Needless to say that I have already lost the sense of time. The time I have been in Marshwood house, the time I will still be going to the office running out of the door intending to arrive exactly on time and still be successful most of the times. It feels like a temporary home that will remain as home a bit longer the day I leave. Because I sit on the top floor front seats of the double decker 139 taking me home (loaded with freshly hunted veggies) and through the watery window, the city looks exactly like my photographs. There's no need to take anymore and show my version. London sometimes is already my version. And I will miss it.
And I will miss these unlimited feelings I've had. No one here to balance my mood, I cried oceans looking out of the window, wandering in the wet grey and sharp streets. And the infinite loneliness that made me understood. And the ways I learned to heal any pain. And the power of some persons that stayed with me from far away and made me really happy exactly when I needed it. Understood that it is for all my friends, real friends that I am here and wherever I would go.
Also I smiled showing all my teeth. On my own and with all these people that made my stay easier and cheerful. Even the strangers that wished me nice days in the middle of the road (for apparently no special reason). And I will miss them as well. If I never come back, you have to come and visit me. But I will come back to this strange impersonal multicutlural home, wide and complex, with the most delightful places to go for knowledge and art compulsive eaters like me.
One of those places is the British Library that I didn't discover today but I had the pleasure to use for the first time. I know many book lovers but the structure they have in the library to protect their collection is worth living.
You need to be a reader's pass holder to enter in any book hall. For that you need a prove of your signature that isn't your ID (that means a credit card) and your ID. And you need to leave all bags, jackets, cameras, food, water, scissors and cutting tools and even pens in the cloackroom. Te result is lots of people walking up and down from the cafeteria to the humanities room, or to the science room (there are many more) holding a transparent plastic bag with a notebook, a pencil and a mobile phone.
Once you look like the reader prototype you can get into the reading halls and ask for the books you requested beforehand. You can do it through internet or in the hall but you need to have planned far in advance because for some of the books -that might live hidden in the basement- it takes up to 48 hours to get the main desk. You can only receive it once you have chosen the table you will be sitting .
The place is massive. The chairs are old armchairs and the tables are huge. The hundreds of people sitting there are all silent and the collection of books they have used to be "all the books published in England". If you seat there and read you feel like a citizen of the most culturally prepared city in the world.
And I sat, and read, and read, and remembered how I would stay forever reading interesting words of all those nice people who cared enough (or felt enough special and important) to write their thoughts for me to read. I always say I'm way too hyperactive to seat and read. But in the reader's halls everything is quiet and all interrupting disordered thoughts don't get to pass through the main door.
And I will miss these unlimited feelings I've had. No one here to balance my mood, I cried oceans looking out of the window, wandering in the wet grey and sharp streets. And the infinite loneliness that made me understood. And the ways I learned to heal any pain. And the power of some persons that stayed with me from far away and made me really happy exactly when I needed it. Understood that it is for all my friends, real friends that I am here and wherever I would go.
Also I smiled showing all my teeth. On my own and with all these people that made my stay easier and cheerful. Even the strangers that wished me nice days in the middle of the road (for apparently no special reason). And I will miss them as well. If I never come back, you have to come and visit me. But I will come back to this strange impersonal multicutlural home, wide and complex, with the most delightful places to go for knowledge and art compulsive eaters like me.
One of those places is the British Library that I didn't discover today but I had the pleasure to use for the first time. I know many book lovers but the structure they have in the library to protect their collection is worth living.
You need to be a reader's pass holder to enter in any book hall. For that you need a prove of your signature that isn't your ID (that means a credit card) and your ID. And you need to leave all bags, jackets, cameras, food, water, scissors and cutting tools and even pens in the cloackroom. Te result is lots of people walking up and down from the cafeteria to the humanities room, or to the science room (there are many more) holding a transparent plastic bag with a notebook, a pencil and a mobile phone.
Once you look like the reader prototype you can get into the reading halls and ask for the books you requested beforehand. You can do it through internet or in the hall but you need to have planned far in advance because for some of the books -that might live hidden in the basement- it takes up to 48 hours to get the main desk. You can only receive it once you have chosen the table you will be sitting .
The place is massive. The chairs are old armchairs and the tables are huge. The hundreds of people sitting there are all silent and the collection of books they have used to be "all the books published in England". If you seat there and read you feel like a citizen of the most culturally prepared city in the world.
And I sat, and read, and read, and remembered how I would stay forever reading interesting words of all those nice people who cared enough (or felt enough special and important) to write their thoughts for me to read. I always say I'm way too hyperactive to seat and read. But in the reader's halls everything is quiet and all interrupting disordered thoughts don't get to pass through the main door.
1 comentari:
No ho he entès tot, esclar, però del que he entès m'ha semblat deduir que has trobat una mica de consol per a la teva tristesa planetària a la Biblioteca Britànica. I que hi ha sentiments que portes molt endins. Me n'alegro.
M.
Publica un comentari a l'entrada