolyn.

London called my name.
I can feel the crisp, salty air against my cheek as I nestle deep into the wool.
I escape the chill and embrace it in the same motion.
My legs move with the rhythm of an older world, my feet meet history at a rapid and intoxicating pace.
Every shop has an allure that is familiar and old, every book a scent of something past on.
Here lies my great aspirations and inspirations; here lies the stone of my past.
Something beautiful is caught in my eye.
Something warm lingers on my breath and flows through my veins.
Something called London.

One of my dearest friends has headed off to the Motherland for a semester at Kingston college; I couldn’t’ be more proud and jealous, simultaneously.
Carolyn inspires me as she races for her dreams and travels across the ocean. I’ve always wanted to more than visit, but to live in the British Isles, they seem to call to me constantly and linger in my thoughts.
For present, I will have to live vicariously through dear Carolyn but someday we should return together.
Arm and arm we should parade the cobblestone.
Visit the relics, search for the food of vegetarian consumption which I hear, it near to impossible to locate. Let’s prouse the used bookstores for the perfect find and walk the steps of Wilde, Churchill, Keats, Potter, McKellen and Waugh. Let’s dress in layers and bumble about, drink tea and visit the countryside.
Yes, someday I will have my time in London. Perhaps with Carolyn or a certain Russian.

But for now…its Carolyn’s adventure.
Bringing the South to the English one pen stroke and bacon biscuit at a time.


2 thoughts on “For Carolyn.

  1. Mother London still haunts me. Once touched, never forgotten, more than place; an idea on the Thames, a Blitzkrieg shamble, a stack of endless palatial precursors and scionic successions, squalid luxury, vegetarian slaughterhouse, where Moriarty carriages past the foggy Ripper, as punk rebellion cankers the English rose of tradition, and, most importantly, it’s the birthplace of The Gothic. Part of me will always be on the Circle Line, going around and around, like a pen fondly tracing an endless heart around a lover’s name.

    If Carolyn and the Russian somehow don’t deliver, you may take my hand along the stony stravenues as I must go back for a pair of side-laced oxfords I left in a shoppe window.

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