A Month in London
It’s been over a month in London now, after a week filled with anxious thoughts about moving here that left my packing unfinished. I took a friend’s advice to confront all the throbbing anxiety that comes with such thoughts.
The island is still damp with unpredictable weather, but the rain is less aggressive than in Bangkok or Milan; you don’t get soaked as easily, and the tube and bus systems are relatively reliable.
The many dreams I once cast aside no longer haunt me. Instead, they leave behind memories of crossroads in Soho, Chinatown, Tottenham Court Road, Holborn, Southbank, Sloane Square, and Islington. I can still recall the paths to places I used to love, like the National Theatre, BFI, Royal Court, Almeida Theatre, and the National Gallery.
As Gillian Rose writes in her somewhat challenging memoir, “Love’s Work,” life is filled with crossroads — two career paths, two lovers — and if you linger long enough at a crossroads, one path will eventually fade away. Throughout her book, she quotes the Bible, to keep our minds in hell and never despair.
High ceilings are crucial for me; they help keep my thoughts afloat and provide space to breathe fresh air. Kensington is surrounded by tall buildings with large rooftops, and it isn’t as crowded as Soho. While I can feel lonely in the crowd, I still understand the conversations around me. No one feels like a minority in London; people go about their lives, minding their own business. I do miss the warmth of Thailand, though. An Airbnb host, an elderly woman in her seventies, once advised me that life is about who and how you surround yourself. Those who can come up with solutions or advice when needed are the company one should keep. Living in the West, she said, is less crowded. She has never moved outside Kensington, where you have Hyde Park and the Royal Albert Hall. As I walk past the Albert Memorial, I often wonder what it must have felt like to love someone so faithfully and genuinely as Victoria loved Albert. The memorial stands as proof of the most genuine sense of the word.
Sometimes I think I am destined to be dumbed down. It is not in my nature to enjoy much company. I often feel lonely in the crowd or in a group. Attempting to have close or romantic relationships is perhaps my collateral failure. One thing I would avoid, not only because I think I am not destined for it, but also the pain of being neglected is not an easy thing for me to deal with. Thus, I have developed the habit of enjoying my own company. Some call it solitude. I enjoy traveling alone from north to south, in rain or shine, high or low, up or down. The only time I think would be nice to have someone accompany me is to spend time in the gym with a trainer or having sex with somebody else.
I don’t feel much lonely in my own company; I enjoy my books, my belongings, and my walks to places I love, attending events that interest me. The only company I would love to have is a cup of iced coffee in my hands. I always turn up with one cup of iced coffee in my hand since I was nineteenth. When friends learn that I’ve lived in London and ask what has changed, I first mention that people are now drinking iced lattes and cold brews. The cold brew from Blank Street has a sour flavor which I like. I remember eavesdropping on Americans in my favorite café in Phuket Old Town called Campus, who find that coffee in Thailand and Vietnam tastes the most delicate. After living in Bangkok for four years, coffee has always tasted rich, bitter, sour, and aromatic to me. My struggle to blend into Italian coffee culture stemmed from not understanding their brews.
Derek Jarman transitioned from painting to film to writing; it’s a process for artists to discover what they are about and what they most like. Rothko, too, painted realism — who would have thought? While I don’t see myself as a dabber, in the eyes of some beholders I might be. I recognize the process of shedding what isn’t truly oneself. It’s a very Jungian approach to self-actualization — perhaps a luxurious bourgeois term in some ways, yet a jazzy exploration of finding one’s style. I recall Tennessee Williams selling his expensive suit during the 1930s crisis, drifting from one place to another for years before he could write again.
